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Isabella is dead, and I don’t know how to process that, so I focus on taking action instead.

Once again Isabella’s phone is nestled in my pocket, and as soon as I reach the alley, I flip out the SIM card, snap it in two and stick that into my pocket.

On the next street, I drop the broken SIM into a sewer grate.

I know far too much about covering my tracks.

This isn’t the same, though. I only discard the SIM so the phone can’t be traced to me. I should just drop the whole thing down the sewer. I don’t because my gut says I need to see who spoke to her last night.

Who do you think you are? Miss Marple?

No, but if the situation dives south, it’ll help to know what else was going on in Isabella’s life. It’ll make me feel more in control, which I need right now.

I want to handle this on my own, quickly and efficiently clearing my name before anyone knows I’m connected to Isabella’s murder. Is that even possible? I shiver just thinking about it.

It’s happening again.

I’m going to be in the papers again.

My life will be ruined again.

The last snaps me out of it. My life ruined? What about Isabella, dead on a bathroom floor?

I can handle this. First, I need to notify my mother, who will understand the significance the moment she hears that Isabella is dead.

When I call, I only intend to warn her. Instead, the sound of her voice unleashes all the panic and fear and grief and shock, and I have to veer into a building alcove before I break down sobbing in the street.

I don’t tell my mother that I found Isabella’s body. I can’t tell her anything that could make her an accomplice.

Accomplice? You didn’t kill anyone.

An accomplice to my lie. To what I’m sure is a criminal offense.

The full reality of that hits me.

I have interfered with a murder investigation. I have committed a crime.

Whatever I’ve done, I won’t compound it by confessing to my mother. Nor do I lie. I just say that Isabella summoned me to breakfast, and now she’s dead, and it wasn’t Isabella who sent those messages. Someone’s setting me up.

As I finish, I head back to the road, my eyes dry again.

“So now I’m heading to my hotel,” I say. “I’m not certain the detective dismissed me. I just needed to get out of there and clear my head. I’ll wait for them at my hotel.”

“You can’t speak to the police again without a lawyer.”

“I’m a witness, not a suspect.”

“You’re being set up, Lucy. You need a lawyer. Now.”

Her voice is firm, and let’s be honest, despite my objections, I am worried.

I’m scared, too. Every time I say I did nothing wrong, a voice whispers that it didn’t matter before.

This isn’t the same thing – I was tried in the court of p ublic opinion last time, and that bitch is stone cold – but that voice still whispers.

I may be innocent, but I am not naive. I will never be naive again.

“I’m going to my hotel,” I say. “I’ll make some calls and find a lawyer.”

“Thank you.”

I walk past the desk clerk and make a point of saying hi.

I met him yesterday – he’s a student from the Congo, and we’d chatted about coming to the “big city” for school as I’d done so many years ago.

Now I must force myself to exchange pleasantries, as if I haven’t just found the body of someone I cared about.

Then I continue on to my room. I have not snuck in.

I have not attempted to avoid security cameras.

I need to call Marco. I must warn him before my name hits the news in any way. I open my suite door and walk in, phone in hand, ready to call–

Someone has been in my room.

At first, I only stand there, clutching my keycard as if I’ve entered the wrong room. For a moment, I actually wonder whether I have.

It hasn’t been ripped apart, as one sees in the movies. The opposite, actually. The sheets are pulled up, the pillows in place, the drawers all closed tight.

I’m not a messy person. I can’t be, with my tiny Rome apartment. But as I tore out this morning, worried about Jamison, I’d glanced back at the room, shuddered and hung out the Privacy Please sign so the maid service wouldn’t see the mess.

I exhale. Okay, there’s my answer. Maid service. The sign must have fallen off, and someone came in to clean.

Except the room hasn’t been cleaned. The sheets are pulled up, but the bed is not made. There’s trash in the basket and a dirty mug on the nightstand.

I check the door. The Privacy Please sign still hangs from the knob. I glance up at my room number, but that’s silly. My keycard wouldn’t work in the wrong door. Also, I can see my belongings scattered about the room.

Maybe the maid service came in and then noticed the sign and stopped.

Does that make any sense?

It doesn’t, and I know the answer, as much as I hate to admit it.

Someone broke in.

It wasn’t a random thief, either. Isabella’s killer knew I wasn’t in my suite. They came in and planted something. Planted evidence to frame me.

I hesitate, my brain insisting I’m mistaken, paranoid.

Someone’s framing me for murder. How the hell can I not be paranoid?

But I’m overthinking this. Turning a casual redirection ploy into a full-fledged frame-up.

Based on those texts alone, I would only be questioned.

It would temporarily divert the investigation, setting both the police and the media on a juicy target.

A serious frame-up requires a lot more than summoning me to the crime scene. It needs…

I look at the room.

Evidence. Planted evidence.

I lunge forward and start searching. Pull back the sheets, looking for… What? Bloodstains, as if I’d crawled in covered in blood?

Clothing. They could put blood on my clothing.

I grab yesterday’s clothes from a chair, where they lie crumpled. As I’m turning from the window, I catch a glimpse of a police car. My breath stops, but again, I tell myself I’m being silly. It’s a police car in New York, and it’s not coming…

The car turns toward the hotel. I walk to the window and look down to see it pull into the loading zone. Two officers get out and head for the front door.

They’re responding to an unrelated call. Maybe an early-morning disturbance. Just because you can afford five hundred bucks a night doesn’t mean you won’t smack your wife around.

I didn’t tell the police where I was staying. Sure, they could get that information from Isabella’s assistant, Bess, but it’d be easier to just call me and ask.

Hey, Ms. Callahan? You weren’t supposed to leave. I’m sending a car to pick you up. We have a few more questions.

Even if they are here for me, it’s just more questions.

Then why is it uniformed officers instead of detectives?

Well, that’s proof they aren’t here for me, isn’t it?

As my brain argues, my body takes action without me realizing it, and I am startled to see myself stuffing the dirty clothing into my smaller carry-on bag.

Hiding potential evidence? No, not really. Not entirely, anyway.

My body continues taking action. More clothing into the bag. My laptop. My toiletry case.

What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lucy?

What I must do. Being prepared.

You’re not running. No matter what this is, you cannot run.

I don’t answer the voice. My pounding heart won’t let me. I methodically pack my smaller bag, and then take one last look around…

Something’s wrong.

Yes, you’re fleeing police who almost certainly aren’t even here for you.

No, not that. Something…

I spot the charge cables plugged into the wall, and my gut says that isn’t it, but I do need those. I grab them, stuff them into the bag and stride out the door.