by Nenny May
“I can’t take even half of the praise.” There was a sincere adoration in Amanda’s voice. Annabelle couldn’t miss it. “You’re the reason for this, don’t cheat yourself from it. It was your idea to retrace the victim’s steps. You rallied Frank and I off our butts, you made this happen, Dawson.”
She rose her head, lips wobbling. She couldn’t let that stubborn tear slip. Her breathing steadied.
“Thank you,” She scooched closer to Amanda and pulled her into a hug. It had been years since she’d had someone openly praise her for her hard work. Sure, there was Chase, but he didn’t count. He was her brother, her blood, he was always going to praise her.
She only wished Frank could have come along. Now more than ever, she wanted her team back together. She couldn’t eat her cake and have it.
The chairs at her table were drawn and Simon Neil, pursued by three other members of Channel Six’s board of directors joined her and Amanda.
“You would not imagine the hold up on Laurel Avenue this morning, cars lined every side of the damn street.” Casting Director Kelly Sullivan said. She was a lean woman with alabaster skin and faux blonde hair. She’d thrown on an over-the-top halter ruffles hem-high slit evening dress. She’d taken the seat closest to Annabelle Dawson, leaving Simon Neil to take the one opposite the reporter whose story had earned the studio the opportunity to celebrate.
Annabelle wondered if they were going to call her out and nominate her as one of the studio’s brightest minds? She couldn’t deny it any longer, she deserved it. Certainly, in the beginning, she’d been sitting on her butt, days from being flung from the only job she’d known in this small town, but now… things had changed. She had changed, she worked harder, smarter and she deserved to be named the studio's brightest mind!
“You’re telling me, I drove here in my Mercedes and some idiot pulling out nearly reared me.” Jack Carlton, the Studio Director said. He’d occupied the seat by Amanda. He was about Annabelle’s age. He’d adorned a plain suit, from the looks of it, it was Armani. She’d never met him personally, but she’d heard from Frank, the thirty-year-old had gotten to his position through his father’s influence. His father, George Carlton, the owner of the Studio founded in May of 1992 hadn’t been present for the gala… She hadn’t intended to believe what Frank had whispered about the elderly George, but in his absence, she was finding it less difficult to believe.
According to Frank, the man was on his death bed, he’d been strapped there by an STD, a present from one too many illicit affairs.
“Guys, let’s focus on why we’re all here today.” Annabelle straightened in her seat at Simon Neil’s words. Was he going to brag about her in the presence of his team? She wriggled her hands beneath the table. Amanda turned to her. It was subtle, the way the woman had reached for Annabelle’s hand, the one closest to her. She gave it an encouraging squeeze. Simon Neil boasting about her would mean as much as a being named Brightest Mind! “Our collective efforts in this studio. No particular member got us her, but we did it because we worked as a team and we deserve this gathering.” Her shoulders fell. She could feel Amanda’s eyes on her. Her face was haggard with worry.
Annabelle rose to her feet. “Annabelle wait!” Amanda called after her. She didn’t have it in her to return to that table. She was the reason for that gathering. SHE! Not anyone else. She couldn’t deny that if Simon Neil hadn’t pushed her, she wouldn’t have thought out of the box, but she had! And she deserved to be recognized in the presence of the board.
A hand wrapped around her wrist. She whirled, about ready for the man or woman behind her to meet her knuckles. “Woah, where’s the golden-girl off too?” Chase smiled. She bit down on her cheek. This wasn’t the time. She desperately wished he would take the hint. Her world was crumbling before her eyes and he was here! He would be a witness to the humiliation that would tint her skin…She swallowed dryly unable to wet her parched throat.
She forced a breath through her lungs and took in the woman that clung to his arm. She was nothing like any other woman Chase had introduced her to. For one, she had flesh and color as opposed to the pale anorexic-looking models he lunged for. “Anna, there’s someone I would like you to meet.” The woman loosened her grip on Chase and reached out an amber hand. “I’m Naomi, Olson.” The woman said confidently. Annabelle scrutinized the woman. Not only did she have exquisite taste in outfits, but her hair also had Annabelle’s eyes broadening. A stretched bed of thick curls. She could see now why her bother hadn’t been able to shut up about her.
