After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  Of course, she didn’t pick up.

  His jaw slid to the side and he squinted into the darkness.

  What the hell was she up to?

  ACT III

  Absently rubbing the scratches on her wrist, she stalked the perimeter of her room, barely eight by ten and dominated by her dressing table with its vanity mirror. A small window was cut into one wall. The other three were covered with large posters, mounted carefully. Each was from a movie starring either Jenna Hughes or Allie Kramer, one butting up to the next, a collage of pictures of the women in their most celebrated roles. There were other images on the posters, some with their costars’ faces, but dominating each poster was a close-up of Jenna or her famous daughter.

  Her stomach curled as she surveyed them, but she took in each individual poster, her eyes tracing the fine lines of the women’s expressions, of their features, the sensual mouths, large eyes, and different noses. Always Allie appeared a pixieish, younger version of her mother, but the resemblance was evident, caught by the camera’s eye.

  Bile rose in her throat as she walked past the posters, circling the room, eyeing each print.

  She felt edgy.

  Fidgety.

  Anxious.

  It was time again, she knew. She couldn’t fight the demons much longer, nor did she want to.

  Which one? she wondered, retracing her footsteps as she slowly walked the perimeter of this, her safe place. Which one would be best?

  It had to be of Jenna.

  For tonight.

  She made six circuits. Each time the poster with Jenna portraying Zoey Trammel called to her and seemed to follow her with her eyes. “You,” she said to the image of Jenna in a wide-brimmed hat, her head turned to look over her shoulder, her lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “Zoey.”

  Intent on not disturbing any of the other wall hangings, she bit her lip as she eased the mounted poster from its spot and carried it to a bench pushed against the wall with the window. After placing it in plain view of her makeup table she sat in the small chair at her vanity mirror and opened the drawer where she kept her cosmetics. Tubes and jars were lined in rows and she quickly picked those that would be perfect for her transformation: coral lipstick, smoky eye shadow, near-black eyeliner with a hint of green, a rusty-hued blush over lighter foundation.

  Then she began her work, using the brushes, swabs, and cotton balls kept in jars on the table, leaning close to the mirror when she needed to while keeping the poster in her peripheral vision.

  She was still young.

  Age hadn’t gotten to her.

  Yet.

  Growing older was inevitable of course, but at the thought her lips pursed, and she noticed the first signs of ugly, bothersome lines that would eventually require Botox injections.

  She couldn’t think about them now. She was losing time.

  She could play Zoey. No, she could be Zoey. She had the heart-shaped face, though she would have to don a red wig, as Jenna had done.

  Jenna!

  Again her stomach roiled and her hatred ran a little faster in her blood.

  With a slightly trembling hand she applied her makeup painstakingly, using the different brushes with their varying sizes and firmness, copying the shading beneath Jenna’s cheekbones, the smudge of eyeliner/shadow at the corners of her eyes, the carefully outlined lips.

  Jenna Hughes, who, at the top of her game, had walked away from Hollywood. What a coward. She’d thrown it all away. For what? To be a mother? What a joke! What a freaking joke!

  Her hand trembled more violently and she closed her eyes and counted to ten.

  This is not the time to unravel, for God’s sake.

  Slowly letting out her breath, she started in again. With forced precision she applied the colors, lines, and mascara, as careful as a painter with a masterpiece as she looked from the image on the poster to her own reflection and back again. The hues had to be exact. With the right play of shadow and light, she could make herself be Zoey . . . not Jenna so much really but . . . close enough to pass as Zoey Trammel . . . a final stroke of lipstick and . . . her hand wobbled wildly.

  Her teeth clenched.

  No! No! Don’t lose it!

  But it was too late, the shaking of her fingers had destroyed her look. The lipstick trailing from the corner of her mouth made her look like the Joker from a Batman movie.

  “Shit!” She grabbed a tissue, tried to clean up. No, no, no! That wasn’t what was supposed to happen!

