by Lisa Jackson
She dropped her towel.
Somehow, some way, she was going to find Allie.
Then the little princess could eat her words.
CHAPTER 10
Jenna felt a sudden chill, as if a ghost had just walked over her soul.
It was silly really, but as she stepped into the attic and snapped on the light, she went cold inside. It was night, Shane was working in the den downstairs and she needed time alone. To think. To consider her life. To silently pray that her daughters were safe. She’d used the excuse of looking for her grandmother’s recipe box, lost when it had been packed away during the kitchen remodel.
The attic was cold, its sloped ceiling uninsulated, the sharp tips of roofing nails visible between the rafters. One of the light bulbs had burned out, leaving just one small bulb to illuminate the vast space with its dormers and peek-a-boo windows. She pulled her sweater around her body a little more tightly. Here, she thought, was the detritus of her life, the pieces and things that no longer fit into her daily routine.
Boxes, broken tables, a broken lamp, pictures and frames stacked in a corner. The wind was blowing hard outside, whistling through the rafters in this section of the rambling old house, one of the few places she hadn’t renovated over the years. She ran a finger across the edge of a box, felt the dust collect on her skin and saw a bookcase filled with old electronic equipment and wires connected to nothing. Here were stashed the remnants of her life, boxes of possessions from her school days, college, and her marriage to Robert, things she’d never had the heart nor time to dispose of. Each of her children, too, had a collection of papers, trophies, clothes, books, and toys that had settled in the attic for years.
The scratch of tiny claws suggested she wasn’t alone and she scanned the ceiling for bats, then avoided the darkest corners that could be home for mice or rats or squirrels, even raccoons.
Not exactly the most peaceful or comfortable place to think. She dusted off an old rocker wedged between two stacks of plastic cartons and sat, letting the chair sway of its own accord. She’d rocked her babies in this very rocker, now forgotten and stained. She thought of her children and worried about them. Tears burned the back of her eyes as she saw a picture of Allie, distorted slightly in the dim light, her image just visible through the side of the plastic bin. She’d been around eight, her adult front teeth just showing through her gums, her smile wide and still innocent. Jenna moved some of the boxes, then opened the tub to extract Allie’s second grade school picture. Allie had been such an awkward girl at the time, an innocent if introverted kid who had no idea the beauty she’d become.
“Oh, baby,” Jenna whispered, her throat thick, the frigid air in the room burrowing deep into her bones. “Where are you?” Sniffling, she looked up to this attic where Allie had played as a child, where she’d hidden or built a fort or spent hours reading. Alone.
What had happened to change things so?
A divorce, yes, to Allie’s ultimate bewilderment.
A move that she didn’t comprehend. Both she and Cassie had loved LA and hadn’t understood Jenna’s reasons for taking her children to a place she thought safer, a ranch in Oregon out of the fast-paced life, the glitter of Hollywood.
Then in Oregon came a monster. A deranged fan who had terrorized them all.
Also a stepfather she’d accepted if not embraced.
And a sister. Older. More rebellious. One who required most of Jenna’s attention. Cassie and Allie’s relationship had always been strained and it had only gotten worse, much worse, after the attack ten years ago.
She shuddered at the thought of the madman who had killed senselessly and brutally, then set his sights on Jenna and her girls. Cassie had not only lost her boyfriend, but nearly her own life and had been traumatized, nearly committed at that time. Jenna had focused on getting her daughter mentally well and in the process, she now assumed, ignored her younger, more serious and stable daughter. Had the rift begun then? At the time Allie’s relationship with her father was nearly nonexistent and Jenna had been wrapped in guilt about inadvertently putting Cassie’s life in danger. Looking back, she had probably ignored Allie’s wants and needs, or at least put them beneath Cassie’s. And then there was the fact that Cassie had been much more popular with the boys. Probably her irreverent attitude had attracted them like flies, while bookish, “I’m bored” Allie hadn’t gotten a second glance. She’d matured late and always, Jenna had sensed, envied her sister’s appeal to the opposite sex. Being Cassie Kramer’s younger sister in school had resulted in a grudge that hadn’t eased with time, not even when the tables had turned as adults and Allie had been lavished with all of the attention once she’d been “discovered” in Hollywood.
