Page 27

As hard as I try to corral my thoughts, they keep running down unproductive lanes.

Pain over the seething hatred in Tiana’s texts.

Sympathy for Isabella’s lover and the secret grief he’s feeling right now.

Suspicion over Colt’s missing t hread. But when I push past the emotions, memory steals in, memories of that night and the aftermath.

The best way to stop thinking about the past? Focus on the present, which is, at the moment, far worse. I need to see what’s out there on the Internet now that a half-day has passed.

I connect to the hotel Wi-Fi and open my laptop’s browser. I’m typing in my name when I stop.

Is this safe?

I laugh at the thought. Am I honestly worried that someone will track me down for a search history that includes Isabella Morales’s murder?

At least one other person in this building will look up this story tonight.

They’ll have seen a headline flip past their newsfeed, and they’ll idly search for details.

Still, I hesitate. I might know enough to throw out my SIM card, but am I completely certain that’s the only way of tying a phone to me? It should be. And yet…

I head out in search of free Wi-Fi. I’d seen a Starbucks about a mile away. Guaranteed Internet service there.

I move fast along the empty street, still in my T-shirt and leggings, my purse swapped out for my laptop bag. Chin up. Walking with purpose.

A woman on a mission.

That bitch-face photograph from the hotel cameras flashes back, dragging with it the urge to pull into myself, look less certain.

This is not the kind of neighborhood where that is wise, yet the memory of that photo leaches purpose from my spine, and I find myself moving even faster, a clipped pace that suggests I am not comfortable on this quiet street.

I try to find that stronger stride, but it’s gone now.

I glance at a window and give a start as I spot the reflection of a male figure across the road where the sidewalk had been empty a moment ago.

There’s nothing on that side but vacant storefronts. The man didn’t step from a shop or an apartment. He walked out of an alley.

Someone saw me walk past, a nervous woman alone, clutching a cell phone in one hand, laptop bag over her shoulder. I might as well just have a wad of cash sticking out of my pocket.

What if I was attacked? Mugged? Assaulted? Can’t exactly call 911, can I? Not without turning myself in.

I steady myself and glance over my shoulder, as if I just noticed someone there.

The street is empty.

A car turns the corner, the sound making me jump.

I know I saw a figure reflected in the window. A male figure. That’s when I spot the narrow alley right where I saw the man. He’d stepped out, and then seen me give a start, and eased back into the shadows.

He’s there now, watching, evaluating.

Seriously, Lucy? No. He’s an addict or a homeless person, and he stepped out to realize he wasn’t alone on this street, so he retreated. Now he’s just waiting for you to move along.

I take a deep breath and look both ways. I’m still a half-dozen blocks from the Starbucks. To my left, though, another street leads to a busier area, the dull roar of traffic audible from here.

This quiet road had seemed the right choice for a woman currently wanted for murder, but it seems a lot less wise for a woman walking alone carrying a couple grand in tech.

I head toward the sound of people. As I go, I cast one last glance over my shoulder, but the mouth to that narrow alley stays dark and still.

I walk three blocks and find a laundromat offering free Wi-Fi. There are a half-dozen people inside, engaged in various stages of the laundry cycle – loading, folding and waiting. No one even looks up as I enter.

I pause a moment to regroup. The near-encounter outside has unsettled me more than it should have, proving that I’m not handling this as well as I pretend. It only takes something like that to start my stomach twisting, my fingers trembling.

Once I’m calm again, I open my laptop, connect to the Wi-Fi and type in the search terms for Isabella’s murder.

My screen fills with results. I start with mainstream media, easing myself in.

One mentions my name with a link to an old article in their entertainment section.

Otherwise, articles only say that police are pursuing a suspect and an arrest is expected soon.

I move on to the tabloids and entertainment websites.

They focus on Isabella’s marital success as if it is the culmination of her career.

The mainstream media deign to recognize her accomplishments, but even then, it’s awkward, as if a Mexican television show was on the same professional level as an amateur web series.

I am angry for Isabella. I have always been angry for Isabella, and I wish I could have told her that. Now the outrage just festers on behalf of a woman who will never know that, even in my deepest hurt and anger, I sympathized.

