After She's Gone (7 page)

Her skin prickled as she made her way to the front door. Her cell rang as she reached for the handle and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was her mother.

Then she noticed the text. Again from Jenna:
Call me.

“Okay, okay.” Walking out of the apartment, she glanced down the corridor as she locked the door behind her. It was empty, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She carefully looked all around. No one was walking the hallway or waiting for the elevators or at the wide spot in the hallway where two side chairs, a table with a lamp, and a potted palm with bristling fronds created an alcove for sitting or reading, or catching a glimpse of the Portland skyline through tall floor to ceiling windows. The chairs were unoccupied and no one was lingering nearby.

Cassie was alone, yet she had the sensation that someone was silently observing her.

Your imagination.
She slapped the elevator call button and was startled when the doors opened immediately, as if someone else had pressed the button before her.

No one was in the car and she gratefully sped down to the lower parking lot without the car stopping on any other floor. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, though, of course, she had to call her mother. Jenna was worried about her or, Cassie thought, she might even have news about Allie. Unlikely, but maybe.

She winced as a stabbing pain cut through her skull, a headache that was nearly blinding and sometimes preceded a loss of time. She was aware of the symptoms and fought them. She’d find a dark room, maybe some coffee or a cola, something with caffeine, pain reliever, and food, yes . . . that’s what she needed.

Ouch!
Another jab that made her blink. If she could just get home before . . . “Oh, God.” The edges of her vision began to blur and her heart pounded. She leaned against her car for support and waited.

The pain would pass.

It had to.

She had too much to do to be compromised or incapacitated.

“Not now,” she whispered and took in long breaths as the blackness threatened and the pain sliced through her brain. “Not now.”

 

Cherise Gotwell slipped out from between the sheets. She hazarded one last look at the smooth back of the man in the bed. What was his name? Ryan? Or Riley? Or Reed . . . something that started with an R.

She was pretty sure.

The guy, whom she’d picked up in Vintner’s House, a Portland bar Allie Kramer had been known to haunt, had found her beautiful. (Of course.) Interesting. (No surprise there.) And witty. (Well, that was a bit of a stretch.) But then he’d learned she’d worked for Allie Kramer and he’d been hooked.

How sick was that?

He probably pretended the whole time they were screwing that she was actually Allie. It had happened before and yeah, there was some resemblance. But it always left her feeling a little empty inside and like now, as she picked up her clothes to put them on in the living area of his bachelor pad, she knew she’d been playing the game as well.

Didn’t Ryan or Riley or whoever look a little bit like Brandon McNary, who just happened to be her new boss? Okay, so yeah, it was all a little sick, head games if you will, but she didn’t mind.

Until she could have the real thing, why not have a little fun?

And she didn’t want to be just another score for Brandon, she wanted all of him, heart, body and soul. The trouble was, she thought, slipping on her panties and hooking her bra in the half-light of the apartment, she thought Brandon wasn’t over Allie. Oh, sure, they’d split for the bazillionth time again just before
Dead Heat
went into production, but Cherise had wondered about that. The timing seemed a little too perfect for public fodder, a way to propel the on-again, off-again couple onto the front page of the tabloids, movie magazines, and Internet gossip. Brandon loved nothing more than to be “trending” and Allie was no better.

Also, Cherise had seen the way they’d looked at each other when they’d thought no one was looking; not so much with anguish and longing, but as if they’d shared some huge private secret or joke.

Or had it all been in her head?

She’d been in love with Brandon since like for-ev-er. It was all she could do not to fall into his bed and fuck the hell out of him. God, she wanted to. So badly. But she needed more. So much more. And she was willing to sacrifice to get what she wanted.

Hadn’t that always been the way? Since she was a little girl. She’d been the pretty one, the ambitious one. Her sister? Not so much. She’d been the daring one, always ready to take a dare or a risk.

She still was.

She slid on a pair of tight jeans and a sweater. Well, not just any sweater, but one that had been Allie’s from the costume department, one that Cherise had decided to “borrow,” a sweater people might recognize as belonging to or being a knockoff of one Allie had worn in a famous scene where she’d pulled it slowly over her head while straddling her male lead on a picnic table.

Yep. Memorable.

Riley or Reed or Randy had noticed. The sweater was definitely an ice-breaker and nearly any red-blooded man in America would love to see it pulled off by Allie Kramer, or someone who looked like her, while being straddled.

Ryan or Whoever certainly had been turned on. Nearly came before he’d even kicked off his jeans.