But childhood despairs ran deep. Never completely evaporated. She knew it herself.
Deeper in the plastic tub she found the stuffed elephant that had been Allie’s “go to” cuddle toy as a toddler and into school. Jenna smiled and stroked the once-blue trunk, while noticing one of the eyes was missing and there was a rip in the seam of the elephant’s belly.
She remembered telling her girls to clean out their rooms and haul all their things up to the attic during the remodel of the bedroom wing. Apparently this box was never retrieved and returned to Allie’s room. Like so many things, she thought.
Footsteps heralded Shane’s approach.
“Jenna?” he called up the stairs. The first step creaked with his weight. “You up here?”
“Coming,” she said, and reluctantly left the old rocker with its memories behind. She hesitated for a moment beneath the single burning bulb and cast one final look around, all the while thinking of her daughters.
“Please,” she prayed under her breath as she clicked off the light, “wherever they are, keep them safe.”
ACT II
In her darkened room she waited impatiently. She’d intended to leave earlier, but remembered the television program, so she’d lingered.
Lying on the mussed bed, a half-drunk glass of chardonnay on the nearby table, she reached for the television remote, which lay on the night stand. The scratch on her wrist was still purplish red where she’d run the edge of the broken glass across her skin. Lips twisting, she switched on the TV just as Justice: Stone Cold was being aired. In tonight’s edition, there was supposed to be a teaser for future programming, all concerning the disappearance of Allie Kramer.
She waited as the advertisements tried vainly to sell her products. “Come on, come on,” she said, her eyes narrowing, her patience running thin.
Suddenly, big as life, a head shot of Allie Kramer, the start of a trailer for Dead Heat.
Her insides clenched and she felt a little frisson of anticipation.
The clip from the movie started with a close up of Allie playing the character of Shondie Kent, first her full face, then moving to one hazel eye where a bit of refracted light showed in her pupil. Finally, as if through Shondie’s vision, the tiny spot of light became larger, filling the screen with blurry images that sharpened into the scene of two frantic women running through the rain-washed streets of Portland, Oregon, panic and fear evident in their expressions.
The mood was dark.
Eerie.
Nearly perfect.
Craaack!
A gun went off.
The second woman stumbled as the scene faded to black.
Watching spellbound, she felt a deep sense of satisfaction. No one would ever guess how it happened, how the bullets in the prop gun had been exchanged, and who was the real target. She took a sip from her wine. That part, the mistake with the victim, still bothered her. Needed to be fixed.
On the screen, the scene changed again and the earnest and beautiful face of investigative reporter Whitney Stone appeared. Her hair was dark, cut at a sharp angle, her eyes large and sincere, her chin pointed and her attitude one of incredible concern. She started speaking intimately into the camera’s lens.
For the truth.
For justice.
For the public’s right to know!
Even better.
Whitney promised a complete exposé on what really happened to Allie Kramer. Was the wildly popular actress alive or dead? Or maybe being held captive? Used as some kind of sex slave? Or bargaining chip? Or was this all an elaborate publicity stunt foisted on the American public by Galactic West Productions, the company that had produced the movie? Too many questions had no answers, but Whitney Stone vowed to uncover and dissect the truth for her viewers during Mystery Week on the cable station on which her program aired. What more intriguing mystery could there be than what had happened to America’s Darling, Allie Kramer?
“America’s Darling?” Like Allie was Shirley Temple or Sandra Bullock or Reese Witherspoon or whoever the current sweetheart of the week was?
Her insides curled.
Even though Whitney Stone’s interest was all part of the plan.
Stone insisted that in following installments what had happened to Allie Kramer would become crystal clear.
Now, she picked up her stemmed glass and twirled it in her fingers. Staring through the clear liquid, she viewed the television and the distorted image of Whitney Stone’s face. Perfect. She took a sip.
