Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2) (16 page)

Autumn dipped her spoon into her cup, coating it with key lime deliciousness and licking it off slowly. She remained silent, allowing Andrew to draw what conclusions he might. Judging from his flushed cheeks, her message was loud and clear.

“Maybe we walk and eat?” he suggested huskily.

“You read my mind...”

* * *

Another phone call, this time from the concierge. Awkward timing, given her nude state. Even more awkward, given Andrew being in earshot.

“Hello, Ms. Brody! This is Sandra from the concierge desk. I just wanted to confirm that we were able to take care of those arrangements you requested. The flowers were delivered to the specified memorial sites this afternoon.”

“Um, thank you. Thank you very much. And the billing?”

“Just swing by the front desk anytime during your stay to settle up.”

Setting her phone down, she drew a deep breath and prepared for the inquisition. And it was forthcoming; she could feel the tension in Andrew's torso.

“Would you like to explain?”

Reluctantly, she faced him. “Okay, I know you know something weird happened, so I'm not going to lie to you. I didn't exactly find Evan's tickets on my own.”

Andrew propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze so intense she withered beside him. “You had help from the other side, so to speak.”

Autumn grimaced, forcing herself to continue. “I didn't ask for him to show up! He died in the theatre in 1991. He offered to help me, if I would help him.”

“So he found the ticket...”

“And I made sure his mother had flowers on her grave today,” she finished nervously, burying her face in her hands.

Andrew remained silent, his body swathed in late-afternoon light from the window. Bars of shadow and shimmer in neat alternation. It would be beautiful if he wasn't so damn upset.

“It was just once,” she insisted.

“No, it wasn't,” was his reply. “Just... be careful, Autumn. Last time...”

“I promised I wouldn't let
any of this
overshadow my entire life, and I meant it.”

And she did mean it. She threw herself into making him believe her, tender touches and whispered adoration, until fear gave way to frantic need. Consumption and connection bound them until the orange streaks of sunset slipped silently away under the cloak of silky night.

It was nearly eleven when Autumn finally heard from Veronica, beyond brief
K, I'm fine
textspeak. Stretched out on the bed—finally clothed, under much protest from her lover—and reviewing her novel synopsis before bed, she heaved a relieved sigh at the call display. Autumn prepared for one of two Veronicas: the devil-may-care Veronica, or the frustrated-as-hell version. Thankfully, the former greeted her on the line.

“Hey babe! How was your day?”

“Interview prep and sightseeing, with a side order of lazy in bed. And yours?”

“Well, I've got the bodyguards that would make a single woman drop to her knees. It's possible that I may be dethroned as 'Queen of the Night'. Night shift guard Ray? He's totally Gabriel's type. We spent the last hour singing Whitney Houston songs.”

“Oh, God. Evan's miserable, isn't he?” Evan's music tastes ran from classic rock to death metal. Pop was not exactly his style.

“Hell no! I've been dancing in short-shorts and a tank top. Plus he got to watch me perform tonight. You know what's hilarious? Of all of my bodyguards, only Kevin won't call me Whitney. Funny enough, the other two let me call them Kevin.”

Autumn laughed, putting the call on speaker. “Andrew's joined us, by the way. Is Kevin a stickler for the rules?”

“To say the least! Don't get me wrong: he's incredibly thorough. I feel completely safe when he's around, so thank your dad for me. But he needs to have a little fun. It won't kill him.”

“Any sign of Mister Wrong?” Andrew asked.

“Nada, and Kevin isn't happy about it. He was expecting him to at least send a letter. All of the guys are kinda surprised. Kevin also schooled the theatre on proper surveillance gear, so Parsons will be back on stage tomorrow. A tragedy. Understudy is pretty amazing. I did learn one thing from Kevin.”

“Oh?”

“Barrington is the shit. Aside from her determination to book my boyfriend for stalking me from another country, she's racked up ridiculous commendations. She's the youngest female detective in the history of NYPD. Ambitious, but saves kittens from trees.”

Autumn made a mental note of this. “Which means she doesn't like to not get her man. I'd really feel a lot better if we had something to go on—fingerprints, a name, a visual. Anything.”

“Me too.” Veronica murmured an apology, covering the phone as she whispered to someone. “Hey, I gotta jet. Apparently, your interview is at 7:45?”

“Yeah,
my
interview. And?”

