After She's Gone (28 page)

It was just comfort.

Well, and sexual attraction.

She glanced over at the sleeping dog. Though Hud didn’t appear to open his eyes, he thumped his tail. “Sorry, Buddy,” she said, heading for the stairs where she intended to follow her husband. “You’re on your own tonight.”

She was on the third step when her cell phone beeped, indicating she had a text. Pausing, she saw that the text was from Brandon McNary and that her battery life was low. She couldn’t remember when she’d charged it last or if she’d even packed her charger in her hurry to leave LA.

She considered not answering and didn’t respond immediately. Another text came through.

Cassie’s pulse jumped. Information on Allie? Now? Bullshit. But she didn’t want to just brush him off. He was the last man Allie was involved with, and maybe he knew something he hadn’t imparted earlier.

She replied:
coffee tomorrow am?

The response:
now. Important.

She typed:
I’m in Falls Crossing
. Then she added:
With Trent.

McNary replied quickly:
come alone
.

Cassie:
What is this?

McNary:
if you want the info meet me at Orson’s at 11:30

Cassie:
Sorry. No cloak and dagger cryptic crap for me.

McNary:
You’re the only 1 who can help.

Cassie:
I’m not.

McNary:
guess what she said about u was true all go no show. She knew u didn’t care about her

Cassie:
Not true

McNary:
prove it

Cassie:
Don’t have to.

She waited for the next text but it didn’t come. Agitated, she stood on the third step and contemplated heading upstairs. To Trent. To safety. To . . . oh, hell, who was she kidding? She couldn’t just go to bed and pretend McNary hadn’t tried to reach out to her.

But why?

Late at night, it didn’t make any sense.

But then, what had in the disappearance of her sister? Nothing. At least McNary was willing to talk to her. Unlike Little Bea or Dean Arnette or a lot of people associated with
Dead Heat
and Allie.

She looked up the remaining steps of the staircase and at the dark floor above. Knowing she was giving in to emotions over judgment, she started typing. What if he was on the up and up? What if Allie needed her? What if, for some unknown reason, it was imperative that Cassie go alone?
I’ll be there, but if this is some kind of sick joke, Brandon, I swear, I’ll kill you!

For a second she considered hurrying up the rest of the flight and telling Trent about her plans, but she knew what his response would be, what any sane person’s responses would be.

Something along the lines of: “You’re not going alone.”

Or: “Why don’t you just call the police?”

Or maybe: “This sounds like big trouble or a twisted prank. I don’t care what he said, I’m coming with you.”

Her heart wrenched. Having Trent with her would be a helluva lot more comforting and probably safer, though she wasn’t really worried about her safety. She could handle a self-serving sleaze like McNary and Orson’s was a well-lit, popular bar in Portland; she’d be okay.

After hitting the send button, she turned back, collected her purse, keys, and jacket, then headed through the front door and into the wet Oregon night. She hoped Trent was already asleep, that he hadn’t heard the dog’s soft woof as she’d grabbed her things, nor caught the noise of the latch clicking as she’d quietly pulled the front door shut behind her.

That nagging voice whispered to her as she clicked on the flashlight app on her cell phone, its bluish beam illuminating the wet grass, weeds, and puddles. Moving quickly, head ducked against the rain, she picked her way along the path to the gravel parking area near the garage. A security lamp mounted on a pole near the barn gave off an ethereal light, creating the illusion that the barn, silo, and garage’s shadowed facades loomed larger around the graveled parking area.

“Don’t be a fool,” she whispered as she reached her car and slipped noiselessly behind the wheel. Before she had time to second-guess herself, she cranked on the ignition and looked up at the house to the second story and Trent’s dark window. The shifting light of a television backlit a figure standing near the glass.

Cassie’s heart lurched. Her head began to pound. She blinked, felt the blackness calling to her, beckoning, but she fought it. Her hands, despite the cold were suddenly sweaty against the wheel.

“No!” she said aloud. “Not now!”

She couldn’t afford to lose time tonight, to have hours unaccounted for. As her headache began to thunder, she set her jaw and thought about Trent, how she’d deceived him.

She’d text him the second she was in Portland, but for now, she hit the gas and took off, turning on her headlights and wipers and telling herself that it didn’t matter what Trent thought, she didn’t have to answer to him, she could do anything she damned well pleased.

She gritted her teeth against the pain of the headache, possibly brought on by her deception. Of course she hadn’t outwardly lied to him, but by not going upstairs and telling him what she was going to do, she’d kind of misled him. Omission rather than admission.