She loved that kind of power over men. Hey, it wouldn’t be bad over women either, a power Allie wielded as if it were her God-given right.

Yeah, she thought, slipping outside without a second glance at the bedroom and the sleeping male within. She was glad Allie Kramer was gone.

Glad, glad, glad! She hoped she never came back. Working for Allie had been like being in some kind of indentured servitude or worse. Cherise had been a slave to Allie’s whims, fantasies, frustrations, and ambitions. The woman had called her at any time day or night and yeah, she paid well, but if you figured out that Cherise had been forced to be available twenty-four/seven, she wondered if she’d even made minimum wage.

All for the sake of being the “fabulous, beautiful, incredible Allie Kramer’s” assistant. Well, no more.

She took the stairs and stepped outside to the vibrance and pulse of the city at night. Now that she’d let loose some of her frustrations, she wasn’t ready to call it a night. Not yet.

There was still plenty to do, she thought, the dampness in the air invigorating, the prospect of the rest of her life exciting.

“Mrs. Brandon McNary,” she said aloud. Not for the first time. She loved the sound of it. As long as Allie Kramer didn’t reappear, Cherise figured she had a good shot at making all of her dreams come true. “Mrs. Brandon McNary,” she repeated, a little louder, and tingled inside as she walked on the sidewalk.

She would do anything. Any damned thing, to make certain she became Brandon’s wife. Allie Kramer didn’t stand a chance.

 

S
he walked onto the balcony of the bed and breakfast. From the second story she heard the hustle and bustle of the city and viewed pedestrians walking briskly into the trendy restaurants and unique shops of this section of town. As a car passed on the street below, she narrowed her view to the West Hills, then leaned over the railing to gaze down the side street where the final scene of
Dead Heat
had been filmed, to that very spot where Lucinda Rinaldi had been shot and nearly killed.

A pity about that, she thought. The “accident” had turned out wrong.

In so many ways.

In her mind’s eye she saw them, the two women running. Her skin dimpled with the thrill and the first drops of rain falling from the leaden skies. She imagined the sounds of feet slapping against pavement, the darkened set, the hushed tones, the intensity of the scene and the actress, her heart racing, glancing over her shoulder, making certain . . .

“Sssh.” She sucked in her breath and gripped the railing as she re-created the scene in her mind. A buzz sizzled through her blood again and she fought the urge that seemed to be her ever-present companion.

“Not today.” With an effort she released the rail and stepped backward, across the wet flagstones into her bedroom. Surprised at how wet she was, that her hair was curling around her face, her shoulders drenched, she pulled the French door shut. How long had she been out there? Had anyone seen her? Dear God, she was getting reckless.

Be careful,
she silently warned herself as she stepped into the bathroom where she found a towel and dried her hair and skin, only catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror now and then. She smiled at the brief images. She knew she was drop-dead gorgeous. How many times had she been told as much?

Still toweling her hair, she returned to the bedroom, dropped onto the thick duvet covering the bed, and saw the picture, one she’d placed so carefully near her pillows. The three of them were walking. A much younger Jenna Hughes was crossing an LA street with her daughters, holding each of their hands.

Her heart hardened as she noticed again that while Jenna was dragging the older one, who had turned to look at a puppy on a leash, she was half bent down to listen to what the younger girl was saying.

This snapshot taken by a member of the paparazzi said it all.

Sisters. As if they cared for each other. As if they had some special bond. Ridiculous. She knew all about sisters.

A slow-growing rage overtook her and she felt hot inside. Her lips tightened, her jaw ached. Her head pounded and her thoughts turned dark. Again. No matter how hard she wanted to kill it, the fury within was a dark seed that had sprouted, grown, and twisted itself over her heart for so many years now.

Beginning to shake, she spied a tube of lipstick on the table. Blood red. Though she knew it was a little crazy, she succumbed to her anger, flipped off the top of the tube, and smeared it across the glass, marring Jenna’s well-known features. In her haste the picture dropped.

Glass shattered.

A spiderweb of cracks formed over the threesome.

Allie’s face was obliterated by the broken glass.

Something within her broke.

Still trembling, she carefully used the lipstick to moisten her lips, then picked up a shard of glass from the table and ever so slowly sliced across her wrist. As a drop of blood appeared she squeezed her hand into a fist and it fell. First one. Then another. And another. Dripping over the photograph until the people in the shot were covered in her blood and unrecognizable.

She felt a lump in her throat as she whispered, “It’s all an act.”

