Incriminated (13 page)

The cast and crew of
Prepped
had been at Leo Carrillo beach all afternoon. Most had left around five, along with Ricardo Adams. Only three actors stuck around to shoot the final two night scenes.

Candace had elected to spend the day in Malibu to minimize on driving. She'd met her mother for lunch at her home on Malibu Beach. Later, she'd agreed to return there to spend the night.

One of the final three, Candace sighed as she watched the crew setting up. “Why bother to shoot at night if they're gonna light us up like a Christmas tree?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yoandy beaming at her comment. She'd watched him wander off to smoke a cigarette, and followed him. Now they leaned against the rocks at one end of the beach, waiting while the crew finished prepping the scene. At least five minutes had passed. So far, hers was the only comment that either had made. Yoandy seemed comfortably silent. Meanwhile, Candace
was itching with tension and half-formed sentences that never made it to her lips.

She closed her eyes for a second and then jumped in. “Should we talk about this kiss?”

Yoandy didn't turn his head, but she heard a smile in his voice. “You think maybe we should rehearse?”

“He'll probably wind up choosing the first take anyway,” Candace grumbled. “Directors usually do. But they like to have the choice. And the feeling of power.”

“I would like very much to kiss you right here,
nena
,” he said warmly. “But it's Sebastian's first time kissing Annika. Maybe better if we wait. Try to capture some of that ‘first time' energy on camera. What do you think?”

Candace said nothing, feeling her skin buzz. He wanted their first kiss to be recorded.

“And then after we kiss, you hit me,” Yoandy added cheerily.

“What?”

“You didn't see the new pages?”

“Ah, no!” Candace looked toward the director, feeling somewhat thrown.

“Oh!” Yoandy turned to her, finally engaging with energetic enthusiasm. “It's a little different from before. We start in the water, we head for the beach. Once we clear the water, count two beats. Then you fall. I grab you when you fall, kiss you, you hit me, and we keep running.”

“I fall? I
hit
you?”

“It's dark. There are lots of rocks and seaweed.”

“A kiss . . . and then I pop you one.” Candace let the statement settle, solidify into a concrete truth. “Why?”

“I guess you don't like being kissed!” he said with a shrug.

“Yeah, that'll do it,” Candace said disdainfully. “I guess ‘feisty' is what passes for character on this show.”

If it were up to Candace, she'd have written a kiss that Annika initiated, not Sebastian.

“Tension!” Yoandy said, smiling widely. His hand steered near her waist but stopped just short of touching her. Candace couldn't help but feel a pulse of excitement—within minutes she'd be in his arms. “The director wants it to be a will-they-get-together kind of thing,” Yoandy told her. “We can practice that, if you like.”

“I should look at the new pages,” she mumbled.

“Or you could trust me?” he offered, looking hopeful.

Candace glanced at the director. She'd already gotten a couple of dark looks from him when she'd caused delays. It wasn't worth the risk—but she
did
trust Yoandy. She'd just have to wing it.

Soon the director yelled for Candace and Yoandy to move into position. Yoandy began to step over the rocks. He held a hand out to her. After a moment's hesitation, Candace took it. They shared a tender smile, both surprisingly nervous.

A minute later they were both thigh-deep in the chilly waters of the Pacific. The tide was stronger than she'd expected. Fronds of knotted seaweed brushed against her legs and hands.

Candace peered toward the beach. But with the dazzling lights streaming directly at them, it was impossible to see any of the crew. Through a megaphone she heard the director yell, “Action!”

Candace ran headlong toward the sand. Beside her, Yoandy sloshed ahead. When they reached the beach, she counted to two. She stumbled and fell. Yoandy reached out and yanked her to her feet. He pulled her close. In the last second before their bodies touched, he slowed it down. He stroked strands of hair from her cheek.

Candace stared deep into his eyes, which were meltingly deep, chocolate brown, before he closed them and leaned in for a kiss.

Then his lips were on hers. They tasted of salt. His hands tightened on her waist. She could feel the tip of his tongue, trying to coax her lips farther apart. She wanted to relax into his arms, to open her mouth to him. But she didn't dare, not for a second. Each movement was deliberate. She pulled her right hand back. She formed a fist. She swung it toward his head. Yoandy yanked his head back as though he'd been struck. His left hand shot up to his cheek. He stared at her in shock and disappointment.

Candace felt an immediate surge of regret.

“Cut!”

Yoandy held back for a moment, and then grinned, delighted. “Pretty good,
nena
! I barely got out of the way in time!”

