by Lisa Jackson
“I met him. When I came to the hospital looking for you. He said you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“I didn’t. I told him so.”
“He conveyed the message very succinctly.”
She figured as much and changed the topic of conversation before it turned too personal. She’d spent enough time feeling the pain of the breakup, or trying to trust Trent and believe that he hadn’t fallen in love with and taken Allie to bed. That still had the power to make her stomach churn. Nor did she want to consider the fate of their marriage. Doomed? Or repairable? She wasn’t even sure what she wanted, so she decided it was best not to go there. Not on this trip. Not again. So she said, “Rinko’s nearly a genius, but he’s got issues. Severe issues, I gather, though I don’t know what they are. Otherwise he wouldn’t be in Mercy Hospital indefinitely. But, if you ask him a question about any team in the nineteenth or twentieth or twenty-first century, he’s got names, numbers, and RBIs or TDs or goals or three-pointers or assists or . . . whatever. I think it’s impossible to trip him up.” She found the little earring in the side pocket of her purse and set it on the table between them.
“What’s this?”
“An earring. Like the one the nurse was wearing the night she came into the room or appeared or whatever you want to call it. But ghosts don’t leave jewelry behind, nor do people in nightmares.”
He picked up the bauble and examined it.
Cassie felt bands around her lungs tighten. Would he believe her? Or write her off as a mental case, a conspiracy theorist, or worse? She explained about her research on the earring and he listened, all the while studying the tiny cross and frowning, the wheels in his mind turning.
“You’d better keep it,” he finally said, then picked up the tab and paid for both their meals over her protests. “Don’t worry, you don’t owe me anything,” he added as he handed the bored-looking waitress his credit card.
Cassie stopped fighting him and when he offered to drive, she handed over the keys. Despite the jolt of caffeine from her Coke, she was exhausted, the ongoing nights of restless sleep having finally caught up with her. She’d thought she’d be on edge the whole time with Trent in the car, nervous around him, the anxiety keeping her awake, but as the miles of California had disappeared under the Honda’s wheels so had her wariness. The idea of maneuvering the car through the winding turns of the mountains in Southern Oregon then onto the long, monotonous stretch of freeway to Portland and beyond wasn’t something she looked forward to. Yep, let him drive.
After finding a blanket tucked under her bag in the backseat, she drew it around her body and curled up against the passenger window. Her eyes at half-mast, she observed Trent in the muted lights from the dash.
Did she trust him?
No. Well, at least not completely.
Was she still angry with him?
Yes, but not as violently so. Of course the jury was still out on her emotions and she had the right to change her mind.
Time will tell, she thought. As he drove steadily, keeping the Honda just above the speed limit, she drifted off somewhere near the Oregon border. Her sleep was never deep. At some level she was aware of the sounds of the journey; the radio stations fading in and out, the steady whine of the engine and outside the rumble of trucks passing, or the rush of the wind. All in all, though, she let slumber envelop her. Though she was loath to admit it, the fact that Trent was driving gave her a sense of security, no matter how false it might be.
She was vaguely aware of another filling station, lights along the overhang bright enough to rouse her a bit, the sounds of the pump being activated, the rush of fuel into the tank. Her eyes fluttered open, but she closed them quickly, then rotated her neck before slumber caught up with her again.
Only when the car began to bounce a little, the ride becoming rougher, did she start to surface. “Where are we?” she said around a yawn, stretching her arms as she peered through the windshield. Beams from the headlights splashed upon a rutted lane guarded by fence posts. Raindrops drizzled down the glass, the wipers rhythmically scraping water from the windshield.
“Home.”
“Home?”
“My place.”
She was instantly awake and trying to shake the cobwebs from her mind. They were in Oregon? In Falls Crossing? At his ranch? “No.”
He slid her a glance. “Where else would we go?”
“I can’t stay here!” She was squinting into the night as the beams caught a farmhouse with a wide, wraparound porch.