But this could be her best chance of ever finding her sister.

Then again it could be a big waste of time.

She’d find out soon enough.

 

T
rent swore under his breath as he watched the disappearing taillights of Cassie’s Honda. He’d hoped she would come up to bed. He’d hoped they’d make love. He’d hoped she’d spend the rest of the night and maybe her life with him.

But, of course, that had been too much to expect.

Snagging his keys off his dresser, he charged down the stairs when he heard a beep from his cell phone indicating a text had come through. Cassie?

His jaw tight, he glanced at the phone’s tiny screen and frowned. The message was a brief note from Carter:

Checked with L Sparks of the OSP
. Larry Sparks was a lieutenant with the Oregon State Police. While at Jenna’s house Trent had filled Carter in about the search for the 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe. Luckily, Carter hadn’t balked at the source of the information, and had later confirmed that Sparks had promised to do some checking with the stipulation that Detective Nash of the Portland Police Department be kept in the loop. Neither Trent nor Carter had any problem with making certain the Portland PD was informed. Trent figured the more cops who were searching for Allie Kramer, the better.

Carter’s text continued:

No surprise there. Nine vehicles was a start, though the tri-counties didn’t include outlying counties in Southern Washington and out here, east of the Portland metropolitan area. Trent walked to the kitchen and found the dog on his heels. “Not this time, boy,” he said as he snatched his hat and jacket from a peg near the back door. “You hold down the fort.” After cramming his hat onto his head, he slipped his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and turned up his collar. Rain peppered the ground and the wind tore down the gorge as he jogged to his truck. Once inside, he switched on the ignition and dialed Cassie’s cell.

“Pick up,” he said, hearing the phone ring. Once, twice, three times. “Come on, damn it!” With the phone tucked to his ear, he turned the truck around, then hit the gas and started racing down the lane leading to the county road. He heard her phone click to voice mail. Damn! “Saw you take off. What’s up? Call me.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat.

Why the hell hadn’t she told him where she was going?

The simple answer was that she didn’t want him to know.

“Screw that,” he ground out as he reached the county highway and, with a quick look in either direction, cranked the wheel.

Fishtailing, the truck slid on the wet pavement before the tires caught. His cell phone jangled and he saw it was Carter. He picked up and wrestled with the idea of asking him if Jenna had heard from Cassie, but decided Carter would share that info if he had it and he didn’t want to worry Cassie’s parents . . . yet.

“Kittle.”

Carter’s voice was deep. Serious. “You saw my message about the tri-county area,” he stated.

“Yeah, just got it.”

“Sparks found about seven more scattered around the state, but the thing of it is, there are no Oregon license plates with an image of any kind of bucking bronco. Wyoming? Yes. Oregon? No.”

Of course, that would have been far too easy, Trent thought, scowling through the windshield as the truck’s tires sang against the wet pavement.

“So either your info is faulty, or you misunderstood.”

“He said a bucking bronc. I was there.” Frustrated, Trent snorted through his nose. He’d almost known this would turn out badly.

“Could he have been talking about the license plate holder? Not the plate itself, but some kind of decorative bracket fixing the plate to the SUV?”

“Maybe. But he seemed pretty sure of himself.” Of course Rinko was a patient in a mental hospital so he lost some credibility there.

“There are plate holders with any kind of image you want, you know. Like the name of the dealership, or if you’re a sports fan, you can get one for your favorite team, like the Trailblazers or the Oregon Ducks or Oregon State Beavers or whatever. Also, local dealerships offer to decorate plate holders.”

To Trent, looking for a decorative license plate holder with a horse on it was a long shot, a stab in the dark.

But what else did they have to go on?

“Sounds good,” he said, and clicked off, then turned the wipers onto the fastest speed offered. He tried his wife’s mobile number again.

Of course, she didn’t pick up.

His jaw slid to the side and he squinted into the darkness.

What the hell was she up to?

 

A
bsently rubbing the scratches on her wrist, she stalked the perimeter of her room, barely eight by ten and dominated by her dressing table with its vanity mirror. A small window was cut into one wall. The other three were covered with large posters, mounted carefully. Each was from a movie starring either Jenna Hughes or Allie Kramer, one butting up to the next, a collage of pictures of the women in their most celebrated roles. There were other images on the posters, some with their costars’ faces, but dominating each poster was a close-up of Jenna or her famous daughter.

