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Mom and I talk for almost two hours. Her responses are as perfect as ever.

She’s concerned that I might be hurt again.

Proud that I stood up to Isabella. Less forgiving of Isabella than I am, and let’s face it, that’s what every child wants, isn’t it?

The mother who will stand at your side, snarling in full Mama Bear mode, leaving you to feel proud of yourself for saying, “No, Mom, it’s not all her fault – I accept responsibility, too. ”

That is hour one of our conversation. Hour two is quieter planning. Mom agrees I need to talk Isabella down from this mad scheme. She also agrees a public reconciliation would do me no good.

After that, we plan for her to come see me. She has a lunch engagement tomorrow that I urge her not to break. She’ll arrive in the evening, and we’ll enjoy three days of New York City before I go home.

That settled, I order room service for dinner and curl up on the massive bed to eat and watch a show on my laptop. I manage to stay up until ten, which is a miracle given the time difference. Then I sleep remarkably well… until my body jolts upright at four, shouting, “You’ve slept in!”

I force myself to stay in bed a while longer. It doesn’t require much coercion. I slide between dreaming and w aking. Then I admire the photos Marco sent, indulge in a little sleepy daydreaming… until I’m awake enough to remember that call with him later this morning, the one I need to plan for.

I’m doing that when my phone chimes with an incoming text, and I grab it, hoping it’s Marco.

Like when I’m waiting my turn to audition, and I get the chance to jump the line.

I volunteer even as part of me screams that I’m not ready.

Sometimes “not quite ready” is the best place to be, where you haven’t reached the overthinking and overplanning stage.

The text, though, is from Isabella. I wince, and I lie there, looking at her name, not opening the message, wondering whether I can text Marco instead and see whether he might be free before nine.

I sigh and open the message as I curse my mother for raising a responsible child.

Isabella: Is it possible to see you for breakfast instead?

Isabella: Jamie’s had an episode. I need to leave this morning.

Isabella: Can you let me know when you’re up?

Jamie’s had an episode. Those words send a frisson of worry through me.

I remember Isabella saying she’d stayed with Colt longer than expected because of Jamison.

I know from that poster that Jamison is an actor, and honestly, that’s a surprise.

I remember a quiet, sensitive boy. Easily wounded, but kind to his core.

I google Jamison Morales-Gordon. The first few results are about the new movie, his second apparently, the first with his father. I dig deeper, and when I do, it’s like a punch in the gut.

Drugs. Alcohol. Rehab. Attempted suicide.

My eyes fill, and my heart hurts.

Oh, Jamie. Baby. What happened?

What happened? Well, let’s start with his trusted tutor allegedly sleeping with his father and nearly breaking up his family. I quickly text Isabella back.

Me: Go to Jamie. We can talk another time.

Isabella: I really would like to see you, and my car won’t be here until ten.

Isabella: Could you come for breakfast?

Isabella: Please.

Me: Of course.

I respond before I have time to consider. I still have one eye on that article, skimming it as tears brim.

What did you expect, Lucy? Didn’t you just say he was sensitive, easily hurt? You befriended him, and he confided in you, and then you left, slicing a cleaver through his family as you went.

I tell Isabella I’m on my way, and she says to come straight up, and she’ll have breakfast waiting.

I shower and dress as quickly as I can. As I’m roaring out the door, I catch sight of the bedside clock. It’s 6:15. Will I get back before nine?

I send Marco a quick text saying I might call a bit late. Then I’m off.

For 6:45 a.m., Isabella’s hotel is remarkably busy. People who flew in Sunday night for Monday-morning meetings are now hurrying off to grab breakfast. I slip inside, and I’m on the elevator before I wonder whether I’ll need a card to access the penthouse. I don’t.

When I reach Isabella’s door, it’s not quite shut, as if someone dropped off breakfast and forgot to pull it closed. That gives me pause, and my skin prickles as I remember another door left ajar just a few days ago. But there’d been an explanation for that one, and there will be for this one, too.

I ring the bell. Wait. Ring again and add a knock for good measure. When she still doesn’t answer, I press my fingers to the door and push it open an inch.

“Isabella?” I call.

Music plays upstairs, and I raise my voice, but I’m still not sure she’d hear.

I send a text.

Me: The door’s open. I’m coming in.

She doesn’t respond, and I push the door and slide through.

“Isabella?” I call.

Still no answer. I walk into the living area. There’s no sign of breakfast.

I stop at the bottom of the spiral stairs leading to the second floor.

“Isabella? I’ll just wait down here, okay?”

No answer. I check my phone. No reply to my text, either.

I call Isabella’s number… and her phone rings right beside me. It’s been left on the sofa. Well, that’s not going to help.

I climb the stairs slowly, still calling her name. When I reach the top, I follow the music to the open bedroom door.

“Isabella?”

Nothing.

I peek through to see an unmade bed.

I pause as I remember all the times I’d walked past Isabella’s open bedroom door to see her making her bed the moment she rose. A habit from her grandmother, she once said. So that bed snags my attention, but at fifty, she probably no longer feels quite so compelled to heed her grandmother’s rules.

As I step back, I spot a slipper protruding from behind the bed, and I have to smile. It’s a ridiculous novelty slipper – a giant bear paw, complete with claws. My mind trips back fourteen years to Isabella walking into the kitchen wearing them.

You like my footwear? she said with a laugh.

The kids got us themed slippers last year.

