by Lisa Jackson
Was it? Cassie didn’t think so and there was something smarmy about Whitney that really got under her skin. And wasn’t she based out of Portland? Cassie thought she’d heard that from someone, a producer who had worked on her show. “Why are you in LA?” she asked. And then she got it, everything that wasn’t making sense fell easily into place. “Oh, God, no. You’re here at this park because of me. You found out that I . . .” She was going to say “checked out of the hospital,” but caught herself. Instead she swung her arm in a wide arc to include herself, her car, and the park in general. “How did you know I’d be here?” When Whitney wasn’t quick with an answer, Cassie guessed the answer. “You followed me here? To California? You . . . what? Flew down here? Staked out my place?” Her mind was running now, imagining how the reporter had located her at this random park.
Again she was met with righteous silence, as if Whitney Friggin’ Stone had the right to invade and stomp on her privacy. “I can’t believe it,” Cassie whispered, stunned. It hadn’t been Holly Dennison she’d felt eyeing her at the airport at all. It was the woman standing before her, microphone in hand. Damn! And that silver SUV she’d caught a glimpse of in her rearview mirror? Hadn’t it been identical to the Toyota 4Runner parked a stone’s throw from her own car?
“I called,” Whitney said.
“I got your messages,” Cassie shot back, “but I thought you were in Portland.”
“What does it matter? I’m mobile.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t, matter that is. I don’t have anything to say. No interview.” But it might have already been too late as the goon was filming away, the tiny red light glowing steadily on the shoulder cam.
“But I’ve already started the series.”
“Your problem, not mine.” She turned on the stocky cameraman.
“Don’t film me,” she said. “Did you hear me? I’m serious. Turn the camera off!”
“This is a public park,” Whitney reminded her, as if she were playing by some kind of legal rules.
“Turn it off!”
“Are you afraid to talk to me, Ms. Kramer?” Whitney persisted.
“No.”
“Do you prefer to be called Ms. Kramer or Mrs. Kittle? You’re still legally married to Trent Kittle, right?”
“Leave him out of this,” she said, horrified that Trent’s name had come up. Oh, God, what if this aired? What if he saw the program? She knew that Whitney Stone was already airing segments about Allie. God, what a mess! What if Whitney edited her pieces to make it look like Cassie was somehow a part of Allie’s disappearance? That Trent was? She told herself not to panic, but she felt a wave start to envelop her as the camera kept rolling, catching her doe-in-the-headlights look while Whitney twisted the truth.
“But you are still married to him,” Whitney pressed.
“I don’t want to talk about—”
“And it’s been reported that he was with your sister, Allie Kramer, as well, that his relationship with her is the reason you two separated.”
“There was no relationship between Trent and Allie,” she shot back before biting her tongue. There was an almost imperceptible smile on the reporter’s lips. This had to end.
“But he was seen at her apartment. Alone. During the time she was broken up with Brandon McNary.”
“As I said, I have nothing to say to you.”
“Your marriage failed because of your sister and then she goes missing.”
“For the love of God . . .” Cassie tried to step away.
“Isn’t it true that your sister, your baby sister, was having an affair with your husband?”
“No!” The word felt like acid on her tongue. Whitney Stone was voicing her own darkest fears that Trent, like everyone else in America, had fallen in love with Allie Kramer. She needed to stop talking and end this interview, but the hook had been set and Cassie’s temper, always a problem, took over. “I warned you not to—”
“Warned me not to what?” Whitney asked innocently.
Don’t let her bully you into a confrontation, not more than it is, and do NOT give her what she wants. She’s looking to fan the fires, and she’ll twist your words to make it look like you made Allie disappear in some kind of jealous rage, that maybe you even killed her. She will edit this interview and turn it all back on you. On Allie. On Trent.
“I’m just trying to help,” Whitney wheedled.
This was about ratings and scandal and promoting Whitney Stone’s career!