“I’m Annabelle—”
“The woman of the hour.” Chase added confidently. It stung that she’d invited him thinking people were going to be talking about her efforts, this was going to be like the time she’d thought she was going to be named valedictorian in college and she’d bragged about it to Chase, but she was just another distinctive student.
“I wish,” She shrugged biting back the urge to burst into a blubbery mess.
“Don’t go being humble, Chase has told me all about your work,” She forced a smile for the woman.
“Annabelle,” Amanda called. She’d been pushing through clustered bodies to join her, Chase, and Naomi by the ‘Channel Six’ sculptures. “Don’t listen to what those stuck-up assholes at the table have to say, you cannot deem your worth from people who are unhappy in their jobs, people who have worked years and couldn’t do what you did in days.” Amanda said firmly, giving little concern to the people Annabelle had been conversing with.
“I know,” Annabelle nodded willing Amanda to return to the table. She didn’t take the hint.
“You’ve worked too hard to be cheated out of what you deserve, Anna. And Simon Neil is an idiot for not seeing it, everyone at that damn table is a fool for not seeing your efforts.” She’d lost the battle, the single tear she’d been bottling, slid down her rosy cheek.
Thoughtlessly, she wrapped Amanda in a hug. Even if she didn’t get named Brightest Mind, even if no one else saw her worth, she appreciated being there, at that gala with her friend and her brother.
The music stopped. Heads snapped towards the stage; the microphone hissed like claws against a blackboard. Annabelle pulled away from Amanda and winced. Hadn’t they done sound checks? Where was the sound engineer Nikola Mallery at a time like this? How could he have let this slip by him? “Everybody get down!” Annabelle recognized the voice. She could bet everyone in the room recognized the voice. She straightened, her eyes on Lucy Wilkens.
Dressed for the occasion in a cream sequin high neck open back mini dress, Annabelle recognized an accessory she could bet her competitor hadn’t picked off the rack.
She was wearing a suicide vest. They were all going to die.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paul Campbell felt a rage simmering within him. Sparked from his restless mind, he could feel it. The tingle it sent to his fingertips. He pushed through the door marked employees only. It creaked. Had it done that before? Opened with an almost human shriek? He wasn’t sure. Partly because at the time he’d been jerked through it by an agitated Susanne the night prior, dust had rained down his busted knuckles.
Who the hell was the man in the flannel shirt? Had that been a parlor trick? Paul had seen magicians in Vegas before. Not with Blake Campbell. He’d tried time without number to tug her from a town that longed for her lifeless corpse. Each time, he’d failed woefully. He’d been to Vegas with Claire—the real one. He couldn’t rid his mind of their trip to the circus in Illinois where everything was a trick, an illusion that could get a little… In your face…
He had his doubts. The dust… Claire… they all had to be in his head somehow.
Naked feet tapped against the cool maple floorboards, lips parting in a yawn. Even the insulation on the floors had worn out… The business would be doomed to go under if something wasn’t done to the place.
American angels was bare, hollow.
And even still, he wasn’t alone. He could feel her standing over h
im. Claire… He couldn’t see her. He didn’t want to see her. Though he was weak to the breath fanning the back of his neck. She really didn’t have any sense of personal space…
He flexed and a hand rubbing the back of his neck, easing out the stiffness a nap on a stained couch had incurred. Could he call that a nap? He’d merely blinked and the sun had come out to play.
His lips parted, his voice; mute. He’d choked on his words to her. What had he intended to tell her? To crawl back down to the hell, she crept from? She wasn’t real. Yet he was powerless in her presence.
