After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  “Cassie!” her father bellowed as she answered. “You’re in LA? And you didn’t phone or text or whatever?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You were going to let me know you were in town?”

  Guilt became a knife that sliced deep. “Probably. Sure.” Eventually.

  “So how are you feeling? Would you like to come over? Or . . . I’d love to take you out. I’m busy tonight, important clients, but maybe sometime next week?”

  “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “But you just got here, right? I mean your mom called me and said you’d checked yourself out of the hospital and flown down here.”

  “I want to find out what happened to Allie.” She didn’t even ask if he’d heard anything about his daughter because surely he would have mentioned it. Robert Kramer wasn’t one to hold back.

  “I know,” he said soberly, genuine sadness in his voice.

  She pictured him in her mind’s eye, his once-thick hair thinning, his waist thickening, his face freckled from hours in the sun playing golf. She knew he loved her and Allie, always had. She also realized that he wouldn’t be afraid to make a buck off either of his daughters in the film industry.

  “But I was asking about you.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied. Would she ever be? And why couldn’t she trust her father enough to admit she was a mess? “Hey,” she said as a thought crossed her mind. “Do you know if Allie was ever in New Mexico? Santa Fe? Maybe around 2007?”

  “New Mexico? No . . . or did she go to a doctor there?”

  “Why would she go to a doctor in Santa Fe when she lived in LA?”

  “Privacy.”

  Cassie’s ears pricked up. “For what?” A baby? Had she been pregnant and was hiding it, didn’t want anyone to know?

  “A little nip or tuck.”

  “Allie? She’s perfect.” And young. She would have been far too young for any kind of plastic surgery. No, her father had to be mistaken. It didn’t make sense.

  “I’m not sure I’m even right,” he said. “Maybe it was Phoenix. And 2007 doesn’t sound right either. More like a year ago.”

  That didn’t help. “Did she have any connection in Santa Fe? A friend or some kind of business?”

  “Sorry, honey. I don’t remember. Your sister didn’t exactly fill me in on her personal life. As public as her image has become she’s a pretty private person.”

  True enough, Cassie thought, though still wondered why she was left with the cryptic text message . . . and from her psychiatrist, no less. The text bothered her enough that she’d have to break down and call her doctor.

  “So why go back to Oregon?” her father asked. “Because of your mom?”

  “No.”

  “Ahh. Trent, then?”

  “No!” she said sharply. Too sharply. “Trent and I are over.”

  “Are you?”

  She bristled. “It’s just something I have to do.”

  “Okay, no judgment call. Whatever you want to do. It’s probably a good idea to be closer to your mom.” He didn’t sound convinced, but at least he left Trent out of the equation. “You know, what with Allie missing, Jenna needs you more than ever.”

  That guilty knife twisted in her gut again. She leaned back on the barstool and eyed her open roller bag. “Dad, I’ve got to go. Really. I’m only half packed. But I’ll call you the next time I come here. Promise.”

  “And if you learn anything about your sister?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right, then.” There was a glitch in the conversation, as if he had something more to say but couldn’t find the words. “I’ll catch you later, Cass. Take care.”

  “You too, Dad.” Her throat was suddenly thick and she cleared it as she hung up. There was a time when they had been a happy family, when she and Allie had been their father’s “girls.” That’s what he’d called them. “My girls.” Until he’d found a new, younger wife.

  She stared at the phone, felt a wash of nostalgia and, as always, ignored it. She didn’t have time to get hung up on old memories and could-have-beens. The past was over and gone and tomorrow morning, depending upon what, if anything, she learned from Laura, she was heading north.

  CHAPTER 16

  Holly Dennison paid her tab and collected her debit card from the bartender of the Pinwheel, a hot spot not far from the beach. After taking a final swallow from her daiquiri, she licked her lips and slid off the barstool. As her feet hit the ground she wobbled a little, cursing her shoes, the heels that were a smidge too high for her to walk steadily, especially after three—or was it four?—drinks.

