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I sit up in bed, clutching my knees, the exact pose of that night long ago. I inhale the same stink of a cheap motel room, and the smell makes my gorge rise, but all I see is that photograph, sold to the tabloids within days.

Me standing half-naked in the doorway of a cheap motel room.

Oh, how far the mighty have fallen. One day, you’re screwing Colt Gordon in a hot tub, the next, you’re screwing God-knows-who in a highway motel.

It’d been a setup, of course. A trash-can fire lit by an enterprising paparazzo to flush me out.

Now I’m in another cheap room, fourteen years later, clutching my knees, my stomach heaving as I shiver.

There’s no November breeze. If anything, the crappy air conditioning leaves the room warm and humid.

I still feel that frigid wind, though. Still hear the alarm bell.

Still see the camera flashing and feel my stomach plummet as I realized I’d been set up.

I thought I’d come so far, and instead, I’ve traveled full circle. I am right back where I began, all my hard work erased.

As soon as the pity sparks, I reflexively force it back. I can still fix this. I’m no longer that girl, horrified at being p hotographed in a nightshirt. They can say what they want, post what they want, concoct whatever stories they want. I’m going to stay on top of this.

I will turn myself in. I just need to be prepared. I just can’t risk being helpless again. I can’t risk losing it all again.

Someday, I may look back on this as a tsunami of stupidity that washes Colt Gordon out to sea. I accept that possibility. I just won’t let myself be washed out to sea, not without a fight.

I start my morning with a subway ride and a two-mile walk to a bus terminal, where I use a pay phone to call my mom. The police haven’t been to see her yet, which is a relief. I won’t tell her anything she can’t pass on – and I insist that she be honest with the police if they show up.

I will not inflict any more pain on her than absolutely necessary. I’ll never forget the woman who broke down that afternoon so long ago.

Next, I use an ATM. I only want to leave a record, pointing police to this bus depot. Yet when I check my bank balance, it shows over a thousand dollars. A care package from Mom? It must be. I withdraw my max – I’ll repay her later.

Finally, I use my credit card to buy a ticket to Boston at the automated booth. Put that together with the cash withdrawal and the pay phone call to Mom, and I’m hoping the police will assume I’ve hopped a bus out of the state.

On the walk back to the subway station, I stop in a coffee shop to use the Internet.

I open my inbox, telling myself that I hope Marco didn’t respond, for his own good.

I’m lying, of course, and when I see an email from him, my h eart leaps.

Leaps and then plummets and then flutters there, uncertain, afraid of what the letter will say.

After last night, while I’m plowing forward, internally I am not in a good place.

I’ve stayed offline because even the sight of a newspaper box nearly had me retching in the street.

I have a sick headache that isn’t responding to painkillers.

I’m exhausted and shaky, and if Marco emailed to tell me that he never wants to see me again, I don’t know what I’d do.

Gen,

I won’t lie. I wish you’d given me a heads-up. But that’s a conversation for another time. Right now, I just feel helpless. You’re half a world away, and I want to fly there and help, but I’d only make things worse. I’m just a tour guide and a bike courier.

If there is anything I can do, say the word. I won’t hold my breath for that call, and I won’t look for another email. Just remember that I’m here for you, and the moment you’re out from under this cloud, I’ll be there to bring you home.

xx Marco

I read it twice, my eyes filling. Part of me wants to reply and tell him to come, just come now, please.

I know better. He’s right that he can’t help.

I’d only be pulling him in as an accomplice.

So I reply with a line of x ’s. Then I sit there, reading his email a few more times and committing it to heart before I reluctantly close it and move on.

The following three emails are variations on “Is this Lucy Callahan? The one in the news?” I skim past.

The last one bears the subject line: “I Can Help,” and I chuckle at that. I’m sure you can, anonymous email sender.

I open it, expecting to find an email offering Viagra to h elp me “with the ladies.” Instead, after I skim the first few lines, I bite back the urge to curse aloud, lest I scare off my cafe neighbors.

Lucy,

Or do you prefer Genevieve? You don’t know me, but I believe I can help you. I know about the warrant for your arrest, and I am convinced you’re being framed. And, no, the next line of this email is not “please send me $1000, and we can discuss your situation.”

I’m a private investigator. I’ve worked for law firms, where I handled cases like yours.

