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I hurry down the stairs, each jarring step thumping a rebuke through me.

You’re being silly.

You’re being paranoid.

Isabella is dead. Murdered. Someone is hell-bent on framing me, and maybe the average person would trust that the truth will protect them, but I know better.

It doesn’t matter whether I’m guilty or innocent.

The moment my name reappears in the papers, I will never go back to my peaceful life in Rome.

That thought sets my heart tripping so hard I can barely draw breath, and I allow the judgmental voice to return, telling me I’m overreacting. I want it to be correct. I would happily make a fool of myself if it meant I never had to go through the hell of another public scandal.

I walk slowly down the hall. By the time I near the lobby, I can hear the officers at the front desk.

“Do you have a room number?” the clerk is asking.

“No,” one of the officers says. “That’s why we’re here talking to you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot provide that information.”

“Do you see this badge, kid?”

The “kid” – the Congolese college student – clips each word as he says, “I still cannot provide that information. If you would like me to ring Ms. Callahan, I can do so.”

Ms. Callahan.

I back up two steps, where I can hear them but not be spotted.

“I don’t want you to ring her,” the officer says. “We’re here to arrest her.”

Wait. Did he just say…?

No, it’s too soon. I’ve misheard. I must have.

“Oh,” the desk clerk says. “That’s a very different situation.”

“Good. So her room number?”

“As soon as I see the warrant. I’ll need to photocopy it for my duty manager.”

“Now you’re just jerking us around, kid. Give me her room–”

“I am not ‘jerking you around,’ officer. I take your request as seriously as I take our guests’ privacy. I need to assure my manager that I had a reason to provide Ms. Callahan’s room number. A photocopy of the warrant will suffice.”

“You know what will suffice–” the officer begins.

His partner cuts in with, “The warrant is on its way, Joseph. That’s your name, right?”

“As it says on my tag, sir.”

“Well, Joseph, we appreciate you protecting your guests, but Ms. Callahan is visiting from Italy, which means she’s a flight risk. She fled a crime scene.”

Fled?

Hell, no. I talked to that officer at the door. I provided my contact information.

The officer continues, “We’ll have the warrant within the hour, and you’ll get your photocopy then. Right now, we need Ms. Callahan.”

“You can’t arrest her without a warrant, officers, so I’m not certain I understand the rush. I saw her go to her room fifteen minutes ago. Our elevator and stairwell exit are both right there. She can’t leave without you knowing it. We’ll wait for that warrant and do this properly.”

The officers argue, but I’m out the side door before I hear the rest. As I stride from the hotel, I call Mom and tell her what just happened.

“They can’t possibly have enough evidence for a warrant,” I say.

“They don’t need it. This is a high-profile case, and they want a quick arrest. You’re their scapegoat.”

“No, Mom. Even if they know who I am, it’s a huge leap from that to a warrant. A judge won’t give them one without evidence.”

Mom says something, but I don’t hear her over the voice in my head, whispering that they do have evidence if they know I was in Isabella’s room this morning. My fingerprints are there.

And what did they plant in my suite?

Oh, shit. My room. I turn back toward the hotel. I shouldn’t have fled. I should have gone back up and searched and found what the intruder planted, gotten rid of it and then waited for the police to bring their warrant.

Gotten rid of the evidence how? Hidden it in the hotel? What they planted is almost certainly forensic evidence on my clothing, which I have in this bag.

Still, whatever was planted, it doesn’t explain the warrant. There must be more evidence at the scene. Unless they’re bluffing about the warrant…

Enough of this nonsense. I’m not a fugitive. I’m not going to become one. I will dispose of my clothing and temporarily h ide my backpack. Grab a coffee and head back into the hotel and say, “Oh, hello, officers. Did you want to speak to me?”

I need to confess to the crime I did commit. Tell them I found Isabella this morning, and when the hotel staff knocked, I panicked, realizing I was about to be discovered in a murdered woman’s hotel suite.

That’s understandable, isn’t it? A very human mistake. If they charge me for it, I’ll deal with that.

Unless the killer planted evidence in my hotel room. Something I missed.

Am I absolutely certain someone broke in? How likely is that? Joseph wouldn’t cut a new keycard without ID.

What about the clerk at the desk earlier this morning? Could she have been bribed for a card? Or the housekeeping staff?