“Go again,” called the director. “This time, Candace, let
him
kiss
you
. And could you look less upset about hitting him? We need more anger, more gravitas. Remember the virus has reversed the aging progress. You're an experienced woman in the body of a teenage girl. Before the apocalypse, you were a contender for the Nobel Prize. Sebastian is just some schlub whose ass you already had to save from that gambling den. He's not worthy of you. 'Kay?”

They waded back into their water to their first positions. They played the scene again. This time Candace's lips were closed when he kissed her. The director called a halt partway through. “Go again,” he said grimly.

They played the scene a third time. This time Yoandy didn't pull his head back fast enough and her fist actually made contact with his jaw. Ironically, though, it appeared to be a much weaker punch. So they went again.

By the time the director was happy, they'd recorded another five takes. Soaking wet and with the cold onset of the night sea breeze, all Candace could think about was when she could kiss Yoandy again. His lips were soft, his touch warm against her cold ocean-kissed skin—but the most potent memory was the fleeting sensation of being pressed to his chest. She'd felt the heat of his body, even
through the soaking-wet shirt. He made her feel sexier than she could ever remember feeling. From the way he was looking at her, Candace could see that Yoandy was eager for more, too.

“You wanna go dancing sometime?” he asked as they toweled their hair and shoulders dry.

“Latin dancing? I—ah—I don't know how.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said, obviously amused by her uncharacteristic skittishness. “I will be very, very gentle. You won't even notice it's a lesson. How about Saturday night?”

“The Fourth?” Candace stalled. “You're not with your family?”

Yoandy shrugged. “Sure, we can go to the family if you prefer. There'll be dancing there, also. Dancing is everywhere when you're with me.” He smiled.

“I think maybe my housemates have plans,” she said, making a decision. “But you know what? Sure, okay, I'll come out with you. But not right now. My mom, she, ah, she's picking me up soon.” Candace finished with a wan smile. She hated to disappoint him.

But Yoandy didn't appear disappointed at all.
“Excelente.”

She looked at him expectantly until Yoandy finally chuckled and leaned closer, reaching for her waist with both hands. “Which kiss did you like best?” he whispered, close to her ear.

“This one,” she murmured, turning her face to his so
that their mouths met. She sucked gently on his lower lip before releasing him with a tiny nip of her teeth against his chin.

“Ay, mi madre,”
he groaned as Candace pushed him away, smirking. “You're gonna kill me,
preciosa
.”

“Don't worry,” she replied. “I'll be very, very gentle.”

“Lucy, let's go back to when you were nine years old.”

“I was Charlie back then,” murmured Lucy. “On
Jelly and Pie
.”

In a plush, Santa Monica consulting room of the psychiatrist, Dr. Barney Kessler, John-Michael watched the therapist remove a small, dark gray electronic device from the breast pocket of his sports coat. He touched a finger to the tiny screen and then placed it carefully on the desk to record the session. He pushed it along with the tips of his fingers until it was closer to Lucy, who sat in a leather easy chair, half reclined. The cream-colored damask curtains were drawn, reducing the midday glare from the oceanfront to a mild, cool glow. From compact speakers on the nearby birch wood bookcase, faint music played. It took John-Michael a few moments to realize that the music was the rather whimsical theme from
Jelly and Pie
. Nervously, he allowed his eyes to settle on Lucy. Her
eyelids were half closed and she swayed ever so slightly in her chair, as if she were on the deck of a boat. It was the first time he'd ever seen someone hypnotized. The whole thing creeped him out a little.

“Did you go to a party on Mulholland Drive?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “Where Tyson Drew was killed.” She sounded weary, as though having to relate the story for the thousandth time. John-Michael noticed that Dr. Kessler made a note before moving on.

“Tell me about that night, Lucy.”

There was a long silence. Then, very softly, Lucy said, “I don't want to.”

The therapist didn't react. “Can you tell me who you were with at the party?”

“Tyger was there. Alexis, Marc.”

“That's great, Lucy. So your costars from
Jelly and Pie
were there. Can you remember anyone else you saw at that party?”

“I guess I saw Tyson Drew,” she said resentfully. “He was dead.”

“Where did you see him?” asked Kessler. He used a calm, kind voice.

“In a swimming pool.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“Huh?”

John-Michael watched Lucy's face closely. She sounded lost, like a little girl clutching a teddy bear. Her eyes moved
rapidly under eyelids that were shut tight. There was a very long silence. Kessler didn't move, his expression didn't change.

“Lucy, was anyone near the pool when you saw Tyson Drew?”

When she spoke Lucy's voice sounded hoarse. “It's a bad,
bad
dream.”

“That's fine, Lucy,” Kessler said. He set down his yellow pad, folded his hands across his lap. “It's okay to tell me about the dream.”