“Who invited you?”
She swung her head around to stare at him.
“It’s your car, but I need to be here.” He seemed amused at her befuddlement. “I don’t recall asking you to stay.”
“Oh. Right.” Of course!
“But, you could stay over if you wanted.”
“No, thanks.”
He pulled up to the garage and cut the engine, then handed the keys to her. “If you’re going to crash with Jenna, you might want to call and give her a heads-up.”
“What time is it?”
“Four thirty.”
She groaned. Originally, she’d planned to find a local hotel, sleep for however long she needed to, shower, and show up at her mother’s house only to start looking for a place to stay, probably finding a hotel or temporary apartment closer to Portland until she figured out what she was going to do with her life. Falls Crossing was sixty miles east of the city, though with WiFi and the Internet and cell phones, for her job, location wasn’t critical. Research and information were a laptop keystroke away. Connections with experts—a call or live chat or instant message, at the very least e-mail—were now nearly instantaneous.
Trent climbed out of the car. A stiff, damp breeze infiltrated the interior and the thought of driving one mile farther in the dark and rain sounded miserable.
“Maybe I could stay for a few hours, you know, until it’s a reasonable time to show up at Mom and Shane’s.”
“Your call.”
All she could think about was tumbling into bed. No questions. No conversation. No sex. Just crashing. “You got a spare couch?”
“At least one. You need a bag?” He was already reaching into the backseat.
“The smallest one. Thanks.” Still a little groggy, she pocketed the keys, pushed her hair out of her eyes, grabbed her purse, opened the car door, and stepped into a puddle. “Did you have to park in the middle of a damned lake?” she sputtered.
“Welcome to Oregon,” he said, and she could have sworn he was trying not to chuckle.
“I’m wearing flip-flops.”
“It’s not like you never lived here.”
She made a strangled sound in her throat, first turning away from, then facing the cold bite of the wind against her face, the Oregon drizzle on her bare arms and legs.
“When did you get to be such a pansy?” He hauled the bag from the backseat and slammed the door as she picked her way up a darkened pathway to his house. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement, a fast-moving black shadow streaking toward her. “What the—”
A dog bounded into view, splashing through the muddy puddles and wet grass to leap up on her. Wet paws streaked her with mud, claws scraped. She sucked in a startled breath.
“Hud! Down!” Trent commanded as he reached her side. The wriggling, whining mass of fur instantly was on all fours. To Cassie, he said, “Sorry.”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Hud’s hind end still gyrated, as the shepherd gazed expectantly up at her. She leaned down to pat his damp head, smiling at the eager dog. “Not your fault.”
“I’ll get your clothes clean,” Trent apologized.
“Truly, it’s fine.”
“Sorry, he’s an escape artist. Hud is really short for Houdini. I’m guessing that Shorty, my ranch hand who was watching the place, must’ve left the garage door open. Come on.” He whistled to the dog and headed toward the garage where a side door was ajar and through which they enter
ed the house. It was two steps into a screened-in porch that led to a back door and oversize kitchen. Following a step behind, Cassie waited while he toweled off the dog and checked to make sure there was water in Hud’s large dish.
“This way,” Trent told her as he headed down a short hallway wedged between the staircase and the front door to a small closet. From an upper shelf, he hauled out a rolled sleeping bag and pillow. “I’m not overly supplied with sheets and things. Just moved in a while back, about the time I got the dog.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to sleep upstairs?”
“You’ve got guest rooms?”
A slow smile spread over his jaw. “There’s no furniture in them. I was thinking that since we’re still married, you might want to stay with me.”
She saw the amusement in his eyes. He knew she’d never take that step. “Maybe another time,” she said, and couldn’t believe it actually sounded as if she were flirting.
“Okay.”