Princess ones for me, and these for Colt.

Beauty and Beast. He never wears his, so I stole them.

Which one I’m wearing is a hint to my mood.

She winked at me. These mean I’m preparing for a call with the studio execs, and I’m summoning my inner Beast.

That’s when I see the angle of the slipper. It hasn’t just been cast off. There’s a sliver of leg visible above it.

“Isabella!” I tear around the bed to find her supine on the floor, her head against the base of the bedroom Jacuzzi. Blood haloes her dark hair, and there’s a deep gash on her forehead.

I fall beside her and grab her shoulder.

It’s cold. Her body is cold.

No. It’s just chilly in here with the air conditioning pumping. She tripped and hit her head on the tiled step, and she’s unconscious.

She isn’t moving.

Because she’s unconscious.

Her lips aren’t moving. Her chest isn’t moving. She’s not breathing.

I can’t be sure of that. I’m not a doctor.

You know how to check. Two summers as a lifeguard, remember?

I press my fingers to the side of Isabella’s neck. Her cold, clammy neck. I tell myself it’s just cool to the touch.

Unnaturally cool, you know that.

I swallow hard. My fingers don’t detect a pulse, but with that voice of doom clanging through my head, I might not be checking properly. I try again. I watch for signs of breathing, of a heartbeat.

There are none.

Isabella is dead. She hit her head on the step and died here, alone.

That makes no sense. Look, Lucy. Think.

The gash is on her forehead, meaning she should be lying on her stomach. Instead, she’s resting peacefully on her back with her eyes closed.

Someone put her here.

Someone all but crossed her arms over her stomach, leaving her looking as peaceful as a corpse in a casket, with that halo of blood…

Why is there blood behind her head when the injury is on her forehead? There’s no trail of it down her scalp.

I see blood under her nostrils, and I realize her perfect nose isn’t quite straight. There’s smeared blood on her cheek and chin, as if partially washed away.

She’d been face down on the carpet. Face down and bleeding, and then someone turned her over and cleaned her up and left her ready for her close-up.

I stagger backward. As I do, I bump the bed. I look at it again. Only the coverlet is pushed down, crumpled, the sheet still neatly tucked in. I catch sight of a gold square on t he floor and bend to see a wrapped chocolate, the type left during turndown service.

Isabella didn’t sleep in this bed. Someone just yanked back the covers and rumpled them to look as if she did.

This has been staged.

And I’m part of the setting.

Isabella is dead, murdered, and now my fingerprints are everywhere.

Yes, my fingerprints are everywhere… because I found her body. I just need to report this and explain. I have the texts showing that she called me here.

That niggling voice in my head clears its throat.

About those texts…

I grab my phone and skim the messages. The first came at 5:53.

I may not know much about forensics, but I’ve read enough mysteries to realize a body wouldn’t go cold in an hour. Even if that could happen, it doesn’t explain the bed.

I scroll through the messages. They don’t not sound like her, but there’s also nothing distinctly in her voice.

Did the texts actually come from her?

I race down the stairs so fast I stumble on the last three. Her phone still lies on the couch. I reach for it and then stop. I can explain away fingerprints upstairs, but not on her phone.

Did I leave fingerprints upstairs?

In my initial panic, I’d envisioned my prints everywhere, but I don’t actually recall touching anything except Isabella herself, and I don’t think prints could be lifted from that.

I held the railing, but I’d been here yesterday, and no one would have cleaned since then.

Why am I thinking this through? I’m going to report her body and admit I was here.

Is that wise?

Yes, yes, it is. Whatever my experience with the media and the police, I still trust them in something like this. Isabella’s been dead for hours, and I only just arrived, and there will be no evidence I killed her.

Those texts…

If someone summoned me to this room, that means I’m being set up.

Maybe so, but it’s poorly done. I’ll be fine. I’m not about to leave prints intentionally, and the trail I have left supports my story.

I will call it in. I just want a look at Isabella’s phone first. I need to know what I’m dealing with here.

I grab a facecloth from the main bath and lift the phone. Then I realize I can’t check texts without touching the screen. I’ll need to wipe it down afterward.

The phone tries to recognize my face. It can’t, obviously. I glance upstairs and shiver.

I need to see the texts before the police get hold of this phone.

And I need to know what else happened last night, who the last person was that Isabella spoke to. Protect myself by having all the facts before I let the police take the phone.

Feeling like a ghoul, I slip back upstairs, bend over Isabella’s body and unlock the phone. Then I go into settings, turn off the screen lock and–

The doorbell rings. I shoot up from my crouch, slip to the steps and creep down. The ring comes again.

Should I answer it? Throw it open and say, “Isabella Morales is dead!” Or casually open it and pretend I just arrived, and we’ll “find” her body together?

Go away, please. Just go away so I can call 911 and do this properly.

Otherwise, how will it look? I’m found in the room with a dead body, a murdered woman whom I allegedly had every reason to hate.

My stomach seizes.

I must be the one to report this. Anything else will heap suspicion at my feet.

I’m frozen between the living room and the foyer. If that door opens, I’ll grab it and say I’ve found her. That’s all I can do. Play this through with honesty. I found Isabella. I was just about to call 911 when the doorbell rang, and I raced down to answer it.

A keycard slides through the reader. I snatch my purse from the floor and lunge forward, ready to yank open the door and tell whoever’s there–

As I reach for the knob, I see what’s still clutched in my hand.

Isabella’s cell phone.