“And I'm coming down to the station to watch you tape it. As if I'd miss your television debut! Courtney arranged the details with Kevin. He's a little pissed about the logistics, but Ray's going to overlap and drive me over so he can meet us there after a sweep.” The last word was emphasized, her voice drifting into 'movie trailer' mode.

“Are you sure, V? I mean, you could just watch it on TV—“

“Stuff it, Autumn. I'll be there, possibly with legit bells on. Hey, Evan can literally ring my bell!”

Andrew laughed. “That poor guy... Veronica, we've got to be at ABC for 6:30. We'll see you tomorrow.”

“Ooh, it begins: he's speaking for my wifey. Alright, get your freak on. Oh, Autumn?”

“Yes, gorgeous?”

“Do you have another copy of your ARC? I can't find mine for the life of me and after tomorrow, I'm certain its eBay value is going to soar.”

“Ha ha, wise ass. Sure thing. I'll bring it to GMA. Goodnight, V.”

Tugging away Autumn's notes, Andrew tossed them beside the bed and patted the pillow. “Not that you need beauty sleep, but I do believe it's past someone's bedtime.”

“Yeah, yeah. One sec.”

She padded across the room, retrieving a bottle of water from the dresser. “Trust Veronica to lose something that big. This is why Courtney gave me two more: one for me, and one for whoever managed to lose or ruin it.”

“I'm betting every author has that one friend or family member who's hopeless,” Andrew mused. “I'll have you know that mine is safely tucked away in protective sleeves custom-made for it.”

“Aren't you a sweetheart? I wonder what I should reward you with?” Autumn demurred.

“Tonight? Just the comfort of your snuggly body in this bed. You're grouchy when you have to get up early. Don't worry, I'll collect eventually.”

“Better not wait too long. The zombies could show up any day now,” she reminded him, slipping back into bed.

Andrew growled playfully, burying his face in her neck as she kicked and squealed. “They're coming to get you,
Auuutuuumn
!”

“Double-tap.” She yawned loudly, burying her face in the pillow.

Somewhere between quotes from
Evil Dead
and
Dawn of The Dead
, Autumn drifted into a dreamless slumber, unaware it would be the last mercy shown to her in New York City.

It was a day of intrusions, of prying eyes and digging questions. It was a day of not nearly enough caffeine and far too much alcohol. It was a day of joy and despair
.

The last entry in the journal was four months old—the last time she’d felt compelled to bleed words, lest she bleed her sanity dry. But today had been a study in
overwhelmed
and
powerlessness
. She needed to let it out, let it go, lest she lose sight of what mattered.

How had a day full of promise gone so awry?

The interview had been as comfortable as any major television outlet could manage: the interviewer, a guest correspondent named Elisa Schneider, had worked with survivors of domestic violence for ten years. After some professional make-up and hair styling—including whipping her lazy waves into loose movie-star spirals—the segment was pre-taped to roll during preparations for a performance by a local hip-hop artist. Elisa was the perfect choice to handle an introductory interview: friendly, open and knowledgeable. The shared understanding of the psychological elements of her novel had made for a casual discussion of politics, feminism and the intersection of the personal and the fictional.

As promised, when asked about the film rumours, Autumn had replied, “If I don't insist they look at Veronica St. Clair for the role of Laurel, I'd be a terrible friend—and I'd also be wasting an opportunity to have a tremendous talent bringing my character to life on the big screen.”

Veronica had been thrilled with this; of course, Kevin was less impressed. Having already spent the early morning dodging the paparazzi, the intensity dialed up to an eleven in the wake of the interview. Zach Parsons had gone fishing for public sympathy on his day off, accomplishing nothing but a spike in social media interest in Veronica.

Advised not to comment by both Kevin and her agent, she'd only offered one soundbite to the persistent photogs: “I would be thrilled to star in a film adaptation of
Dissected
. Wesley Williams can call me day or night to make his offer; I won't refuse.”

Deciding that making Kevin's life harder was her life's work, Veronica had proposed lunch at a small cafe, followed by an excursion to Guggenheim. "It's one of the few places in New York I keep forgetting to visit. It's shameful. As my friend, you can't allow my ignorance to continue."

"That's not on the itinerary today," Kevin had stated firmly.

Autumn empathized with the guy. Fresh out of the military, Kevin was a wall of lean muscle, standing six-three with a classic high-and-tight haircut. Dressed in a white dress shirt and grey slacks, he could have been just another actor from her cast. However, as Veronica was eager to whisper, Kevin was a black belt in judo and currently studying jiu-jitsu. While she had no doubt Kevin could handle a difficult situation, she could appreciate why he didn't care to press their luck.