  Heart pounding, her pulse racing, she knew in an instant that if she didn’t pull herself back, rein in her wildly raging emotions, all would be lost. “Get it together!” she screamed into the mirror, then gasped in horror. “Oh, Jesus!” The image staring back at her looked nothing like Zoey Trammel. The woman in the reflection was cartoonish, a caricature of the beautiful Zoey and the gorgeous woman who portrayed her, the colors bizarre.

  “You sick, sick fake!” she snarled at the face staring at her, and noticed a bit of spit in the corner of her oversize orange lips. Her breathing was coming in short, sharp pants and her mind was suddenly disjointed. Fractured.

  Gripping the edge of the table, she leaned closer to the hideous woman in the glass. “What the hell were you thinking, you miserable bitch?” Spittle flew from her garish lips to gob on the mirror, then run down the smooth glass, leaving a silvery trail over her reflection.

  She gaped in horror.

  This wasn’t what was supposed to happen tonight.

  Her blood was pumping through her veins, coursing hot, pounding in her temples. “For the love of God,” she whispered to her image, despair entwining with her rage. “What’s wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you?” She swept the countertop of all her jars and tubes, sending them crashing to the floor, glass shattering.

  Frustration boiled deep within and her hands went to her hair, her fingers digging deep into her scalp, as if she could physically drag the demons from her skull. “Why are you doing this?” The question was broken by a sob as a feeling of wretched hopelessness overtook her. “What’re you doing?” She let the tears flow and buried her head in her hands. Shoulders heaving, sobbing quietly, she knew her makeup was ruined and running down her face, but she would repair it, change the look, come out of this. She could fix things. It was just makeup, dye and powder and grease.

  Drawing in a shaking breath, she lifted her head. Pointing a damning finger at the grotesque woman in the mirror, she said, “You can’t let this happen.”

  Sniffing, she swiped at the offensive tears and drew herself up. Squaring her shoulders, she saw the ugly woman staring back at her do the same. As if that obscene bitch with the sickening orange mouth and mascara running in rivers down her face had an ounce of backbone.

  Ignore her. She’s not the enemy!

  She blinked.

  Managed to retrieve some of the shreds of her sanity.

  Felt her strength, her purpose returning. Sensed again her need to become the characters that Jenna Hughes had portrayed.

  Absolute despair and self-loathing gave way to a slow-burning anger at her own ineptness to recapture the image, to prove to herself that she was as good as Jenna Hughes. Not just as good, but better. Younger. Stronger. More beautiful.

  She glanced to the mirror and the hideous image glared back at her, as if she knew a secret. Was the woman laughing at her? Did she know that Jenna Hughes could never be bested?

  Instinctively she yanked open the makeup drawer and rattled through the jars, pencils, creams, and shadows until she found the palette knife. Dull, but good enough.

  Flinging one last look at the ugly woman in the mirror she kicked back her chair and crossed the few steps to the bench and the poster of Zoey Trammel.

  Before her anger ebbed, she jabbed the dull knife into the poster, gloried in the sound of paper tearing.

  Then she pulled the knife back and stabbed again. And again. And again. Faster and faster. In a frenzy, her gaze glued to the calm features o
f Zoey Trammel until Jenna’s beauty was obliterated, her eyes disappearing, her mouth stretched into a monstrous slash.

  She was breathing hard, her heart a drum and in her furor, she stumbled backward. Falling, she hit her arm on the edge of the dressing table aggravating the scratch on her wrist.

  Pain sang up her arm.

  She dropped the knife.

  It clattered to the floor near to where she, herself, dropped. Wrapping her arms around her knees, her head tucked between her shoulders, she rocked slowly back and forth, trying to pull herself together.

  Her rage spent, she drew in deep breaths and closed her eyes. “Oh, God,” she whispered as slowly, bit by rational bit, sanity returned. The fire that fueled her madness eventually died, not to ashes, but to glowing embers that could ignite with just a little bit of stoking.

  The pain remained. And the fear. That she was so different. A monster.