Cassie withdrew her own phone and hit the camera app. “Then you won’t mind me filming you, like you’re filming me.” She depressed the button to start recording the entire interview, turning the phone’s camera toward the reporter.
“What’re you doing?”
“Just ensuring that your reporting is accurate,” she said, rotating slightly to show the intimidating cameraman before returning to Whitney Stone. “I asked you not to film, and you ignored me. I told you I know nothing more about Allie Kramer’s disappearance, but you kept at me. So I repeat: I don’t have anything to say to you.”
For a moment Whitney looked stunned, but the reporter quickly got hold of her unspooling composure. “Your sister disappeared under suspicious circumstances. You and your family must be devastated.”
“Any questions you have about my sister’s disappearance should be directed to the Portland Police Department. Detective Nash is investigating the case. Now, we’re done.” She moved around the reporter and, with her phone still aimed at Whitney Stone, opened the door of her car.
“You went through a horrific tragedy before, when your mother was stalked by that maniac. You were nearly killed and Allie witnessed—”
“Don’t even go there!”
“It’s part of your history. Of Allie’s history. Certainly of Jenna Hughes’s history, and there’s a new interest in what happened then.”
“No,” Cassie said through clenched teeth. Her darkest fears were coming to light. She couldn’t relive the horror.
“You lost a boyfriend,” Whitney went on, and Cassie felt a numbing cold when she realized the story had already been researched. “He was murdered.”
“I don’t know why you want to bring this up now.”
“Because the public wants to know and they’re going to. I’m doing a report on what happened ten years ago.”
Knowing it would do no good, Cassie couldn’t help herself from begging. “No . . . please. There’s no reason to dredge all that up again.” Images of ice and snow, blood and freezing water, frozen visages of Jenna in her most popular roles sped through her memory. But the image that was most indelibly painted in her mind: Josh, slumped behind the wheel of his truck, a dark oozing gash visible on his throat. She could still hear the loud music pulsing through the frigid night, still recall the pure fear and shock she’d felt.
Her knees threatened to buckle. She felt suddenly cold to the bone as she thought of the madman who’d terrorized them, how close she and Jenna had come to becoming his final victims. She was shaking so badly she leaned against her car for support.
Watching her, Whitney seemed to pull back with genuine concern. “The story about Jenna’s stalker airs this week. I just thought you might want to add something that I could edit in.”
“Go to hell,” Cassie ground out, pulling herself together. “Leave me and my family alone, you bloodsucking bitch.”
“Wait!” Whitney Stone raised a hand. She was irritated as hell, but tried to hide it under a smooth coat of civility. “Okay, I get it, you don’t want to talk to the press, but I just have a few questions. As I said, to help. And really, come on, it’ll be good publicity with the movie coming out in a couple of months.”
Cassie slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ve said all I’m going to.”
Whitney grabbed on to the open driver’s window. “I thought you might want to tell your side of the story. You know, what happened then. What’s happening now. I’m going to run it, you know, as I’ve already star
ted airing my investigation. So, with or without your input the story will air, but I would love to hear what you think, to try and work with you.”
“I have nothing to say.” She jabbed her key into the ignition.
The car started but Whitney was still hanging on. “The police questioned you for hours. You were reportedly the last person to see your sister before she disappeared. And it’s common knowledge that you two had your ups and downs.”
Cassie tried to keep her cool, but the woman was irritating the hell out of her and the cameraman had positioned himself so that if she backed up, she might hit him. “How long have you been following me? How did you know that I’d be here? Now. In this park?”
A tiny muscle worked in the reporter’s jaw. “I was going to talk to you at your house and I got there just as you were leaving so—”
“You know where I live?”
“Of course.”
Cassie mentally reviewed the stops she’d made before landing here. “You followed me to the post office and through the coffee drive-in . . . For God’s sake—” She snapped. “All the way from Portland to LA? You’re unbelievable.” She glanced at the hulk who was blocking her exit. “Get out of my way and leave me the hell alone.” Before waiting for an answer, she shoved her Honda into reverse. “You’d better move,” she told the cameraman.