Little did he know how tempted she was. It had been so long since she’d slept beside him, heard his deep breathing, felt the weight of his arm flung across her waist, or nestled against the warmth of his naked body, long and lean, spooned up against her. An ache started to swell deep inside her, but before she could change her mind and take him up on his offer, he said, “Suit yourself,” then carried the sleeping bag into a den off the front hallway.
“Two options,” he said. “The couch there is long enough for you to stretch out on, or that chair in the corner actually folds out to a single bed.”
“Don’t bother with the fold-out. I won’t be here that long.”
He tossed the bedding onto the leather divan, then bent on one knee near a wood stove and lit the kindling already stacked inside. “There’s a remote for the TV on the table near the chair.” As the paper and kindling caught fire, he hooked a thumb toward the back of the house. “Bathroom’s around the corner. Should be towels and everything you need in there.”
“Thanks.”
As the flames started to crackle, a warm glow emanating through the glass door of the stove, he glanced over his shoulder and his gaze touched hers. In a quicksilver instant she remembered another time when they’d gone to the mountains, had secreted themselves into an isolated cabin where he’d lit a fire in a huge rock fireplace and they’d made love for hours in front of the rising flames. She swallowed hard and, as if he’d shared the same intimate memory, he straightened and cleared his throat.
She almost blurted out that she was sorry for how far they’d come from the time when they’d been so much in love, but before she could form the words, he said, “I’m gonna run outside, check on the stock. Be back in a few.”
Whistling to the dog once more, he headed for the front door.
She walked to the window, stared through the rain sliding down the panes, and was reminded of another night, not that long ago when she was looking outside her hospital room to the night beyond.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.
And now she was here. Alone with Trent. Her marriage crumbling. Her sister still missing. One friend murdered, another nearly killed. She was too tired to make sense of it now, so she unzipped her bag and tossed her pajamas onto the couch. She dug past a makeup case for her toothbrush, which wasn’t in the usual pocket where she’d always kept it packed. Nor was her e-reader in its spot. Certain she’d just packed the items in one of the myriad pockets, she opened the case that held her laptop and there, on top of the slim computer, was a slick piece of paper with something attached to it.
“What the devil?” she said as she tugged on the laminated paper. It slid out and she found herself staring down at a warped picture of her sister. “Oh my God.” Her heart stilled and a newfound horror consumed her.
The photograph was hideous. Allie’s eyes had been cut out, as if they’d been gouged, but the face, even distorted, was recognizable as that of Jenna Hughes’s daughter. A thin strap of elastic was attached to the face in the back, as if the disturbing thing were a mask.
No! No! No! Cassie gasped and dropped the disfigured photo as if it burned her. As it fluttered to the floor it turned slightly to reveal the back where a horrid damning word, scribbled hastily in red, was visible:
Sister.
“What?” Horrified, she backed up, putting distance between herself and the evil, twisted image. Her heart was pounding, her mind whirling, her stomach churning. How had the horrid thing ended up in her bag? Who had planted it there? Why, oh, God, why? She was breathing rapidly, her heart pounding in her brain, her skin crawling at the thought that someone had actually been in her apartment, had gone through her things, had hidden the mask in her laptop case. She felt the world go dark and leaned against the wall. With an effort she forced a calm that was against her very nature. The intruder had come into her home to do this . . . whatever it was. A warning? A threat? The cat had followed him and been locked inside when he’d left. Who would be so heartless, so cruel, so insidious to do this?
A door opened and she jumped about a foot. Trent walked into the house, his dog tagging behind. He found her with a hand pressed to her chest, her heart a drum, a newfound fear congealing in her blood
“Cass?” he said, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? I thought for sure that you’d already be asleep by now and—”
She launched herself at him. Without thinking she let out a broken sob and flung herself into his arms.
“Hey.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she refused to cry but she held on fast. Desperately attempting to find some equilibrium, some stability in her unstable life, she drank in the solid male scent of him, felt the strength of his body as he held her, his breath ruffling over her hair.