  She’d come to the bar alone because she’d heard that Luca Valerio, the Italian heartthrob who was in LA to promote his latest film, liked to hang out here, so she hadn’t bothered calling any of her girlfriends to meet for a drink. She’d hoped to “run into” him, strike up a conversation, and hit things off. The truth was that Holly had nursed a crush on him for years. But of course he hadn’t shown.

  While she’d waited, she’d sampled everything rum on the menu and when she realized Luca probably wouldn’t be arriving, that her information, as usual, had been faulty, she’d tried to hook up with a couple of other guys. They all had girlfriends whom they were meeting, so she’d backed off, even though the cute one had suggested he call her “later.” Uh, no thanks. Holly had a hard and fast rule when it came to dating and other women’s men: They were strictly off-limits. At least, if she knew about the woman. She’d overstepped her bounds a couple of times because the jerk who’d picked her up had neglected to tell her that he was married. But she always asked, although if a guy was willing to step out on his wife, what were the chances of him not lying about it?

  She decided to go home. She was tired. It was after midnight and she needed to be up by six thirty or seven as her sister Barbara was dropping off her little niece for the day. Holly couldn’t wait. Though she wasn’t ready for kids herself yet—hell, she didn’t even have a boyfriend at the moment—she adored watching little three-year-old Adele for Barbara. On those days when Barb had to run errands, or get her hair colored, or go to a doctor’s appointment or whatever, Holly stepped in. That is, when Barb allowed it. Which wasn’t all that often. Sometimes her sister could be such a bitch. Fortunately Barb’s jerkwad of a husband, who wouldn’t give up golf, poker, or work, in that order, to watch his own daughter, was always relieved that Holly was quick to babysit. She figured it was her brother-in-law’s loss even though Frank had been, and always would be, a self-centered egomaniac. And that was on a good day.

  So she was giving up searching for Mr. Right for the night.

  Making her way to the front door was a trick. The rum hadn’t seemed to have much of a kick as she’d sat on the barstool and sipped her drinks, but now, as she wended through nearly empty tables, the liquor had definitely found its way into her bloodstream, making walking steadily a trick.

  Outside the wind was cool, a stiff breeze blowing in from the Pacific, the smooth sound of the tide drowned by the few cars rolling past. Above the streetlights, Holly could barely make out the stars overhead, not that she really cared. She wondered if Marlie Babcock had intentionally sent her on a wild goose chase. Marlie was just mean enough. Holly should never have trusted her, another set designer whose connection to Luca had been a previous film they’d both worked on.

  Big deal, she thought now, wobbling a little.

  It crossed her mind that she probably shouldn’t drive because she was a stage or two beyond buzzed, but the thought of calling a taxi or Uber or phoning a friend and leaving her car, a leased BMW convertible, in the parking lot all night freaked her out. And she didn’t dare dial Barb, who would look at her disapprovingly and probably revoke her babysitting privileges. Besides, it was only a few blocks to her apartment, less than a mile, really, and she’d be careful behind the wheel.

  Of course she would.

  As she reached the parking lot, she thought she heard her cell phone
ring. At this late hour? Not good news. She fumbled a bit, found the iPhone in an inner pocket, and checked the screen. No call. She’d been mistaken, but she did notice that she’d missed two texts from her sister saying that she was canceling on the babysitting gig in the morning. Little Adele was running a fever of 103. “Poor baby,” Holly said, disappointed. Well, this way she could sleep in. As she was sliding the phone into the side pocket of her bag, she thought she caught movement out of the corner of her eye, a play of light and shadow that seemed out of place.

  She blinked and saw that there was definitely someone in the lot. A dark figure lurking between the parked vehicles. The hairs on the back of her arms came to attention and her heart jump-started, pounding erratically before she decided it was probably a drunk guy taking a leak. Gross. But it happened. In fact, she’d seen it here more than once before.

  She turned away and found her car, the locks opening as the signal from the key fob in her purse came into range. She nearly stumbled again and from the corner of her eye saw that the guy was moving, probably zipping up—well, she hoped he was pulling up his zipper—as she reached for the door handle.