Her stomach curled as she surveyed them, but she took in each individual poster, her eyes tracing the fine lines of the women’s expressions, of their features, the sensual mouths, large eyes, and different noses. Always Allie appeared a pixieish, younger version of her mother, but the resemblance was evident, caught by the camera’s eye.

Bile rose in her throat as she walked past the posters, circling the room, eyeing each print.

She felt edgy.

Fidgety.

Anxious.

It was time again, she knew. She couldn’t fight the demons much longer, nor did she want to.

Which one? she wondered, retracing her footsteps as she slowly walked the perimeter of this, her safe place. Which one would be best?

It had to be of Jenna.

For tonight.

She made six circuits. Each time the poster with Jenna portraying Zoey Trammel called to her and seemed to follow her with her eyes. “You,” she said to the image of Jenna in a wide-brimmed hat, her head turned to look over her shoulder, her lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “Zoey.”

Intent on not disturbing any of the other wall hangings, she bit her lip as she eased the mounted poster from its spot and carried it to a bench pushed against the wall with the window. After placing it in plain view of her makeup table she sat in the small chair at her vanity mirror and opened the drawer where she kept her cosmetics. Tubes and jars were lined in rows and she quickly picked those that would be perfect for her transformation: coral lipstick, smoky eye shadow, near-black eyeliner with a hint of green, a rusty-hued blush over lighter foundation.

Then she began her work, using the brushes, swabs, and cotton balls kept in jars on the table, leaning close to the mirror when she needed to while keeping the poster in her peripheral vision.

She was still young.

Age hadn’t gotten to her.

Yet.

Growing older was inevitable of course, but at the thought her lips pursed, and she noticed the first signs of ugly, bothersome lines that would eventually require Botox injections.

She couldn’t think about them now. She was losing time.

She
could play Zoey. No, she could
be
Zoey. She had the heart-shaped face, though she would have to don a red wig, as Jenna had done.

Again her stomach roiled and her hatred ran a little faster in her blood.

With a slightly trembling hand she applied her makeup painstakingly, using the different brushes with their varying sizes and firmness, copying the shading beneath Jenna’s cheekbones, the smudge of eyeliner/shadow at the corners of her eyes, the carefully outlined lips.

Jenna Hughes, who, at the top of her game, had walked away from Hollywood. What a coward. She’d thrown it all away. For what? To be a mother? What a joke! What a freaking joke!

Her hand trembled more violently and she closed her eyes and counted to ten.

Slowly letting out her breath, she started in again. With forced precision she applied the colors, lines, and mascara, as careful as a painter with a masterpiece as she looked from the image on the poster to her own reflection and back again. The hues had to be exact. With the right play of shadow and light, she could make herself be Zoey . . . not Jenna so much really but . . . close enough to pass as Zoey Trammel . . . a final stroke of lipstick and . . . her hand wobbled wildly.

Her teeth clenched.

But it was too late, the shaking of her fingers had destroyed her look. The lipstick trailing from the corner of her mouth made her look like the Joker from a Batman movie.

“Shit!” She grabbed a tissue, tried to clean up. No, no, no! That wasn’t what was supposed to happen!

Heart pounding, her pulse racing, she knew in an instant that if she didn’t pull herself back, rein in her wildly raging emotions, all would be lost. “Get it together!” she screamed into the mirror, then gasped in horror. “Oh, Jesus!” The image staring back at her looked
nothing
like Zoey Trammel. The woman in the reflection was cartoonish, a caricature of the beautiful Zoey and the gorgeous woman who portrayed her, the colors bizarre.

“You sick, sick fake!” she snarled at the face staring at her, and noticed a bit of spit in the corner of her oversize orange lips. Her breathing was coming in short, sharp pants and her mind was suddenly disjointed. Fractured.

Gripping the edge of the table, she leaned closer to the hideous woman in the glass. “What the hell were you thinking, you miserable bitch?” Spittle flew from her garish lips to gob on the mirror, then run down the smooth glass, leaving a silvery trail over her reflection.

She gaped in horror.

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen tonight.

Her blood was pumping through her veins, coursing hot, pounding in her temples. “For the love of God,” she whispered to her image, despair entwining with her rage. “What’s wrong with you? What the
hell
is wrong with you?” She swept the countertop of all her jars and tubes, sending them crashing to the floor, glass shattering.

