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Frightened. I think of what just happened in that alley. PCTracy says there’s no significant danger in me staying free, but he’s speaking from a legal perspective. He doesn’t know what happened a few minutes ago.

Except I don’t really know what happened, either. Was I attacked for being Lucy Callahan? Or just the victim of big-city violence?

PCTracy: If you do turn yourself in, I can keep working on your behalf. There’s also an advantage, though, to me having full- time access to you. And to you assisting in your own investigation, which you seem willing to do.

LlamaGirl: Absolutely. I’m not looking for a white knight here.

PCTracy: I know. My advice then is to give me twenty-four hours. If you want to turn yourself in then, I’ll guide you through it.

LlamaGirl: Shouldn’t I have a lawyer for that?

PCTracy: You should, and I will make sure you do.

Because he is Thompson. Or works for him. The more we talk, the more certain I am that I don’t need to find a lawyer. I already have. I just need to be sure I can trust him.

LlamaGirl: Fair enough. What are my restrictions, though? I just got caught buying lunch. Can I go back to my hotel and get my things?

PCTracy: If you don’t need your belongings, skip it.

LlamaGirl: I need them.

PCTracy: Okay. You’ll have to find a new place to stay, though. Do you trust me enough to arrange that for you?

LlamaGirl: No. Sorry.

PCTracy: Don’t apologize. The problem, though, is that I presume you’re paying cash and not showing ID. Even at the seediest hotels, you’re calling attention to yourself. I can book you a room and leave the key where you can find it.

LlamaGirl: Not yet.

PCTracy: The alternative would be finding a place to spend the night out-of-doors. A park or such. That would be far from comfortable.

LlamaGirl: That’s fine.

PCTracy: Let’s talk specifics, then.

After I fetch my belongings, I stop at a library.

I’m not even sure which one. It’s a big branch, quiet on a Tuesday afternoon.

I find a study carrel and log onto the Internet.

PCTracy has asked me to give him twenty-four hours, and I’m giving myself the same.

Twenty-four hours to make headway, or I am turning myself in.

Making headway means diving into the Internet cesspool again.

Even thinking about it makes me shy away like a spooked horse.

No, that analogy puts a pretty gloss on the truth.

I’m not merely skittish about seeing my life dragged through that muck.

I am viscerally sick, physically and mentally.

I want to be stronger than this, to tell myself that people have endured far greater trauma.

Yet my body doesn’t care for distinctions.

This feels like trauma, slashing open life-threatening wounds that had finally begun to heal.

I can tell myself that words can’t hurt me. I can tell myself I will survive this. Whatever happens, I will rebuild my life again.

None of that matters, though, when I feel as if I’m watching it all burn to cinders around me, and every time I try to throw water on the flames, I douse them in gasoline instead.

So here I go, wading in, water hose in hand. Again, I find myself grudgingly relying on the entertainment tabloids. I focus on the Morales-Gordon clan and quickly discover that I’m not the only one being burned at the stake in a public spectacle.

They’ve zeroed in on Jamison. In and out of rehab since he was seventeen. Two suicide attempts. A “beautiful wreck of a boy” with “deep-rooted psychological issues” that can stem from the trauma of his beloved nanny turning into a Lolita hell-bent on destroying his family.

Then there’s Tiana. A young woman who spurned the family business and got her master’s in political science and became an activist. In the words of one right-wing publication, she’s a professional shit-disturber, a whiny millennial malcontent.

Ultraconservative blogs make a big deal of her sexual orientation, too, snarking that for someone like Tiana, being gay is a career requirement.

Others speculate that her experience with me and her father “turned her gay.”

Next up is Colt. After the scandal, a couple of his past lovers talked to the media. There are whispers of him being seen at sex parties. Also a paternity claim from a nineteen year-old ingenue.

Nineteen, Colt? Jesus. You learned nothing, did you?

Then there’s Isabella. No one has a bad thing to say about her…

which is exactly the ammunition they use against her.

Poor, long-suffering Isabella. Gave up her career for her man.

Stuck by him when he screwed around with the nanny.

Pathetic, really. Isabella may be the Madonna in our drama, the faithful Penelope to my seductress Circe, but that doesn’t win her anything except contempt.

I dig for rumors of Isabella’s potential lover. Of course, any search on her name fills the page with news of her death. Even as I try to filter out keywords, I find myself reading the most up-to-date stories on her murder.