  “Holly?”

  What? A woman’s voice?

  She twisted her head and realized that “the guy” she’d first seen was really a woman who definitely had not been relieving herself. And she was walking briskly through the parked cars, her footsteps distinct against the asphalt. “You’re Holly Dennison.”

  “Uh-huh.” Wasn’t the voice familiar? If so, why was she suddenly uneasy again? The parking lot instantly seemed darker and more isolated than it had moments before.

  “I thought so.” The woman was drawing nearer, her face still shadowed, still unrecognizable. Dark hair. Or a hood?

  But that voice. Holly definitely knew it, but couldn’t place the name and now the other woman was only a few feet away. Holly squinted, ignoring the little drip of fear, a warning, that rippled through her blood. “Do I know—?”

  A loud motorcycle roared past the lot.

  Holly jumped, her attention switched to the street.

  In that split second, the woman in black pounced.

  Bam!

  Her body weight knocked Holly off her feet. Holly slammed against her car, her head cracking against the driver’s door, and then her body slithered to the ground.

  Pain slammed through her brain.

  Shit! What the hell?

  She dropped her purse, her phone skittering out, the screen illuminating.

  No! This couldn’t be happening! This stranger, this woman couldn’t be attacking her! She started to scream.

  A gloved hand, a strong gloved hand, slammed across her mouth and muffled any sounds she could make as her attacker forced her onto her back and straddled her chest.

  Oh. Dear. God.

  Fear crystallized in her brain.

  Blood froze in her veins.

  This was happening! Holy crap. No!

  Squirming wildly she clawed and bit and tried to scream, but her attempts were drunken and clumsy, her arms flailing, her blows landing in the air.

  Help me! Oh, God, please let someone help me! Surely there were people on the street, someone who could see that she was being abducted. She screamed into the leather glove but heard only a muted mewl.

  “Bitch,” the woman growled as she twisted her free hand into Holly’s hair, grabbing a thick clump, nearly pulling it out by the roots as she lifted Holly’s head from the pavement.

  What?

  Her attacker shifted suddenly. Using her body weight she slammed Holly’s head against the pavement.

  Crack!

  Agony ripped through Holly’s head.

  Pain exploded behind her eyes, nearly blinding her.

  Her skin ripped and she began to bleed. Chipped pieces of asphalt clung to her, matted in her hair.

  No, no, no! Frantically she tried to peel her assailant from her. Kicking and bucking, scrabbling in the air, she felt woozy, her coordination failing her, the wicked, horrid mass of humanity atop her not budging. Who the hell was this maniac? Why was this happening?

  Help me!

  Her thoughts were ragged. Cut painfully through her gray matter.

  This woman, whoever the hell she was, planned to murder her. Right here in this horrid little parking lot.

  Tears ran down her face with the dark realization.

  Take my purse, my phone, my cash, the damned car but please . . . please . . . stop. Let me live . . . oh, Jesus . . .

  She couldn’t see straight. Her head throbbed. Panic screamed through her body. Why was this happening? Why? Wedged between two cars, where no one could see her, she focused on the sky above, invisible over the weak light from a streetlamp on the sidewalk.

  “Stop! Help! Someone help me!” she tried to scream, but her voice was muted, little sound escaping as her head was lifted, hairs sticking to the pavement, glued due to her own blood.

  Oh, God, no. Don’t! Her eyes were wide. Fear curdled deep inside.

  Bam!

  Once more her head was smashed against the asphalt.

  Pain erupted, sending shock waves through her body.

  She felt a new gash on the back of her head, the blood flowing warm and wet.

  Blackness threatened.

  Feverishly, knowing it was a matter of life and death, her life and death, Holly fought to stay conscious. Blood rushed in her ears and fear clutched her heart. Her movements were now sluggish, ungainly, her arms not obeying her brain.

  Her attacker leaned closer and in the dim light from a faraway security lamp and the screen of her phone, she caught a glimpse of the fiend atop her.