Had this been what Blake had endured? His father lurking over her shoulder his demands ceaseless. She’d tried to make it work, to give in to his desires and the media had further ripped apart what was left of her reputation.
He swallowed and gazed wordlessly at the local bar. Blue-green eyes prancing about the open space by the line of chairs and tables and booths. Empty of violent alcoholics, horny single women in tight dresses hiked up, and sweaty bodies rubbing against each other, arms sloping around necks and asses groped and clutched, American Angel’s wasn’t a small bar. The counter alone seemed to stretch longer than he’d initially predicted. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the place without the hefty evening crowd, women pressed against the men that were only there for the night. But it was the first time he’d focused on it. The last he’d been there alone; he’d made a decision he craved to reverse. He’d crashed his body hard and urgently against a voluptuous bartender. It was a one-off mistake. One that could cost him his four-year relationship with his wife-to-be. He had no interest in repeating it.
Why then couldn’t he seem to shrug the woman that prowled behind him?
He frowned. This wasn’t the time to let her consume him. Peering instead from the perspective of a carpenter, he had his work cut out for him. He was giddy. It had been too long since he’d poured himself into a project of this magnitude. He was hazy with desire, fingers itching to get dirty. Not only would he have to peel the Walnut strips off the wall, but he would also have to do something about the glacial floors. He couldn’t do it for free. A job this intense required more than just his time and sweat. He would invest a quarter of his savings into it and whatever profit he made, it would be reinvested in the wedding.
The Walnut walls weren’t standoffish against the white marble bar top. It was a perfect blend with the maple slats beneath his feet. He could see himself working with something similar. Alder perhaps.
Campbell’s House of Timber would have been the ideal supplier for quality Alder planks. However, since the business drowned, he hadn’t bothered to assess the startups that popped up in its place.
Claire moved to a chair at the back of the room. He stiffened. She was still there. He’d heard it, the screeching of wooden chairs' legs scraping against the floor. His head nearly jolting in that direction. She wasn’t real, he reminded himself. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the morning sun that had been pouring in through the display windows.
Dark polished Walnut beckoned him. He’d caved. Ten steps and he was between the door and the display window. Fingers running over the chipped edges. They were rugged as if someone had tried to bark them off by hand. Assholes! They couldn’t even maintain the careless handiwork.
“As if you could do a better job,” Claire huffed. She couldn’t seem to mind her own damn business. Perhaps she and the real Claire Fisher had something in common. Neither understood the concept of keeping their nose out of places it didn’t belong.
He could as a matter of fact do a better job. All those field trips across the country with Campbell’s House of Timber to their client’s homes overlooking the installation hadn’t been for nothing. He’d tucked beneath his sleeve a thing or two about woodwork and Susanne was his window to flaunt it. American Angels was going to be his practice dummy.
Since Christopher Campbell died, Paul had tried running the crumbling firm. Young and critically unqualified, Paul had assumed the position of CEO and led Campbell’s House of Timber to its grave. Helpless in a void, a cavernous abyss of hope snatched by blunt force and a swirling obscurity; how was he with no business experience to save a dying company? The question had taunted him like a math equation he just couldn’t solve. He’d been a second pair of eyes in countless fittings, always behind the scenes with Christopher Campbell after a dreary day. How had he fallen short when push came to shove? He couldn’t make sense of it.
He stared at his reflection, dull on the display window for a few moments. His eyes a slender blue-green, frantic beneath furrowed unruly eyebrows. He hated his eyes. A blend of both his parents. It wasn’t a single color and as a kid, he’d always been a liar when it came to his eyes. If he told his classmates it was blue, they would argue, it was green. It wasn’t green. His lips had been set in a thin line, his chiseled jaw, clenched.
“I can’t do it,” His head felt light, fingers curled. He wanted her gone. It was driving him nuts. Having her over his shoulder. Listening. Breathing. Moving. But what in God’s name was he going to do to rid himself of the character his brain concocted?
A click and a jingle, his eyes broadened.