  She knew she had to stop this. She had to stop accidentally maiming herself. She couldn’t mar her skin. For the love of God, what was she thinking? That would be stupid and she was far from an idiot . . . right?

  She managed to climb to her feet, then fall into her chair again. Now her reflection appeared clownish and sad, a pathetic creature. She told herself to calm down and think.

  Go slow. Stick to the plan. Don’t get distracted. Things will work out. You will make them work out.

  Finally she breathed more easily.

  Calmer, she picked up the knife and placed it back in her drawer. Once she’d swept the floor and thrown away the broken bottles and jars, and the tabletop was straightened to her satisfaction, she walked to the small window and peered through the clear glass.

  A smile touched at the corners of her lips as she saw, through the fronds of palm trees, the Hollywood sign mounted high on the hills. Illuminated, its white letters stark against the night, the iconic sign was a silent reminder of her mission. And what she had to do next.

  She was the one who should have been the star.

  She was the one who should have taken Hollywood by storm, been adored by a million fans.

  Fame was yet to be hers.

  She turned and once more studied her wall where she’d remounted the disfigured poster of Jenna as Zoey Trammel. Wincing, she forced herself to stare at her handiwork. Maybe she’d learn to control herself. The torn print was a harsh reminder of her thin grip on reality.

  Slowly, she turned and focused on another poster. This one of Allie.

  In the poster for Wait Until Christmas, Allie was a vision, like a damned angel. With her face upturned as if she were actually glimpsing heaven and a divine light shining upon her, she was the picture of innocence and virtue.

  Yeah, right.

  Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Worse yet, Allie had been horrible in the film. Horrible! Wooden. Like a damned marionette on a string. Hadn’t anyone else been able to see Allie’s lack of talent?

  How had Allie Kramer’s name ever been whispered for an Academy Award?

  Fortunately, cooler, smarter heads had prevailed and Allie hadn’t been nominated.

  “Too bad.”

  CHAPTER 25

  She was late. So late! Consumed by her whirling thoughts and a darkness she didn’t want to consider, Cassie arrived at the bar over an hour later than she’d planned. Once she’d snapped to and seen the time on her car’s clock, she’d texted Brandon.

  He hadn’t responded.

  No surprise there.

  The good news was that at this time of night Orson’s was quiet.

  Good.

  The lighting was dim, soft jazz playing from hidden speakers, only a few customers sprinkled at the bar and even fewer at the surrounding tables. Cassie figured McNary had picked this spot specifically because the patrons were sparse so there was less of a chance of someone recognizing him. Maybe. With all of the publicity surrounding the release of Dead Heat, and the scandal surrounding the movie, anyone associated with the film was under the constant watch of the paparazzi. Didn’t she have the phone calls, texts, and e-mails to prove it? Fortunately, there were fewer members of the press in Portland than LA, but that would change quickly with news of the premiere party that Dean Arnette had scheduled, here, in the City of Roses for this coming weekend. And these days, everyone had a cell phone, pocket camera, or iPad on them at all times. Any Tom, Dick, or Harriet could snap a shot and sell it to the tabloids, or post it on the Internet. No big deal.

  The odd thing was that usually McNary didn’t avoid publicity. He ate up all of the media attention and with Dead Heat about to be released, it seemed out of character for him to want privacy.

  So something had to be up.

  She glanced over her shoulder, but no one seemed to pay her any notice as she walked into the restaurant. Her hair was pulled away from her face and hidden beneath her hood. She’d wiped off all of her makeup to be less recognizable. A scarf, ostensibly to fight off the cold and damp of April in Oregon, hid her chin, but she didn’t wear dark glasses. At night they would attract more attention than they would deflect.

  As she picked a path through scattered tables, she sensed a couple of passing glances sent her way, but no one stopped to stare or interrupt their conversation as she made her way to a corner booth. She ordered a glass of wine, and still fighting a headache texted Trent while her cell flashed its irritating “low battery” warning. For now she ignored it, but she’d have to be careful. She needed the phone in case of an emergency.