No. Stop this nonsense, and fix the problem. Trust the system.

“I’m going back inside,” I say to Mom.

“ What? ”

“I didn’t kill Isabella. She was dead when I got those texts. I’m very clearly being set up. I’ll explain. It’ll be fine.”

“No.”

“Mom, I won’t run. I don’t need to.”

“I’m not suggesting you run. We need to take control of the narrative here, Lucy, the way we couldn’t the last time.”

Take control of the narrative.

I stifle a sound that is half laugh, half sob as Mom’s words echo Isabella’s from yesterday. She’d wanted to take control of our story, and I remember her eyes alight as she planned how to do that. Grief wells, but I have to tamp it down so I can focus on this.

“If you’re suggesting I talk to reporters first–” I begin.

“Absolutely not.” From her tone, you’d think I suggested summoning demons for help.

“I read a case where a woman knew she was about to be arrested for murder, so she went to her lawyer, and they arranged to bring her in. You can do that. You were walking back to your hotel, and you called me, and I told you to get a lawyer. If I’m wrong, that’s on me.

You can’t be blamed for listening to your mother. ”

“I’m pretty sure that isn’t a legal defense.”

“On my advice, you are turning around now and going to a coffee shop. I will find you a lawyer, and you will speak to them, and they will arrange for you to turn yourself in – after they’ve heard your story and given you all the advice you need to proceed.” A pause. “How are you dressed?”

I tell her.

“Good,” she says. “You’ll look presentable and professional.”

“Unlike the last time, when I looked like a slovenly little slut.”

“Genevieve Lucille .”

My eyes fill with tears as I force a smile.

“Sorry, Mom. None of that. Yes, I’m dressed nicely, and I have my toiletries on me.

I’ll fix my hair and makeup because there may be cameras.

Like you said, control the narrative, which means control the visuals, too.

This time, I will choose the image I present in the media. ”

“Precisely.”

I’ve been in this coffee shop for an hour, and I’m already wishing I’d opted for water and bland oatmeal.

Instead, I tried to cheer myself up with a cappuccino and something b etween a muffin and a croissant, filled with cherry custard.

The caffeine swirls in my stomach while the pastry lies leaden at the bottom.

Mom hasn’t called back. I tell myself that’s fine. I tell myself I’m fine. That’s a lie. I’m confused, and I’m scared. No, I’m terrified. This morning feels like an anvil over my head, waiting to drop and crush me.

I’ve hidden Isabella’s phone. I don’t want to walk into a lawyer’s office holding it, but I need to know where it is.

Seventy-five minutes after I talked to Mom, my phone rings. I go to grab it. Then I see Marco’s number.

Marco. Oh, my God, I forgot to call him.

I’d been about to when I realized someone had been in my hotel room.

I need to talk to him. Really need to. But I’m waiting for Mom’s call, and I’d rather be able to tell him I have a lawyer and everything is fine.

Just get past that step, and then I’ll speak to him.

I force myself to hit Ignore. A moment later, a text appears.

Marco: I just got a very strange message. Call me back ASAP.

I’m sure it has nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with my situation.

That now-familiar refrain takes on an air of delusion, but this time, I must be right. It’s been three hours since the hotel discovered Isabella’s body. There is no way anyone has tracked down Marco.

Of course, I also told myself there was no way there could be a warrant out for my arrest already.

I stare at his message.

ASAP.

Isabella tracked me down using a private investigator. If that investigator did a halfway-decent job, they know about Marco. He must be warned.

I’m about to hit Call Back when my cell vibrates and Mom’s photo appears.

I fumble to answer with a “Hey” that I want to sound nonchalant, but it’s tight and high.

“Hey, baby,” Mom says. “How are you doing?”

“You didn’t find anyone, did you?”

Two heartbeats of silence. Then, “Not yet, but I will.”

“What did they say?”

Three heartbeats this time.

“They’re being silly,” she says. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“They say I should have stayed at the scene.” I lower my voice as I rise to leave the coffee shop. “Or at the hotel.”

She sputters, but I know I’ve nailed it. The lawyers don’t like the way this case smells, and they don’t want to get tangled up with me after I’ve evaded police.

“I’ll find someone,” she says quickly. “It could be a career-making case, and someone will want…”

She trails off, realizing that I might not want to hear that this could make a lawyer’s career. Not when it could also ruin mine. Ruin my entire life.