“I know you want to find out what happened to your sister,” Whitney pleaded. “I do, too.”
“For a story.”
“Maybe we could help each other.”
“Tell your boy there to watch out. I’m not stopping.”
Whitney was still talking as Cassie rolled up her window and eased backward, certain her back tire would roll over the toe of the big galoot’s boot. Well, tough. She kept reversing. At the last second the cameraman moved slightly away, and she kept right on backing up until she could maneuver her car around the bastard. “Idiot,” she muttered under her breath as she tore out of the lot.
She didn’t know if she was talking about Whitney Stone, the man with the shoulder cam, or herself.
CHAPTER 14
“I, um . . . I don’t suppose there’s any word. About Allie Kramer, I mean.” Her eyes wide, the girl behind the antique cash register at the hardware store looked up at Trent expectantly. She had layered red hair, a turned up nose spattered with freckles and braces, and she smiled a bit anxiously as she handed him his sack of nails, his receipt, and change.
“I haven’t heard.” He stood on the worn floorboards at the counter in Bart’s Hardware, an iconic Falls Crossing establishment that had sat on Main Street for over a hundred years. Inside, labyrinthine corridors were lined with shelves that climbed to the ceiling, accessed by dusty, rolling ladders and holding containers of just about any hardware known to man in the past century or two. Some of the tools on display were probably older than the gray-haired men who still played checkers, poker, and traded insults around a wood stove in the barnlike building’s basement.
“So, you don’t know if she’s okay? She’s like a local celebrity, y’know?”
He did. Oh, how he did.
“I mean like a really big star. From here! Can you believe it? Falls Crossing?” She sighed. “Nothing ever happens here, but Allie Kramer grew up here, went to the same schools I did. You know, Harrington? I probably, like, sat in the same desk she did. I saw her picture in one of the old yearbooks. It’s soooo awesome.”
The girl was practically swooning, which was ridiculous when considering Allie Kramer’s personality, which, of course, was at odds with any of her on-screen personas. Allie Kramer was not like any of the heroines she portrayed so convincingly on-screen.
“Yeah,” he agreed, scooping up the change she’d laid on the scarred counter. “But really, I don’t know anything about what happened to her.” He folded the ones into his wallet.
“I thought. I mean, I heard from like everybody, that you’re married to . . .” Her eyebrows pulled together in confusion as if maybe her information was faulty. “You were married to her sister, I thought. Casey.”
“Cassie.”
Her head bobbed in agreement. “Cassie. She was in some movies, too, I think. I never saw any of them.”
Not a lot of people had, he thought.
“I watched Whitney Stone, y’know? She’s reporting on it on TV, but—” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “She didn’t really say anything. So you don’t know what happened to her? Allie, I mean.” Disappointment clouded her big eyes.
How many times did he have to say it? He slid his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s right.” He smiled through clenched teeth. The girl at the counter meant no harm—she was just curious—but he was sick to death of questions about Allie’s disappearance, his estranged wife, her mental condition, and the whole damned circus surrounding both of them. For the love of Christ, he’d even gotten calls from the press himself, none of which he’d taken, but they bothered him just the same.
It was like stepping into a field of nettles with no way out . . . you just kept getting stung over and over again.
Worse yet, he’d fought his gut instinct to find Cassie—take the next flight or drive the whole damned sixteen hours straight to LA. He was still fighting it.
Carrying his small sack of roofing staples and nails, he made his way out of the store. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath as the door closed sharply behind him.
The air outside was heavy with the threat of more rain, gray clouds hanging low. Whitecaps churned on the dark water of the Columbia, while the streets of Falls Crossing were still wet and shimmering from an earlier cloudburst. Trent turned his collar to the wind and made his way to his truck, where Hud was waiting. Bouncing on the driver’s seat, his head out the open window, the dog spied Trent and let out an enthusiastic yip.