  It couldn’t be!

  Allie?

  Allie Kramer?

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Could this deranged woman astride her actually be Allie Kramer? Or . . . God, why did she look so weird and distorted?

  Even as the crazy thoughts slid through her brain she denied them. No way. Allie was many things, some of them not so nice, but she wasn’t a killer . . . or was she?

  Desperately Holly blinked, tried to stay aware, felt herself slipping away, the image looking more warped, Allie’s features blurring into a monstrous caricature of herself.

  “Allie?” Holly vainly tried to speak but only managed to mouth the woman’s name.

  The woman’s face, distorted, filled her vision. This maniac wasn’t Allie Kramer, couldn’t be. Just someone who looked a lot like Allie, who was dressed like Allie, but is really . . . shit, was it Cassie? No. Yes? There was something wrong . . . for the love of Jesus, what the hell was wrong with her face?

  A new fear curdled through her.

  Cassie!

  Using all her strength Holly tried to throw herself upward, to buck off her assailant, but her efforts were too feeble. Trying to get her bearings, she stared at her attacker and the weird image in front of her.

  And then the woman above her moved, letting go of Holly’s hair, reached behind her, and pulled something from her coat pocket.

  A pistol?

  What? No! Oh, God, no. With a supreme effort she tried to wiggle away but it was too late.

  Within a second Holly felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressed to her chest.

  “NO!” she tried to scream, as the woman pulled the trigger. There was a muffled pffft and then she felt liquid inside as the attacker stepped off her and the lights began to dim.

  In her last desperate moments Holly told herself that this all had to be a dream, a horrible nightmare, that the blood blooming on her chest was nothing but a wild-ass memory of Lucinda on the set of Dead Heat, that the weird sensation, the pain and her floating mind were all because of the booze.

  For a second, she caught a glimpse of her attacker, the pistol with its silencer in her gloved hand. As Holly’s eyes began to shutter, her assailant leaned close. She smelled of a perfume Holly recognized over the metallic scent of her own blood. Familiar . . . ? Then felt herself start to lift, her soul rising.

&nbs
p; The pain slipped away as Holly looked down on her body and her assailant from a distance, high over the street lamps and the rooftops. Dear Lord, it was so damned dark, so hard to tell what she was witnessing.

  Was the woman peeling off her own face?

  No . . . couldn’t be.

  Cold to the bone, Holly felt a blindfold being placed over her eyes, and she could no longer see her own image, though she still felt as if she were floating. She wanted to strip away the blindfold, but she couldn’t find the strength to peel it off.

  Thankfully, as she tasted metal and salt on her lips and gurgled up something warm and liquid from her lungs, a quiet blackness converged over her and her last thought was that she was dying, that a murderous bitch had succeeded in killing her.

  She just didn’t know why.

  Mitch Stevens’s bladder was about to burst. He’d been thrown out of the Pinwheel and most of the bars were shutting down, so he didn’t have a chance at another men’s room. Shit. He’d never make it home.

  But it was pretty dark here in the parking lot, the streetlights not really falling on all the nooks and crannies between the scattered cars, no security camera visible, so he slipped between two vehicles, a sweet-looking Jag and a Chevy sedan, faced the side of a neighboring building, unzipped, and took aim at a dandelion growing up through a crack in the pavement.

  Almost immediately he felt relief and with his immediate discomfort over, he kept up his stream and wondered if he might be able to locate a bar that would let him slip inside even though it was slightly after last call. Not the Pinwheel, unfortunately. That loser of a bartender had been gunning for him all night and so, with just one little slip where he’d fallen against a girl who was dancing, and in trying to stay on his feet had accidentally brushed her damned boob with his hand, he was out. No matter how hard he’d protested that he’d needed to use the john, the bartender had signaled to a bouncer with a Mohawk and goatee who had to be pushing three hundred pounds and who had silently but effectively shoved him sprawling onto the sidewalk. It was a damned miracle he hadn’t pissed all over the cement in front of the door.