Stone was gazing so intently into the camera and reminding viewers that the star of Dead Heat, Allie Kramer not only had gone missing, but her disappearance had occurred just ten years after she and her sister, Cassie, as well was their mother, Jenna Hughes, had survived a horrific and brutal attack.
Pictures of the three women filled the screen.
Her fingers tightened over the stem of her glass.
Whitney Stone posed the questions:
Was this Hollywood family cursed?
Was another psychotic fan on the loose?
Could Jenna and her daughters never find a “normal” or “peaceful” life?
“Of course not,” she said to the flat screen. Another sip as anger sparked deep inside.
A montage of pictures rolled across the screen, short clips of Jenna Hughes in her starring roles. For a few seconds Jenna Hughes became Anne Parks in Resurrection. One by one, there were more quick tidbits, glimpses of other roles Jenna had played as the heroines of Beneath the Shadows and Bystander. Then, to top off the collage, the last clip was of Jenna as a naive teen in Innocence Lost, the movie destined to become an overnight success and elevate her to stardom.
The screen suddenly split and Jenna’s image filled one half, while Allie Kramer, at around the same age, was on the other. Both mother and daughter had been catapulted to fame, as teens at the center of a darkly sexual coming-of-age film.
The comparison was obvious. Though Allie couldn’t pass for her mother—too many of her father’s genes were evident in her features—the resemblance to Jenna Hughes was noticeable.
Watching the quick little clips, she felt her insides churn. She barely heard Whitney Stone’s promise of a soon-to-be-aired “explosive interview” that would “shatter” the image of the reclusive Jenna Hughes and her family. A family portrait of Jenna, Cassie, and Allie came into view and as the camera zoomed in closer, Whitney Stone’s voiceover assured the viewers that, “The daughters of Jenna Hughes are not who they seem to be!”
“No shit,” she whispered, alone in the dark room. Anger coursed through her veins and her jaw hardened. She watched the image of Jenna and her daughters fade into individual pictures, first Jenna, then Cassie, and finally the missing Allie, before they slowly vanished from sight.
That damned bitch, Whitney Stone, pulled the teaser off beautifully. Perfectly. Stirring the pot, adding to the mystery surrounding the Kramer sisters and promising a full-blown exposé on the secretive little family. Whetting the viewers’ appetites for more info on Allie Kramer’s disappearance, Whitney Stone had also created the illusion that she was actually the star, a heroine fighting for truth and justice.
Because Whitney Stone knew far more than she was telling.
She clicked the television off and silently congratulated herself for a job well done. The wheels had been set into motion. And it was just the beginning. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headboard of the bed and tried to calm herself. Her headache pounded painfully, the demons inside hitting their sharp fists against her skull, demanding to be set free. “No,” she said aloud. But, oh how they wanted to get loose. She’d named them. Pride and Invincibility were the most vociferous, their talons scraping through her gray matter. But their companion, Fury, deep-seated and ever growing, was the worst. Fury would be her downfall, she’d been told by more than one shrink. Fury would push her over the edge of sanity.
She thought about a drive along the coast. Something to calm the nerves. Wine hadn’t helped and she could drink a little more, but then she’d be over the edge and she couldn’t afford to lose her perspective.
The need inside her grew, began to thrum, a desire to hunt. She told herself to fight the feeling, that this kind of obsession was what the psychiatrists had warned her about, but her whole body ached to do something, anything to scratch the insidious itch. And why not?
She’d already picked out who would be the perfect victim, who would play her part.
The shrinks she’d seen would disapprove. “Tsk. Tsk.”
A half-smile played across her lips and she opened her eyes to the thick darkness. “Save me,” she whispered to the empty room and then laughed out loud.
The doctors were idiots.
She clicked off the TV and changed, then headed out the door. Cool air brushed her skin as she found her vehicle and, driving through the deserted streets of the city, she headed west.
She was keyed up. Eager. Her nerve endings alive. Adrenaline pumping through her veins.