I am being accused of murder.

“I meant that it’ll be high profile,” she says quickly.

“A decent lawyer will easily win a dismissal, and that’s good business.

The police have made a mistake, and a lawyer will benefit from that incompetence.

They’re about to learn the truth of the saying ‘Act in haste, repent in leisure.’ Someone will lose their job over this. ”

There’s satisfaction in her voice when she says it. This time, someone will pay for hurting her baby girl.

“I’ll handle this,” I say. “I’m not eighteen anymore. I can find myself a–”

“Let me, baby. Please. Just let me do this for you.”

I should resist, but I’m too numb. I might not be eighteen anymore, but I’m not in the mental state to do this.

Murder.

I’m being accused of murder.

Mom promises she’ll find a lawyer, and I barely hear her. I disconnect and stand on the sidewalk, holding my phone.

I always thought that the one advantage to my Colt scandal was that it “only” involved actors. It was tabloid fodder, and respectable media steered clear.

Isabella’s death is that perfect blend of scandal and news. A murder with a delicious backstory that will sell papers and earn clicks.

I stare down at my phone.

My finger touches a button. My browser springs open. I tap the search bar. A few keystrokes, half of them wrong, my finger suddenly huge and clumsy.

I try again, slower, and I fill the bar with search terms. Isabella Morales. Death. I hesitate on the last, inhale, backspace and replace it with murder . My finger poises over the Go button.

Then I add two more words, as hard as they are to type.

Lucy Callahan.

I hit Go, and I pray – literally pray, something I don’t believe in.

I won’t say I’ve lost my faith. There certainly were times when I swore never to set foot in a church again, but eventually I felt like a furious child, swearing never to talk to a friend again because she failed to come to my defense in a schoolyard fight.

The truth is that even without my ordeal, I’d still have become an Easter-and-Christmas Catholic. I don’t pray b ecause I don’t think there’s anyone up there actively listening. My God is not a genie who grants wishes. My God is not Santa Claus, rewarding me for good behavior.

In that moment, though, I cannot help praying just a little.

When I hit this button, please show me nothing.

I tap it, and a headline appears.

“Lucy Callahan Wanted in Murder of Colt Gordon’s Wife.”

There is actually a bizarre moment when the part that truly outrages me is the last three words. Colt Gordon’s Wife . Even in death, Isabella is defined by that role.

Of course, then I see the rest of that headline. I read it three times and decide I’m still sleeping. Yep, very clearly, I am having a horrible and preposterous nightmare, and when I wake, I’ll laugh at myself.

You dreamed that the cops had a warrant for your arrest a couple of hours after finding Isabella’s body?

You dreamed that news of it hit the Internet a mere hour later?

That makes no sense. You do realize that, right?

My gaze moves to the article source, and I flinch. This isn’t CNN, though the URL does share two letters in common. My mother calls CNR.com Celebrity Nasty Rumors, which is about as biting as Mom gets.

CNR actually stands for Celebrity News Reports, as if adding those last two words makes the site seem like a legitimate source.

Nylah says CNR’s tagline should read “Reporting the Stories Even TMZ Won’t Touch!

” CNR prides itself on beating other online tabloids, which means they’ll jump on any rumor.

They’re also known to pay top dollar for exclusive firsts.

As Nylah also says, I should be an honorary CNR stockholder.

Before the Colt-and-Lucy spectacle, they’d b een a fledgling paper tabloid.

Then their reporter – pushed aside by the “big boys” staking out the Morales-Gordon beach party – wandered farther afield and landed the infamous hot-tub shots.

They’d been so eager to get the scoop that they’d uploaded the photos to their website instead, becoming one of the first celebrity gossip sites, with TMZ still a few months from launch.

Allegedly, CNR nearly bankrupted themselves getting exclusive interviews with staff and partygoers. The gamble paid off, and they’re now the first place people go when they have a story to sell.

Stories like this one.

They reported Isabella’s death within thirty minutes of the police arriving on scene.

The clip states simply that Isabella Morales, wife of Colt Gordon, was found dead in her hotel room early this morning.

It goes on to say that a source inside the hotel told CNR that Lucy Callahan had visited Isabella the day before and helpfully reminds people who Lucy Callahan is with links to past articles… and one photo. The photo.