The farther I venture beyond mainstream media, the more innuendo and lies I read about myself.

One “source” claims I’ve been having an affair with Colt ever since the scandal, and when he refused to divorce Isabella, I took action.

Another says that I’ve become a star in my own right…

a porn star, trading on my notoriety. Another piece c laims that I’ve spent the last fourteen years in a mental hospital, which I finally escaped to wreak crazed vengeance on my rival.

Post-scandal, I went through a stage where I’d force myself to seek out every article, read every comment on those old-school bulletin boards and discussion groups.

I told myself I was building up a tolerance.

That was bullshit. The girl who lashed herself with those whips is gone.

What I’m doing now is wading through shit in hopes of stepping on diamonds.

Mainstream media won’t speculate on the investigation.

As much as I despise the tabloids, right now – God help me – I need them.

I need to know what a hotel maid overheard the police say.

I need to know what some guy in the lobby tweeted this morning.

All that gives me a heads-up on what I’m facing.

From CNR and others, a picture emerges of Lucy Callahan.

She’s a class-A bitch. The scheming Lolita matured into a ball-busting virago.

Start with that photograph of me haughtily ripping off my designer sunglasses.

Then get a quote from the driver who dropped me off yesterday.

According to him, I staggered from the car, drunk.

Not carsick. Not close to vomiting with anxiety.

Drunk. Then there’s the hotel staff member who saw Bess lead me upstairs.

I’d ignored Isabella’s poor PA as I swanned through the lobby.

Then there’s the guy who was guarding the penthouse.

I came on to him, using my feminine wiles as I tried to inveigle information.

More than one enterprising journalist has dug up Maureen Wilcox’s old article and quoted the lines that painted me as a predator.

As for the murder investigation, cause of death is still unknown. “Sources” on the scene say Isabella was found d ead in her bedroom from an apparent blow to the head. Another source overheard the coroner saying Isabella had been dead for a few hours.

I flip through the pages of search results.

I skim comments, too, looking for particular keywords.

There are those I wish I could unsee. Slurs and insults and suggestions for ways I should be punished.

Post-scandal, I’d had to dig for those. I don’t now.

This is how the world has changed in fourteen years.

I used to think the world was becoming kinder, more compassionate, more open-minded. How many times has Nylah said that if my Colt scandal hit today, people would recognize my youth and his power and shift the blame to him? I used to agree, but reading these comments, I realize I’d been deluded.

People still hold those ugly and hateful opinions – they just know better than to unleash them outside their circle of likeminded family and friends.

When those in power give free rein to their own ugliness, it’s like uncorking a bottle.

That’s front and center in Italy, too, and honestly, the only thing that kept me from running home to the US was knowing things are no better here.

I’m already thinking of Rome when three words on my search-term screen stop me dead.

Via della Luce.

The street where I live in Rome.

I click the link. It’s a poorly translated English version of an article posted a few hours ago. I type in the address for the Italian version. An amateur crime blog pops up.

My gaze goes straight to the embedded video. When I click Play, a shaky image appears, the familiar thick wood door of my building, with its huge round handle. A voice talks in Italian, so fast I struggle to follow.

It’s a man saying he’s tracked “Lucy Callahan” to this address, where she’s living under the name Genevieve Callahan.

He races through his amateur-sleuth findings – I’m a music teacher and musician, though he mistakenly says I play the violin.

This is my home, and he’s hoping to get access, and he’s just heard footsteps on the stairs within.

Sure enough, the door opens, and one of my elderly neighbors appears.

The man asks whether she knows me. Mrs. Costa hesitates, confused.

When she starts to retreat, he grabs the door.

She yelps. I watch in horror as this man tries to force his way into the building, and poor Mrs. Costa calls for help.

A voice sounds offscreen, a man saying, “Hey, get away from her,” in angry Italian.

I know that voice.

Oh, God, no.

The picture spins, as if someone grabbed the intruder. The videographer fumbles the camera, and when he rights it, the lens is pointing at an anger-flushed face.

Marco’s face.