“I'm not supposed to,” Lucy blurted. The force of the comment jerked John-Michael upright.

Kessler just nodded. “You can tell me, Lucy. I'm here to help you. Your friend John-Michael is here, too. You're safe.”

“Bad girls tell tales,” Lucy said, moaning. “Bad girls make up stories from their dreams.”

Finally, Kessler began to react. He leaned forward, toward Lucy. “Did someone tell you that?”

“It's a secret,” was all Lucy would say. John-Michael could see the stress in Lucy's entire body. Her hands gripped the edge of the chair so tight he could see the bones through Lucy's skin.

“Who told you not to tell?”

Lucy made a tiny, whimpering sound. “I'm not bad, miss.”

“Did ‘miss' tell you not to talk about the party?”

Fretfully, Lucy nodded, eyes still firmly closed.

Kessler's gaze strayed for just a second, catching John-Michael's eye. He held up a single finger to his lips. John-Michael nodded in response.

“Secrets can be like a prison, Lucy. But you're the one with the key. You can let yourself out of the prison, any time.”

He waited for a response, but Lucy made none. Kessler continued, “Would it be possible for me to talk to
Charlie
? Charlie from
Jelly and Pie
?”

Lucy mumbled something incoherent.

“Maybe
Lucy
didn't see anything at the party,” Kessler said. “Maybe Charlie is allowed to talk about what she saw?”

“Charlie don't care about her,” Lucy said abruptly. John-Michael immediately recognized the slightly exaggerated accent. It was working. Lucy had slipped into her character from
Jelly and Pie
.

“She dug her nails into his neck. Pretty nails, all shiny. Like peaches. On fire. His eyes bugged out when it happened. He tried to get away, but she had something around his neck—a tie. I saw her shoe on his shoulder, holding him under. It took him a
long
time to die. Bobbing up and down for air, but he wasn't getting any.”

John-Michael couldn't move. Kessler let Lucy's words resonate in the following silence. “Did you recognize the lady you saw, Charlie? Do you know her name?”

“Pretty lady, nice shoes.”

Kessler kept his voice level. “Charlie, can you tell me her name?”

John-Michael realized that he was holding his breath. Grace was outside in the waiting room, probably nervous as hell, praying to hear the words that might finally spell hope for her father.

There was a tiny sob in Lucy's reply. “Lady doesn't want anyone to know.”

The therapist said, “Did she threaten you?”

“Bad girls tell tales.”

“But I'm asking Charlie.”

“Charlie's bad,” Lucy said suddenly, adding in a singsong voice, “bad, bad, bad.”

“The lady's name, Charlie. Can you remember?”

“Dana said I shouldn't tell,” Lucy said, practically whispering. “I was crying 'cause I wet my pants. She cleaned me, put me to bed. She sang to me, gave me a bottle of nail polish from her purse when she saw how much I liked the color of her nails. Dana said it was a bad dream, is all.”

Kessler hesitated. “Where did Dana find you?”

“Around,” replied Lucy in a small voice.

“Did you like Dana?”

Lucy's eyes opened slowly. She turned and stared at John-Michael as though he were a complete stranger.

“Lucy, this is Dr. Kessler,” said the therapist in a voice of sudden authority. “Lucy—are you awake?”

Lucy's expression didn't change for a moment. “I remember. Damn, John-Michael. I
remember
.”

She rose, unsteadily, to her feet, catching the arm that John-Michael offered for support. When he felt the shake in
her muscles, he pulled her close.

“It's okay, Lucy,” he breathed against her neck. “It's gonna be okay. Let's go out and . . . and tell Grace.”

“Grace!” sobbed Lucy, tightening her grip around his neck. She sounded distraught. “What am I gonna tell her? What have I done?”

“You didn't do anything wrong, Luce, you didn't know.” John-Michael tilted her chin up so that he could look into her eyes. “I'm with you, all right? We'll tell Gracie together.”

He steered her toward the waiting room, with a final glance at Dr. Kessler, who stood aside to let them pass. “Come see me in a few days,” he said. “You need some aftercare.”

Grace stood up as they entered the waiting room. Her arms were by her sides, both hands clenched tightly. Eyes wide with hope, she said, “And . . . ?”

John-Michael gave a quick nod.

Grace could barely speak. “Lucy, did you remember something?”

“I remembered,” Lucy said shortly, her voice suddenly curt. “There was someone else there. That woman from the
Macbeth
movie, Dana Alexander.”

“Did she . . . ?” Grace stopped, placed a hand just above her breastbone, as if to steady her breath. “Did Dana see who did it?”

Lucy made the tiniest suggestion of a shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe . . . maybe she even did it.”