Frustration boiled deep within and her hands went to her hair, her fingers digging deep into her scalp, as if she could physically drag the demons from her skull. “Why are you doing this?” The question was broken by a sob as a feeling of wretched hopelessness overtook her. “What’re you doing?” She let the tears flow and buried her head in her hands. Shoulders heaving, sobbing quietly, she knew her makeup was ruined and running down her face, but she would repair it, change the look, come out of this. She could fix things. It was just makeup, dye and powder and grease.

Drawing in a shaking breath, she lifted her head. Pointing a damning finger at the grotesque woman in the mirror, she said, “
You
can’t let this happen.”

Sniffing, she swiped at the offensive tears and drew herself up. Squaring her shoulders, she saw the ugly woman staring back at her do the same. As if that obscene bitch with the sickening orange mouth and mascara running in rivers down her face had an ounce of backbone.

She blinked.

Managed to retrieve some of the shreds of her sanity.

Felt her strength, her purpose returning. Sensed again her need to become the characters that Jenna Hughes had portrayed.

Absolute despair and self-loathing gave way to a slow-burning anger at her own ineptness to recapture the image, to prove to herself that she was as good as Jenna Hughes. Not just as good, but better. Younger. Stronger. More beautiful.

She glanced to the mirror and the hideous image glared back at her, as if she knew a secret. Was the woman laughing at her? Did she know that Jenna Hughes could never be bested?

Instinctively she yanked open the makeup drawer and rattled through the jars, pencils, creams, and shadows until she found the palette knife. Dull, but good enough.

Flinging one last look at the ugly woman in the mirror she kicked back her chair and crossed the few steps to the bench and the poster of Zoey Trammel.

Before her anger ebbed, she jabbed the dull knife into the poster, gloried in the sound of paper tearing.

Then she pulled the knife back and stabbed again. And again. And again. Faster and faster. In a frenzy, her gaze glued to the calm features of Zoey Trammel until Jenna’s beauty was obliterated, her eyes disappearing, her mouth stretched into a monstrous slash.

She was breathing hard, her heart a drum and in her furor, she stumbled backward. Falling, she hit her arm on the edge of the dressing table aggravating the scratch on her wrist.

Pain sang up her arm.

She dropped the knife.

It clattered to the floor near to where she, herself, dropped. Wrapping her arms around her knees, her head tucked between her shoulders, she rocked slowly back and forth, trying to pull herself together.

Her rage spent, she drew in deep breaths and closed her eyes. “Oh, God,” she whispered as slowly, bit by rational bit, sanity returned. The fire that fueled her madness eventually died, not to ashes, but to glowing embers that could ignite with just a little bit of stoking.

The pain remained. And the fear. That she was so different. A monster.

She knew she had to stop this. She had to stop accidentally maiming herself. She couldn’t mar her skin. For the love of God, what was she thinking? That would be stupid and she was far from an idiot . . . right?

She managed to climb to her feet, then fall into her chair again. Now her reflection appeared clownish and sad, a pathetic creature. She told herself to calm down and think.

Finally she breathed more easily.

Calmer, she picked up the knife and placed it back in her drawer. Once she’d swept the floor and thrown away the broken bottles and jars, and the tabletop was straightened to her satisfaction, she walked to the small window and peered through the clear glass.

A smile touched at the corners of her lips as she saw, through the fronds of palm trees, the Hollywood sign mounted high on the hills. Illuminated, its white letters stark against the night, the iconic sign was a silent reminder of her mission. And what she had to do next.

She was the one who should have been the star.

She was the one who should have taken Hollywood by storm, been adored by a million fans.

Fame was yet to be hers.

She turned and once more studied her wall where she’d remounted the disfigured poster of Jenna as Zoey Trammel. Wincing, she forced herself to stare at her handiwork. Maybe she’d learn to control herself. The torn print was a harsh reminder of her thin grip on reality.

Slowly, she turned and focused on another poster. This one of Allie.

In the poster for
Wait Until Christmas,
Allie was a vision, like a damned angel. With her face upturned as if she were actually glimpsing heaven and a divine light shining upon her, she was the picture of innocence and virtue.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Worse yet, Allie had been horrible in the film. Horrible! Wooden. Like a damned marionette on a string. Hadn’t anyone else been able to see Allie’s lack of talent?

How had Allie Kramer’s name ever been whispered for an Academy Award?

Fortunately, cooler, smarter heads had prevailed and Allie hadn’t been nominated.

“Too bad.”