  In Portland. McNary said he had info on Allie. We’ll see. Back soon.

  Then she waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Sipping her merlot she checked her watch. God, it was late. Her fault. Still, she was annoyed that McNary wasn’t showing. Avoiding eye contact with the patrons and waiter, she did a slow burn as she told herself she’d been stood up. She was an idiot, a fool for trusting the likes of Brandon McNary. She should never have left Trent’s house.

  Suddenly McNary swung through the door and headed straight to her table.

  Smelling of rainwater and cigarette smoke, wearing a hooded jacket not unlike her own, and with four or five days’ beard stubble and tinted glasses, he was barely recognizable. He looked more like a strung-out junkie down on his luck than a Hollywood star who could command millions to be a part of a movie. “About time you showed,” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Just pay for that,” he said, motioning toward her drink, and when she was about to argue, he pulled out his wallet as if agitated, left a couple of bills on the table, then grabbed her hand. Before she could protest, he bent down and whispered, “Don’t argue,” then quietly led her down a short hallway and through a side entrance to the street, where beneath the awnings several men and women smoked cigarettes, the rain coming down in a steady drizzle.

  “Where are we going?” Cassie demanded. She’d never trusted McNary and she wasn’t going to follow him blindly down the dark Portland streets in the middle of the damned night, not when her sister was already missing.

  “To my car.”

  With a shake of her head, she stopped short. “No.”

  “We need to be where no one can see us.”

  “No one recognized me in the restaurant.”

  He shot her a look that she read instantly. Of course no one recognized you, Cassie. You’re just Jenna Hughes’s daughter and Allie’s sister, but I’m famous, a household name, a big star.

  Her temper flared and she fought not to tell him off. “I told you I’m not into all this cloak and dagger. I just want to find my sister.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Yeah, right. Like there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “For the love of—Come on!” He tugged on her hand again and reluctantly she started walking again, moving quickly down the rain-washed streets. They weren’t alone. Traffic passed, a few late-night pedestrians walking along the streets.

  “So where’s Allie?”

  “I don’t know.”r />
  “Wait. You said—”

  “I saw her. Okay?” he snapped, his breath fogging in the cold air.

  “Saw her? Where?” Cassie demanded as they rounded a corner. He reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a ring holding a single key and fob. With a touch of his finger an older SUV parked on the far side of the street beeped and flashed its lights. Still tugging on her hand, he started jaywalking to the vehicle.

  “I thought you drove a Porsche.”

  “Lamborghini.”

  She shrugged. “Same difference.”

  “Hardly.” He shot her a look of disbelief. “My car’s in LA. Here I wanted to blend in.”

  She eyed the older Chevy Tahoe with more than a little suspicion.

  “Come on now. Get in.” He opened the passenger door for her, but she hesitated.

  “What?”

  “My sister’s missing. You were involved with her. It’s the middle of the night and someone killed Holly—”

  “Oh, fuck! I know all that! Here!” He slapped the small ring with the key and fob into her palm. “You keep the damned key! Then maybe you won’t be so paranoid!”

  Not a chance. Her fingers curled over the cold bit of metal as he rounded the front of the SUV, then climbed inside. At least he couldn’t drive off with her. Tentatively, she sat in her designated seat and pulled the door closed.

  Now they were alone in the vehicle, rain pounding down, the windows starting to fog with their body heat.

  “Tell me about Allie,” Cassie said.

  “Okay. But first, give the key back to me.”

  “No.”

  Sighing, he said, “The windows are electric. I just want to crack one. I need a smoke.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone dying from nicotine withdrawal, so quit stalling, okay? Where did you see Allie and when?”

  “Two days ago. In Oregon City.” His fingers drummed against his leg and he looked antsy.

  “In Oregon City?” The historic town was situated on the east side of the Willamette River, just under the falls and south of Portland by nearly twenty miles. Cassie had never heard Allie mention the town. “Why would she be there?”