I’ve studied the timeline, and the police were far too quick to issue that warrant.

Something’s up. It’s a high-profile case, so they have an incentive to find a suspect quickly, but they usually wouldn’t risk the humiliation of arresting the wrong person. That makes me highly suspicious.

I’m not asking for anything from you just yet. I’m reaching out, knowing you may very well stop monitoring this address, which has already leaked online (see link at bottom). Please do keep it open, though, until I can send you something useful. Once I do, I’m hoping we can chat.

It’s unsigned, but I know exactly who sent it. Well, maybe not who , but at whose instigation. Daniel Thompson.

Thompson has realized I’m not responding to yesterday’s email. He promised he wouldn’t contact me again. So he’s trying a different tactic.

I have to give him credit – the email is pitch-perfect. A total stranger emails me from out of the blue to say they think I’m being framed, and this whole thing is suspicious, and by the way, investigating crimes like this is their job.

How awesome is that?

Too awesome.

Thompson knows I think I’m being framed. He’s already told me I don’t have the credentials to do this myself. I’ve refused his legal help, so he has set his investigator on it, and the guy – or gal – will dig up some tidbit of information that’ll prove Thompson is the man to handle my case.

I’m tempted to say, “Screw you” and delete my account. I don’t. Nor do I reply. I’ll give Thompson a chance, through my silence. Let his investigator dig. If they actually do find something useful… maybe we’ll talk.

The ball is in your court, counselor.

I’m about to leave the coffee shop when I remember to research Isabella’s mystery lover. Not surprisingly, his phone number doesn’t bring up a name. The Internet tells me it’s a cell phone – shock! – and an LA area code – double-shock!

On my walk back, I try the number. It goes straight to voicemail, where a cheerful male voice says, “Hey, you’ve reached me. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you!”

I hang up. Then I sit there, frowning.

Did that voice sound familiar?

Not exactly, but something in it… I’ve heard that voice before.

An actor? That would make sense. It’s the circle Isabella travels in, and I may have heard her lover in a movie or show.

I tuck the information away in hopes an answer will rise from my subconscious later.

The problem with hanging out at my hotel is that it feels like a prison cell… which only reminds me of where I could end up. It drives me crazy, though, sitting there, trying to read a magazine when I should be doing something, anything. I’m wanted for murder, damn it.

So I should… start interviewing witnesses? Break into the morgue to further examine Isabella’s body? Call my nonexistent contacts in the police department?

I’m not a detective. Worse, as the actual prime suspect, I can’t even play amateur sleuth beyond looking for clues on the Internet.

Or I can get a lawyer. The thought makes my gorge rise, thinking of Thompson. I can tell myself he was an exception, but he’d been the only one who’d touch my case, meaning anyone else who might could be Thompson 2.0.

Still, I should do some defense-attorney research. See whether there’s anyone who looks like a possibility.

I head out again to pick up the nearest source of free Wi-Fi and log on to find another message from TPI – my mental name for Thompson’s private investigator.

TPI’s email comes with attachments. The first is a screenshot of Colt’s Instagram post from yesterday morning. It’s him on a veranda overlooking the ocean with the caption:

Early bird catches the worm! Or so I hear. Decided to try it once. God, it’s early. And I don’t even get a sunrise on this coast.

The time stamp is 8:03 a.m. Eastern, meaning 5:03 a.m. in California.

By 7:10 a.m. yesterday, Isabella’s body had been discovered.

Is that why TPI sent it? Suggesting this was C olt’s reaction to the “your wife is dead” phone call?

It’s unlikely Colt knew by 8:03. He’d been relaxing on his deck with his first coffee, taking a selfie for…

No, it’s not a selfie, which means someone else snapped it. Still, I’m not sure I get the point of Thompson’s PI sending it to me. Does this imply Colt had a lover spend the night?

You know how you could answer these questions, Lucy? Read the damn email.

Lucy

I hope you’re someplace safe. If you need any advice on finding a spot, please let me know. I would like to speak soon. Speak online, I mean. I realize it will take much more than the contents of this email to convince you that I can be trusted for an in-person conversation.

The attached photo was posted to Colt Gordon’s Instagram account yesterday morning. I suspect he was informed of the murder and immediately posted this photograph to be clear he was on the West Coast at the time.

Twenty minutes later, this appeared on his Twitter: