After She's Gone (41 page)

Her headache was nearly blinding.

People were collecting at the elevators, all oblivious to her situation, that she was in a panic to locate her sister. Frantically she searched the signs and found the staircase. She was through the door in a second.

She took the steps two at a time in the narrow stairwell, the steps metal, the shaft dark. Ignoring the feeling of the walls closing in on her, she continued upward, flying past the third floor, then the fourth. On the fifth, she was gasping for breath and clinging onto the railing. Far below she heard a door click open, then slam shut. Boots began to ring on the stairs below.

“Cassie?” Trent called, his voice echoing up the shaft.

“Up here!” she yelled and kept climbing, feeling claustrophobic but mounting each step, not wanting him to catch her. She knew what he’d say, that everything she was doing was the actions of a person who had lost touch with all reality. Doubts assailed her as she reached each floor.

What if she were wrong?

What if this was a wild-goose chase?

What if, oh, God, she were hallucinating again, seeing things that didn’t exist?

She passed the sixth floor and her legs were starting to cramp. “Cass!” he yelled again. “Wait!”

She kept hurrying, her feet flying up the steps.

Breathing hard, her legs aching, she finally saw a red number 7 painted on the fire door of a landing. Finally!

“Cass!” Trent yelled after her again, but she didn’t stop, heard him closing in on her. “Hey! You can’t just go busting into a person’s room.”

Using all her weight she shouldered the fire door open and nearly fell into the hallway with its shabby carpet, half-painted walls and skeletal scaffolding. Electrical wires were exposed, holes in the wall were visible, and she realized that this was an older part of the hotel, an area that hadn’t yet been renovated and obviously wasn’t currently used for guests.

So why would Allie or anyone, for that matter, be up here?

She skirted ladders and paint cloths and equipment littering the dim, long hallway that was eerie, but wasn’t about to turn back. This was the floor where she’d seen Allie or her damned lookalike and Cassie wasn’t leaving until she’d checked out every corner.

The stairwell door opened again.

“What the hell is this?” Trent asked, his voice reverberating through the deserted hallway.

“Renovations.” She was already moving toward the corner room. Trent was right on her heels. “Cass. Stop this! Look around. There’s no one here.”

He sounded frantic.

Worried.

She was having none of it and reached the door.

Trent caught her arm. Spun her around. Stared down at her with eyes filled with concern. “This is crazy. You know that, don’t you?”

She blinked. He was right. She was acting like a lunatic. Seeing things that didn’t exist. Willing her missing sister to appear. Believing above all else that Allie was alive and here in this hotel, five floors above a party thrown for her latest movie. Why in the world would she be holed up here? Hiding out?

She saw the pain in his eyes, knew that he didn’t want to believe that she’d lost all connection with sanity, that she was creating images that weren’t there, that she was hallucinating again and was easing her way back to a psychiatric ward. “I saw her, Trent, I did!” she said, nearly spitting out the words. Desperate to believe them herself.

“Cassie. This is . . .”

“Nuts?” she supplied. “A half-baked fantasy?”

He didn’t answer. For half a heartbeat Cassie hesitated and then she said, “Well, you’re right. It is. But it’s my fantasy and I’m going to see it through and find my damned sister!” Spinning out of his arms, she grabbed the handle of the door and pushed hard.

To her surprise it gave way.

Easily.

Without a key.

Creaking inward to a dark void.

“Allie?” she whispered, her voice cracking as she fumbled for the light switch.

The overhead fixture snapped on. Bright light washed over a room that housed no one, just like the other rooms on this floor. The tattered carpet was dust-covered. A queen-sized bed with a bare mattress and a forgotten bubble-faced TV were the only furnishings.

But the balcony door was cracked, curtains billowing through the opening, and carelessly tossed over the battered headboard was a raincoat that appeared identical to one Cassie was sure belonged to her sister.

 

A
llie Kramer stood on the dark corner. The wig she was wearing was sodden, the baggy sweatshirt and jeans wet as well, the rain coming down in buckets, and yet she was rooted to the ground, looking back at the hotel where the party for the release of
Dead Heat
was in full swing. She’d snuck into the hotel and done her part, pulled off her “appearance,” and before that, she’d managed to gain a peek at the setup for the party, where she should have been in the limelight.

But the staging in the ballroom had soured her stomach—all those sets featuring her as Shondie Kent were disturbing. The worst had been seeing herself strapped down in a mental hospital. That image, though she’d played it, had chilled her to the bone. Even though she knew that these days patients weren’t physically restrained, being locked away like that was Allie’s worst nightmare and she couldn’t imagine how her sister had actually committed herself into a psych ward for a few weeks.

Then again, that was Cassie.

Forever the drama queen.

She didn’t want to acknowledge what was so patently obvious. At least not while she was standing here in the frigid Oregon drizzle.

She wondered, not for the first time, if she’d made a huge mistake agreeing to this sham. Things had escalated. Gotten ugly. Scary.

She was scared.

But determined.

Her thoughts skittered to her mother and she felt a pang of regret for the pain she was causing Jenna, but that jab of guilt quickly disintegrated, as it always did. Jenna didn’t deserve it. She’d lied to her children. To her husbands. Two-faced bitch.

And then there was Cassie.

At the thought of her older sister Allie’s blood boiled and she gritted her teeth. There had been a time when she’d looked up to Cassie, when she’d admired Cassie’s rebellious I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude, but everything had changed ten years ago in the aftermath of the maniac who had nearly killed Cassie and Jenna that cold, cold winter.

They had both survived and clung to each other. Jenna had felt guilt that Cassie had nearly lost her life because of her mother. And Cassie, that thick-skinned rebel? She’d been reduced to a whimpering, frightened shell of her former self. Neither had time for the baby of the family. Neither seemed to notice that she, too, was hurting.

Glaring down the street now, watching cars drive past the Hotel Danvers, seeing pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalk, observing the huge windows and veranda of the second story where Dean Arnette’s party was still going on, Allie tried and failed to tamp down her anger, the blinding rage that had stemmed from being ignored, from being the forgotten one, the girl who had faded into the background.

Jenna, that lying bitch, had taken up with Shane Carter, even going so far as to marry the bastard. Her hero. So Allie had been ignored, but then Jenna had a history of that. Allie knew. She, while doing her duty and cleaning her room for one of Jenna’s marathon remodels, had spent a little time in the attic, where she’d found her mother’s old diary.

“Tsk. Tsk,” she whispered, remembering reading the pages, mostly boring until she’d come to the part where Jenna had fallen in love and gotten pregnant. A stupid teen, she’d written about it in the small leather-bound book that girls used to keep like a million years ago. So Allie had set about trying to find the kid her mother had abandoned. It had taken years, but Allie Kramer was nothing if not patient. Now, she knew, she had the dirt on Jenna.

She thought of her half-sister.

Who woulda thunk? She was beautiful and smart . . . but there was something off about her, something Allie didn’t want to dwell on.

As for Cassie, what a nutcase. Soon after the horror of the madman, when Cassie had first started going around the bend, Cassie had found Trent, who was, even then, a cut above. A man. Allie had been fascinated with him then, but he hadn’t paid her the least bit of attention. Which had been par for the course. Every boy Allie had dated in high school had been half in love with her mother, asking for memorabilia and probably jerking off with something swiped from the house that reminded him of Allie’s mother. What was the phrase? MILF? Mother I’d Like to Fuck? Yeah, that was Jenna.

Cassie, too. She’d gotten a lot of press and looked like Jenna, so the boys had been all over her, but Allie, in high school, had gotten the leftovers and few of them. She’d been a real nerd, into books and grades and avoiding the limelight until Cassie had invited her to LA.

And then, she’d gotten her own back. And then some. Become the star Cassie could never even dream of being. Proven to her sister that she was better. Not just smarter, but she could outdo anything she put her mind to.

She smiled, though her success was paper thin, a shell. No one really cared for her. No man had sworn his undying love for her, at least none she’d believed. Even Brandon. He ran hot and cold and she’d seen him giving Cassie, yes, and even Jenna the eye.

Men!

She hated them.

Wanted them.

Needed their adoration.

Or did she?

The truth was, she only wanted real love. The kind both Jenna and Cassie seemed to so effortlessly inspire.

“Bitches,” she muttered, feeling the cold of the night, the dampness worming its way into her bones, the streetlights giving off an ethereal, almost eerie glow. How could one feel so alone in a city filled with thousands of people?

And she only wanted one. One lousy man.

Cassie had one and Allie, to get back at her, had set her sights on Trent Kittle. Not that she’d ever cared for him. God, he was such a . . . cowboy. Sexy, yeah, but not in the least urbane. Allie had gone after him just to mess with Cassie, who’d never even known that every boy Allie had ever liked had been more enthralled with wild, hot Cassie; that is, if they weren’t drooling over Jenna. Christ, she’d even found one would-be boyfriend riffling through Jenna’s bureau, looking for a pair of underwear when he’d claimed he was just going to use the bathroom.

Her stomach curdled at the thought.

But, at that time, Ryan Dansworth wasn’t even interested in getting into her pants. Oh, no, but give him a shot at Jenna or Cassie and he was practically creaming his damned jeans. Cheap jeans at that.

She wondered how much old Ryan boy would pay for a chance to fuck her now. He probably went to all of her movies and beat himself up for missing his chance. Too bad. Eat your heart out, Ryan. You, and the rest of the men in America could stand in line.

She felt a moment’s triumph before the old doubts assailed her.

A car rolled up, loud music audible, the passenger window rolled down, the smell of weed filtering from the windows. “Hey,” a male voice called from within the smoky interior. “Hey, babe? You need a ride?”

She ignored them.

But the car inched closer.

“Wanna hit?”

“Fuck off!” She didn’t need some pimply teenager trying to jump her bones.

“Ouch. Hey!” another, higher-pitched voice said. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Allie Kramer?”

“She’s hot!” the first voice said.

“No, man, I’m serious,” the second boy said, but she was already gone, slipping away through a back alley, melding in with pedestrians so busy with their own lives they didn’t notice the waiflike girl in the oversized sweatshirt. She’d gotten to be a pro at disappearing.

She had work to do.

Sliding her phone from her pocket, she punched out a familiar number. “Go time,” she whispered and jogged the two blocks to the parking garage, where, avoiding cameras, she found Brandon McNary’s beat-up SUV and unlocked it. She climbed behind the wheel, then opened the glove box, where she located the plastic bag filled with paraphernalia for a quick disguise. She popped a fake, more bulbous nose over her small one, added some wadding to her mouth to fatten up her jawline, slipped on a pair of oversized glasses, then tugged at the strands of her wig so her real hair wouldn’t show in any cameras. There might be questions asked. But she didn’t think so. Just how smart were the cops?

Had they found her?

Or figured out that Jenna had a baby before she was married, one she gave up for adoption?

Allie smiled as she drove out of the lot without the sleepy-eyed attendant giving her a second glance. She’d figured it all out. The diary had been the start and from there it was just a matter of digging.

And she’d met her half-sister. Worked with her. Shared laughs with her. Before she realized how really messed up the woman was. Their shared hatred of Jenna and Cassie had been a bond. At first. But later, Allie had discovered just how sick her half-sister was.

But murder?

Really?

Allie hadn’t believed she’d go through with it, but Lucinda Rinaldi had nearly died and now two others had. Now, Allie was caught in the middle.

If only she could go to the police.

If only she could unburden herself.

If only she’d never met the woman!

Knowing her half-sister was at the party, that she had no idea of Allie’s intentions, Allie drove to the apartment she’d never seen. How ironic that she’d used the very same method of gaining a key as had her sibling, but lifting it from an open purse, making a copy and using it to gain entrance.

She parked two blocks from the apartment building and kept her head ducked as she walked inside, and used the stairs. On the third floor she stepped into the hallway and was surprised at her case of nerves, how anxious she was.

Then again, the woman was a murderess.

Looking over her shoulder, certain the woman would leap out at her from any doorway, Allie hurried to the right apartment. Her hands trembled slightly as she inserted her quickly made key into the lock and with a
click
, it snapped open.

“Awesome.” Nerves twisted, she stepped inside and flipped on the light switch only to be stopped dead in her tracks. Any relief she’d felt upon entering had instantly evaporated. Her hand flew to her mouth as she viewed the room, a dressing room of sorts, and on every wall were posters, large mounted pictures of Allie herself and her mother, even Cassie, from the movies they’d made.

But they weren’t pristine, oh, no. They were cut and slashed, horrid, jagged pieces torn from them only to be taped and retaped until they were nearly unrecognizable.

Homicidal
.

Allie’s lungs constricted.

She could barely breathe.

What had she gotten herself into?

Again she looked over her shoulder then scanned the ceiling, searching for a deceptively concealed camera. Thankfully she saw none, but she didn’t doubt her newfound sibling was paranoid enough to have one installed.

The makeup mirror was still lit, bulbs burning bright, brushes and bottles and jars neatly arranged, in stark juxtaposition to the damaged posters that looked as if they’d been nearly destroyed in a fit of rage, then lovingly repaired . . . sort of.

“God in heaven,” she whispered and walked to an odd-looking window, pulling the cord for the blinds and seeing that the glass had been covered, and backlit with a thin bulb. The artwork stretched over the glass was a view of the Hollywood Hills, complete with the iconic white letters spelling out
HOLLYWOOD
.

As if the woman who called this her “Portland pad” believed that she had an authentic view of Hollywood. God, there were even fake palm fronds positioned perfectly.

How nuts was she?

“Off the charts,” Allie whispered, creeping and tiptoeing, as if she really did think the crazed woman was somehow observing her. Allie’s skin pimpled at the thought and she felt the lingering presence of pure evil, like a bad smell that seeped into the walls and carpet.

From the fake window she spied a portable copy machine on a table in one corner. It looked to be connected to a laptop computer positioned near a laminator, a machine that melted plastic onto paper. Beside the laminating machine was a short stack of pictures. Curious, she picked up the glossy head shots. Seeing the images, she nearly screamed. Each page was different, a picture that had been photoshopped and distorted to make the subject appear to be in intense agony, as if her face were dripping off her skull. Horrid, chilling images, the creation of a sick mind. Every head shot was of Allie Kramer.

“Oh shit,” she whispered, terror building. Her eyes rounded and her body shook as she stared at the horrifying photos. She felt the hatred that had created them, the evil that spent hours in malicious glee making such hideous pieces of art.

She dropped the pictures as if they burned her fingers.

Her stomach heaved and she sensed that she was losing it; that, like her sister, she might lose touch with what was real, what was fantasy. Hadn’t it happened before, when Lucinda had been shot, when she’d first realized what she’d gotten into? And then, dear God, she’d played along with it, listening to Brandon, who had cared for her, letting him tell her that her disappearance was a good thing, that there was a new buzz around the movie, that she would be more popular, more mysterious, than ever.