Colt arrived in New York yesterday. Tiana was rumored to be picking up her brother yesterday from rehab, but she was spotted having dinner last night with her father, and there was no sign of Jamison.

Lots of speculation there, everything from “he had a relapse, and he’s in emergency detox” to “he attempted suicide, and he’s in hospital. ”

Guilt and grief wash over me. Yet there’s no way Tiana would be seen having dinner out with her dad if her brother was in the hospital. If she’s not with him, there’s a reason. I just don’t know what it is.

I start to dig deeper and then stop. Where is this getting me? I can tell myself I’m hoping to find a clue that will help my case, but really, I’m just checking up on Tiana and Jamison, worrying about them.

What might help me is finding Isabella’s mystery lover.

I know he was in New York the night she died, which makes him a suspect, but I can find nothing online suggesting Isabella had a lover.

Part of the issue is keywords. No matter how I phrase it, I end up with references to my fourteen-year-old scandal and Colt’s alleged subsequent affairs.

I call the mystery lover’s phone number again. Voice mail picks up immediately. I could text him, but I’m not sure what I’d say. I’m not even sure what I’d have said if he answered my call.

Frustration buzzes through me. My only lead is this dead end. Getting more will have to wait until I’m ready to share Isabella’s secret with PCTracy.

When I consider reneging on my decision to not tell him, I realize, to my shame, that I’m looking for an excuse to talk to him. I’m unsettled, and he settles me, and that’s a weird and uncomfortable thing to say.

I’m staring at my phone when he messages, as if he sensed me debating.

PCTracy: Just checking in. Everything okay?

LlamaGirl: All good. Found a spot to hang out and do some research.

PCTracy: Anything?

LlamaGirl: Nope. Just busywork. I am not a PI.

PCTracy: Well, I am, and it’s still slow going. I might have something, but I need to check a few things first.

LlamaGirl: Tease.

As soon as I hit Send on that, I deliver a mental head smack. He responds with a simple “ LOL. Sorry .” and then I feel silly for worrying that it sounded flirtatious.

PCTracy: Soon, I promise. But you’re okay? Need anything?

LlamaGirl: Work. I’m running in circles. Is there something I can do? Something I can research for you? I feel useless.

PCTracy: I understand. Right now, there’s nothing, but if I have anything, I will let you know.

LlamaGirl: Thank you. In the meantime, I have to contact my mom and a friend. Is it safe to do that on a prepaid?

PCTracy: No, sorry. If they monitor your mom’s calls, an NYC prepaid cell number would be a giveaway. They could get your location from the GPS.

LlamaGirl: Right. Duh. Stick to pay phones, then?

PCTracy : You found one? Are you sure you’re not a detective?

LlamaGirl: I saw one downstairs by the restrooms. Otherwise, yeah, they are in short supply.

PCTracy: Use that for now. I have an idea for options that might be more convenient. I’ll investigate and let you know.

I work in the library for another hour. Then I head down to the pay phone.

I call Nylah first. As I hoped, the police haven’t reached out to her yet.

I give her a quick update. Basically, I’m fine.

I didn’t do it, but I’m afraid to turn myself in after my scandal experience, so I’m giving the police time to realize they’ve made a horrible mistake.

All true, and also all things she can tell the police if they contact her.

Nylah wants more, of course. What was I doing in New York? What happened? How can she help?

I answer the first two honestly. For the third, I pretend I’m fine and everything’s under control.

I stop myself before reassuring her that I have professional help.

I need to protect everyone. Protect Nylah and my mom from keeping secrets.

Protect PCTracy from getting in trouble for aiding a fugitive.

I insist that Nylah tells the police everything if they do get in touch.

“Can I tell them that they’re idiots, too?” she says. “That they should have been there for you ten years ago when you were stabbed in an alley? That if they think you’d kill Isabella Morales, they need a brain transplant?”

“That seems unwise.”

She snorts. “Too bad. I’ll tell them anyway.” Her voice lowers. “You are okay, right, Luce?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Stop saying that. Of course you didn’t. But you’re on the run and… you aren’t exactly fugitive material.”

“I’ve spent fourteen years running from something I didn’t do. That’s gotta count for something.”

She goes quiet. Before I can speak, she says, “I hate this, Luce. You don’t deserve it. No one would, but you least of all.”

I assure her I’m fine, and we talk for a few more minutes before I sign off.