“Yeah, glad to see you, too,” Trent said as he opened the door. Tail wagging wildly, Hud hopped onto the passenger seat.
It had been ten minutes since Trent had left the dog alone and the shepherd acted as if he’d been waiting for years.
Another sharp yip.
“Settle down, boy.” Scratching Hud behind his ears, he added, “Let’s go home.” The words echoed through his mind and for a second he hesitated, key in position over the ignition as a memory sizzled through his brain, a white-hot image of Cassie, after two glasses of wine, draping her arm around his shoulders, rising on tiptoes and whispering those same words.
They’d been married barely a month and had gone to a restaurant in Malibu for dinner and drinks at an outdoor table where they were able to watch the sun settle into the Pacific. Before the check came, Cassie kicked off one sandal and beneath the table had inched her bare toes up his leg. He’d immediately felt his damned cock harden and had sent her a warning glare. But her mischievous gaze had met his and she’d whispered in a sultry voice, “I love you, you know, Trent Kittle. So let’s go home and do something about it.”
He’d left cash, including an overly generous tip, on the table, taken her hand, and they’d wended their way quickly through the tables packed tightly onto the patio. Once in the car, Trent had ignored the speed limit. When they’d reached their apartment she’d taken off before he’d put the car into park and, laughing, led him through the garden and front door. He’d chased after his wife as she ran into their unit and through their small apartment, both of them laughing and tossing off their clothes on the way to the bedroom, where he’d caught her, pulled her close, and kissed her with a fervor he’d never felt with any other woman. It had been ninety degrees in the apartment, only a fan to move the air, but they hadn’t cared. They’d tumbled onto the bed, half-dressed and entwined, somehow managing to peel off the remainder of their clothing and make love until long after midnight.
His muscles tensed at the memory and even now, seeing her in his mind’s eye, her streaked hair wet from perspiration, her breathing rapid, her eyes dilated in the darkened room, he felt an erection in the making.
Annoyed, he turned his thoughts away from his missing wife.
Jabbing his key into the ignition, Trent switched on the engine, then he backed out of the badly marked space and put the Ford into drive. He hit the gas a little too hard. The truck leaped forward and he eased off the pedal as he nosed his pickup into the heart of Falls Crossing, the Oregon town he’d called home except for his brief stint in LA. Traffic was light along a street where retail stores and offices were crowded together, windowed storefronts lining the sidewalks, pedestrians dashing under awnings to protect them from the rain that had begun to spit from the dark sky. Turning on the windshield wipers, he only had to slow to a stop at one intersection where, while his truck idled, he checked his cell phone.
No one had called him, which wasn’t a surprise. He told himself it didn’t bother him that Cassie hadn’t phoned him back; he hadn’t really expected her to. But deep down, in a place he refused to acknowledge, he had hoped she would reach out to him, had wanted to hear her voice and determine for himself if she was okay. He slid the phone onto the console and waited for the light to change, then drove out of town.
Cassie was still his wife, at least legally, and he still worried about her. No matter how many times he reminded himself that she’d walked out on him, wouldn’t listen to his excuses, explanations, or reasons, just called him a “stupid ass son of a bitch,” before leaving him and moving out permanently, he couldn’t completely eradicate her from his thoughts.
The phone calls and visits he’d attempted to make after their last fight had been ignored or rejected, even after the accident on the set of Dead Heat and her sister’s disappearance.
While the dog kept his nose to the cracked window and the town gave way to farmland, Trent told himself that he should just leave well enough alone. Cassie had made it more than clear that he should back off. His jaw tightened as he remembered how he’d panicked upon hearing that an actress had been shot while filming a final scene for Dead Heat. He’d flipped out, fearing for Cassie’s life, only to discover that the victim had not been either his wife or his sister-in-law. For a second he’d felt relief, then he’d learned Allie had disappeared.