Murder was out of the question. He longed for peace of mind. It wasn’t to the point of taking someone else’s life. Blake hadn’t killed anyone to stray away from the voice of his father. Tillamook had made her a laughingstock.
“You like having me around, don’t you?” Her voice was confident. He shook his head. He couldn’t tell where she was. That was new. He could always see her when she spoke. He peered over his shoulder. She wasn’t by the chair at the back of the room. The chairs were unaltered, untouched. If anything, she’d felt… closer.
He couldn’t live like this.
He stood, immobile, glaring at the door as it was pushed open.
“Get out.” He growled, a wave of fury crashing through him. It was short-lived. Regret washed over him almost immediately. His words weren’t meant for her. She’d been nothing but nice, he’d been idiotic. Impulsive. He’d given little thought to his outburst.
“Good morning to you to,” Susanne said grumpily shoving him aside. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her features; she’d had her head hung low as she made her way over to the counter. She’d walked swiftly and away from him, flinging her tote bag onto the marble bar top. It landed with a thud and slumped. “Look,” She turned to him. “I don’t know what your problem is, Paul. I tried to get it, your mother just died and you have been in a pissy fucking mood.” She took in a sharp breath. “And I don’t know how taking it out on me is going to help. But I sure as hell wouldn’t stand for it.” He nodded saying nothing.
She was gone. Claire.
Weakness churned disturbingly in his stomach. Of course, she was gone. She never existed, to begin with. “And I here I was thinking about your situation.” But Susanne did. She was real. And she was angry, a vortex of anger flickering in her eyes.
He’d caused that.
“I’m sorry.” Paul Campbell forced. His brows snapped together. He scrutinized the maple floors. He’d been sorry for too long. Sorry that his mother had to pass away in such a tragic manner, sorry that he’d cheated on his fiancé and abandoned her. And sorry that he’d lashed out on Susanne. She wasn’t the target of his agitation. Claire was… well, not the real Claire… the one his mind fabricated to plague him. That Claire.
His mother had been dead days, not up to a week, murdered, yet it felt like an eternity. How was he to put up with an indefinite investigation? “Youwereaboutthinkingme?” The words tumbled out, rushed, scattered. He tried again, slower, fingers clenched at his sides.
“Yes, because I’m an idiot,” She was behind the counter, reaching for her apron on a hook. She’d thrown on a dress that fell flowing to her knees. It was bright, colorful like a summer afternoon. “I felt bad for you. I just wanted help the troubled Campbell kid…” Troubled Campbell kid… as if he hadn’t heard that enough growing up. Tillamook Times had branded him with the nickna
me.
To this day, the thought of the newspaper had a wrath searing through him.
“You read the articles, didn’t you?” He internally winced at the tremble in his voice.
What the fuck!
He cleared his throat. Certainly, recalling the articles, the stories hit close to home, but that wasn’t enough to render him vulnerable… was it?
She had her back to him, arms behind her, fingers looping the string of the apron tightly over her firm petite ass. In a flutter of a second, she was bent over, his tongue claiming her skin, he was relishing in the gentle shudder of her body as he drew closer to her core. She’d been his for what seemed to be a glorious mistake, and he didn’t have a choice other than shoving memories of her bare-cheeks into a never-to-be-touched-drawer.
“How couldn’t I, you’re not exactly unknown, Paul. You’re on almost every news channel. You’re on the papers and even on the radio they’re debating your state.” His lips parted. This… all of it… was his childhood all over again coming back to bite him in the rear-end, and he was sick to his stomach. How had Blake put up with this? She’d only been dead days and they were using him to replace her. Shoving him into the glare of the red light they’d shone on her. Eyes probing for the slightest sign of a slip-up on his part. “And don’t say it’s because of the way your mother died. Newspapers knew about you long before she was …murdered.” He knew that. The papers couldn’t find it in themselves to leave him, an innocent child out of his mother’s scandals. She’d made her decisions, uncharacteristic, but they were her choices.