“What’s going on?” he asked. She shook her head but he must’ve looked over her head into the room and spied the mask because she heard his sharp intake of breath and felt him stiffen. A second passed and then he said, “What the hell is that?”
CHAPTER 21
She spent what was left of the early morning in Trent’s bed, lying in his arms, telling herself she was falling into a trap, surprised that he’d not tried to kiss or touch her other than to hold her close. She hadn’t undressed. The streaks of mud from Hud’s eager greeting had dried on her clothes, and she hadn’t given them a second thought. She’d struggled to fall asleep with Trent beside her, though, so it took till morning light was beginning to touch the bare windows before she’d drifted off. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw on the bedside clock it was nearly ten and Trent wasn’t with her, the sheets on the spot of the bed where he’d lain cool to her touch.
In a flash, she remembered the hideous poster or mask or whatever it was and forced herself not to dwell on it, not let the evil piece of art consume her. “One day at a time,” she told herself and pushed off the warm bed.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, she hurried downstairs. The dog was lying on a rug near the wood stove where a fire still burned. As she walked into the room, Hud lifted his head and thumped his tail. “Yeah, you see this?” she teased, pointing to her dirt-smeared pants. Unconcerned, Hud stretched and got to his feet. Quickly she eyed the cozy room. Her bag was still open, but it was now near the couch, and the sleeping bag, along with the horrid mask, was nowhere to be seen.
Following the scents of brewed coffee and fried bacon, she found Trent seated at the kitchen table. His damp hair had been combed, his jaw clean-shaven, his jeans as disreputable as ever, an unbuttoned flannel shirt tossed over a dark T-shirt.
On the table in front of him were a cup of coffee, her cell phone, the red earring, and the dreadful mask. Allie’s ghostlike image lay face up, the table’s scratched wood surface showing through the empty eye sockets.
“Mornin’,” he drawled, looking up as she entered with the dog in tow.
“Oh, God, what is that doing here?” She pointed to the mask.
“Couldn’t throw it out.” He scraped hi
s chair back. “Coffee?”
Her stomach turned over and she shook her head. “Maybe water first.”
He found a glass in a cupboard that was filled with mismatched kitchenware and filled it from the tap, then handed it to her.
“What’re you doing with my phone and that . . . that thing?” she asked again, taking a sip of water and gesturing to the distorted picture.
“We need to get to the bottom of what’s going on.” After refilling his cup from a pot still warming in the coffeemaker, he pulled another mug from a shelf and filled it, then placed both cups on the table. “Then we have to talk to the police.” He looked at the mask. “How do you think that got into your bag?”
Setting the water glass aside, she picked up the chipped mug that held her coffee. She explained how she thought someone had placed it in her bag when she’d been out, how she’d felt someone had been inside her apartment and that the cat had been trapped inside, and finished with, “. . . before the hospital, I’d been going back and forth from Portland to LA during the filming of Dead Heat, so I’d never really emptied my bags. I didn’t check to see what was inside before I packed, just threw in some more clothes and personal stuff, things I thought I’d need. Unless someone was in my apartment another time that I don’t know about, that’s when it happened.” She looked out the window over the sink. Dark clouds roiled over the forested hills surrounding the ranch, but the rain had stopped, at least for now. “What about my phone? What’re you doing with it?” she asked.
“Snooping, obviously.”
She saw that he was kidding around, trying to lighten the mood. Cocking an eyebrow, she waited, silently suggesting he explain.
“I think you should call your doctor again. See if she texted you.”
She took another swallow. He was right. Of course. Before she could change her mind, she dialed and waited. One ring. Two. Voice mail picked up and Cassie forced herself to leave a simple message. “Dr. Sherling, this is Cassie Kramer. Please call me back.” She left her number and clicked off. “Mission accomplished.”
“Not until you actually speak with her. Even then we’ll have a lot more to do.” He went to the stove and opened the oven door. The scents of bacon and fresh bread erupted. Cassie’s stomach growled. “Let’s start with breakfast.”