 

It was well after dark when Cassie drove to the motel. Once in her room, she bought a ticket to LA on the Internet. Then the next morning, she headed to the airport where she said good-bye to the Nissan at the rental car return.

Once she was through security, she found a relatively quiet spot in Concourse B and stopped to dial her mother.

“Hello?” Jenna answered anxiously before the phone could ring a second time. Cassie’s gut twisted as she realized her mother was sitting by the phone, half freaking out while waiting for news of her girls.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Cassie!” Jenna’s voice actually cracked. “For the love of God, I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m fine, Mom.” A lie. She felt like a heel for not returning her mother’s calls earlier.

“Doctor Sherling said you left the hospital.”

“True.”
Here we go.

“She couldn’t talk to me too much about it because of all the legalities involved, but it sounded as if she wasn’t sure you should be released.”

“I know. But I’m fine.” The image of the nurse in the white uniform floated through her mind. Real? Or imagined?
Real, damn it. Rinko gave you the earring!

“I hope so.”

“Has there been any word on Allie?” she asked, and mentally crossed her fingers.

“No.” Jenna couldn’t hide the sadness in her voice.

“What about the police? Do they have any leads?”

“None that they’re sharing.”

“Can’t Shane get info?” she asked as other travelers rolled bags past her on the way to their gates. “I mean, he
was
the sheriff.”

“Not on the force any longer. Just Joe Citizen.”

“But, doesn’t he know someone who will talk to him?”

There was a slight hesitation and then, “You know Shane, everything by the book.”

In her mind’s eye, Cassie saw the man who was her stepfather. Tall and kind of rugged-looking with a thick dark mustache and eyes that didn’t miss anything. “This might be a time when he ignores the rules.”

“There’s just nothing to tell.”

“That sucks,” she said, moving into the pedestrian traffic.

A voice behind her asked, “Excuse me, is this the A Concourse?”

Cassie glanced over her shoulder to spy a woman who appeared to be in her late seventies or early eighties. A tiny, birdlike thing dressed in layers that included a down vest, she was peering at Cassie intently through magnified glasses that made her eyes appear owlish. She was holding a boarding pass in one hand and the handle of a tapestry-print roller bag with the other.

“This is C.”

“Not A?” Gray eyebrows knitted as the older woman struggled to keep up with her.

Cassie pointed down the wide corridor. “A’s over there. Past security, and the restaurant.” Into the phone, she said, “Just a second, Mom.”

“You’re sure?” the woman asked, biting the edge of her lip. “I’m going to Seattle to see my great-grandson. Just born two weeks ago. I don’t want to miss my flight.” Her expression changed. “You look familiar, oh, I know, like that actress . . . oh, what’s her name?”

“Jenna Hughes,” Cassie said automatically. She’d heard the same remark time and time again. No one remembered her endeavors, but her mother was a different story.

“That’s who it is!” She stared at Cassie long and hard. “A shame about her. So much tragedy in her life.” She clucked her tongue as they passed a kiosk filled with University of Oregon Ducks clothing and paraphernalia. “Now I see it. Concourse A and B. Thank you!”

With a wave of the hand clutching the boarding pass, she hurried off, joining the flow of other travelers pulling roller bags and hauling large totes toward the A Concourse.

“Cassie? Where are you?” Jenna demanded, an edge of panic in her voice. “The airport.”

She’d hoped to keep that tidbit of information under wraps. For now. “Look, Mom, I gotta go. I’m fine.”

“What’re you doing at the airport?”

“I’m going home.”

“But your home’s here . . . no, wait a minute. You’re heading to LA?”

“I need my car and personal things,” Cassie said as she threaded through the throng milling around security on her way to her gate.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

No, I’m not positive of anything.
“Pretty sure.”

A beat. “I would’ve come with you.”

That’s just what you need. Jenna wringing her hands, coming up with different ideas, her worry infecting you.
“Aren’t you in the middle of production of a play or something?” Ever since moving to Oregon, Jenna had helped out at the local theater, which Cassie thought was about as boring as it could get. Putting on plays in Falls Crossing, Oregon?

“Cassie,” her mother reproached.

“And you’d have to leave Shane—”

“Cassie!” More sharply this time. “Nothing’s more important than you and Allie, you know that.”

She did know it, but right now, it wasn’t enough. “Look Mom, I’m about out of battery for the phone. I’ll call you once I touch down and power up.”

“Cassie—”

“Later.” She clicked off. She didn’t have time to deal with Jenna or anyone else, for that matter. She was going to LA. Alone. And damn it, she was going to get some answers about her missing sister.