Grace gasped. Tears sprung to her eyes almost immediately. Gulping now, she asked, “Do you think my dad . . . ?”

“Can I get your dad free?” Lucy said, almost snapping. “Who knows? Maybe. Can we go now?”

Grace hesitated. “Lucy, are you mad at me?”

“Of course not,” Lucy replied, too quickly. “It's just . . .” John-Michael edged around so that he could look at her. Her sudden shift in mood had taken him by surprise, too. “I'm not angry,” she managed to say after a couple of deep breaths. “But this . . . this is a shock.”

“We understand that, of course,” Grace said. John-Michael echoed the sentiment with a vague mumble and then asked Lucy, “You wanna get a taxi?”

Lucy just shook her head. She pulled the door open and stepped out onto Santa Monica Boulevard. “I'll walk. I need to think.”

Grace grabbed Lucy's arm. Lucy stopped walking and stared at Grace's hand with a kind of appalled inertia. “Lucy, you're in shock. And I know it's kind of my fault. Do you want to talk about it?”

Lucy's lips moved in silence for a moment, as though she were rehearsing a line. Then: “Talk about it? No. This is messed up, Grace.”

Anger threatened to explode within Grace. “In two weeks my father is going to be put to death, Lucy, executed for what that woman did,” she blurted. “You've got to tell the cops what you remember. You have to!”

“Hey, hey,” John-Michael said, getting between them.
“Cool it, Gracie, I know you're upset, too.”

“What I remember?” Lucy stared at Grace, ignoring John-Michael. “It's all flashes. Nothing that will convince the cops that Dana Alexander killed him. I
need
to think about this.”

“You think
Dana Alexander
killed Tyson Drew?” Grace asked.

“Of course,” Lucy fired back. “She's the one who made me keep quiet about it.”

“Whoa,” John-Michael said. “That's going to be tough to prove. An A-list actress like Dana Alexander—not exactly an easy takedown.”

“You don't need to convince the cops that she actually did it,” Grace pleaded, gripping Lucy's arm even tighter as her friend tried to pull away. John-Michael sidelined a couple of passersby who'd noticed their altercation, made sure they gave the two girls a wide berth as they walked past. “You just need to plant reasonable doubt that my father
didn't
do it,” Grace continued in a lower voice.

Lucy said forcefully, “There is no way that Alexander is going down for this, Grace. She's too smart. Too powerful.”

“She wouldn't even have to actually be convicted. Even the suspicion would be enough to set my father free.”

“Listen to me,” John-Michael interrupted reasonably. “It looks like Dana Alexander was only too eager to suppress Lucy's testimony from the very beginning. Maybe she knows that if they start up the murder investigation all over again, they might find something.”

“But that was eight years ago,” Lucy said. “If she cared so much about keeping me quiet, why haven't I heard
word one
from the woman since that night?”

“Too risky?” John-Michael suggested.

Grace became quiet, thoughtful. “On the other hand, it would have made sense to keep tabs on you, somehow.”

Lucy became very still. “Tabs? Like, how?”

“Like, I don't know . . .” Grace shrugged. “Maybe make friends with someone
close
to you. Your parents, maybe? Get them to keep her posted, in case you started to talk.”

Lucy's expression flattened. The energy seemed to be visibly draining from her frame. “Oh no.”

John-Michael steadied her with a touch to her shoulder. “What is it?”

Lucy stared from Grace to John-Michael beseechingly. She began to shake her head. “It can't be. She wouldn't do that to me. We were rehab buddies! She wouldn't betray me.”

“Lucy, who are you talking about?” John-Michael asked.

“No, not Ariana.” Lucy shook her head, confused.

John-Michael took in Grace's expression, watched her go from stunned to bitter resolution. Grace took two breaths in quick succession. She put both hands on Lucy's shoulders.

“If it's Ariana, Lucy, then you have to accept . . .”

“No,” Lucy said in a low moan, her voice trembling. “Not Ari . . . She knows everything, Gracie. About Charlie,
about my dream, what I saw that night when Tyson Drew was killed; Ariana knows everything!”

“And she was listening on the landing,” Grace said, her voice clear as cut glass in the warm, balmy air. “When we were talking yesterday.”

“She probably even heard you talking about getting the regression therapy,” John-Michael pointed out. From the sudden gasp that Lucy gave then, he realized how shattering this had to be.

“Then she's already warned Dana Alexander. And now she's at home, waiting for me to come back and spill the beans,” Lucy snarled, bitterness dripping from every word. “Well, those two lying witches are gonna deal with
me
now.”

“And me,” Grace said.

“And me,” John-Michael added fiercely. “Whatever happens now, Luce, we've got your back.”