It was dangerous being out where someone might see her, where a traffic cam, security camera, or even the camera app on a cell phone of someone who, like she, was up so late, but she didn’t care. The night was thick, clouds gathering overhead. The closer she got to the ocean, the freer she felt. She rolled down all of the windows, letting the scent of the sea into the car’s interior.
She felt tense.
Needy.
The wind tugged at her hair. She should feel free. Exhilarated. But she didn’t. Deep inside, anxiety roiled, coupling with a base, dark, and pulsing need, a desire she couldn’t fight much longer. Whether she admitted it to herself or not, she was on the hunt. It felt good, yet scared her to death. That’s where the rush came into it. She licked her lips in anticipation and hated herself for it.
Few cars passed her, their headlights glaring, but she didn’t think she’d be recognized as they flew past. No one was looking for her at this late hour. No one knew, and that gave her power, the fact that she was inconspicuous.
It also ground her guts.
Finally she reached the beach. With her first glimpse of the dark waters of the Pacific she considered driving up the PCH, catching views of the ocean. Maybe then she’d calm down. Maybe then she could tamp down her secret urges. Maybe the serenity of the ocean would help her fight the warring feelings of Invincibility and Frustration.
Of course it was too late.
She knew it as her fingers gripped the wheel, and the roar of the surf reached her ears. She was already on the search and, deep down, in that dark place in her psyche she didn’t like to acknowledge, it felt damned good to finally be doing something, to start assuaging the ache that drove her.
The soothing waters of the Pacific stretched darkly to an invisible horizon, but it didn’t matter.
Rain began to sprinkle on the windshield, a few drops falling into the interior. As she reached upward to reluctantly close the sunroof, she caught a glimpse of her eyes in the rearview mirror, eyes so like her mother’s.
She didn’t want to go there, not now. Not when she was already on the hunt. But there was no stopping the burn in her stomach and the taste of bile rising in her throat when she thought of her patchwork of a family, sewn together but always falling apart.
/> It was all that bitch’s fault.
CHAPTER 11
Ineesha Sallinger knew she should never have agreed to meet with Sig Masters. The man was a mess. A complete, bumbling mess. Or worse. A damned freak show. She had to distance herself from him. So, the sooner she could get out of his dump of a house tonight, the better.
“It’s your fault,” he was saying for the fourth—or was it the fifth?—time since they’d agreed to meet at Sig’s house, which was kind of a dump, really, at this god-awful hour in the morning. Five AM, because she had a meeting with her trainer at six and a full day stretched out in front of her?
So she’d agreed to come to this . . . fixer-upper. Sure the house was in LA, and that was something, she supposed, but it was tiny, probably no more than eight hundred square feet, enough for Sig and his damned dogs, built in that cute Old California Spanish style, but it was going to seed. Not that Sig wasn’t trying to improve it. There were ladders and paint buckets and sheets of plastic creating new walls or taking the place of old ones, she couldn’t really tell which. It was weird, that was all, and Sig, almost chain-smoking, was angry, upset, and a physical wreck. He looked like he’d dropped fifteen pounds since the last day of filming for Dead Heat. Ineesha was always impressed when someone was able to peel off some weight, but in Sig’s case, it was a tad too much.
“My fault,” she repeated, picking her way between paint cans and nearly stepping on some little fluff of fur that growled at her. God, the dog couldn’t weigh five pounds, but it snarled and snapped as if it thought it was an alpha wolf. “How’s that?”
He picked up the growling little beast and petted its tiny head. It was comical, really, this tall man, over six-two, gently stroking the mottled Chihuahua or whatever it was. “You were in charge of the props. They were your responsibility! Now the cops . . . they think I did it. Oh, fuck, I did do it, but I didn’t mean to.” He drew hard on his cigarette. Set the dog down. It scuttled away to peer out between the sheets of Visqueen suspiciously. “Lucinda Rinaldi?” he asked, as if Ineesha didn’t know who the woman was. “She’s going to sue me. Well, probably you, too.”