Veronica had pouted dramatically. "Kevin, my love, having a stalker was not on my friends' vacation itinerary, and yet, here we are! I understand your concerns, but it's the freaking
Guggenheim
. Who gets attacked in there?"

"As I've repeatedly explained, Ms. St. Clair, I am better able to protect you when I can plan in advance for any potential threat to your safety."

"I really wish you'd call me Whitney," was her playful reply. "Does the Guggenheim have swords? Whitney got her way with a sword."

Evan cleared his throat at this point, having had enough of her shenanigans. "No, Whitney got
laid
with a sword. That's my job, not Kevin's."

Autumn could clearly recall how Andrew snickered, how Kevin's tanned complexion had morphed into more of a burnt sienna than a golden brown.

"True enough, but Whitney still got her way," Veronica had insisted. "Wouldn't a codename be beneficial for an operation like this?"

It was then that Kevin had finally decided to put an end to the discussion once and for all, leaning across the table in a stare down with the starlet. "Look, Veronica: if you think you are the first client to make jokes about a 1992 film that was originally penned in the '70s for Steve McQueen and Diana Ross, think again. Although your renditions of the best-selling film soundtrack of all time are, I must say, superior to those of all previous contenders."

The group had erupted in laughter, Veronica included, Evan clapping him on the shoulder. "Well played, my man! I knew I liked you."

So much joy as it began. I'll never understand how a single day can shift so dramatically
, Autumn continued in her journal.
The Guggenheim was, as expected, a museum. Some beautiful pieces, of course, but it was more of an excuse to goof off and relax—to be young adults, without obligations or threats to our safety. Andrew seemed to enjoy the collection the most, so we indulged him, lingering longer than perhaps any of us intended.

I gave Veronica her second copy of the ARC, warning her that she could wait for the official release if she lost it. Anticipating her antics, I'd autographed it for her. She was thrilled, of course. A part of her is still that young teenager with an obsession for theatre, camping out at stage door and collecting autographs.

Why she wants to focus on my fame, I don't know: during our wandering tour of the museum, Veronica mentioned a film audition she'd gone on. It was so casual, like chatting about errands. Pick up dry cleaning, audition for new Ryan Gosling movie. No big deal.

"It's nothing. It was just a small part, five minutes on screen with Ryan. I didn't get it."

Sophia Bradley: the actress who did win the part. I'd almost forgotten her name by the evening—her claim to fame is some CW show that I steer clear of for its pandering to preteens. Not my style. Now, her name is screaming in my skull.

She is screaming in my skull. And I am powerless to help her. I've asked. I've opened the door—ripped it off its goddamn hinges and shouted for someone to help me. Silence. No lights; no woman in a blood-stained dress.

This is my fault. It’s like Veronica said yesterday: it’s a bad dream and I can’t wake up from it. None of us can. Especially not Sophia…

"Babe? You alright?"

Autumn shut her journal and sat it aside, shaking her head. "Of course not. How could I be?"

Sinking down onto the bed beside her, Andrew reached for her hand. "This isn't your fault."

"But my book—"

"Isn't even released yet."

"Veronica's ARC went missing, Andrew. He's got it. I know he does."

Tugging free of his grip, Autumn rose to her feet, too agitated to stay still. Anger drove her from one end of the room to another, her limbs restless. His mouth opened briefly, as if to argue, but he quickly conceded. He watched her with caution, her predatory movements akin to a caged tiger in the zoo.

"I wrote it. It's my fault," she insisted.

Andrew grimaced. "Even if this is what you think it is—and I'm not saying it is—what some psychologically disturbed guy does with your novel is not your responsibility, any more than we can blame video games for Columbine."

"I fucking suggested her as the star of the film adaptation!" Autumn snapped. "I did that. Me. And now he's... He's making his own movie. I could have caught onto it. I should have."

"Autumn, no—”

"Sophia Bradley could have been safe and sound tonight, had I paid any attention. That's the truth. And you won't convince me otherwise."

Throwing up her hands in frustration, she stormed into the living area of the suite, scanning the furniture for her key card and purse, Finding both on a small table near the door, she snatched them up and threw open the security latch.

"Where the hell are you going?" Andrew snapped.

"Out. Walking. I don't know." She pulled the door open two inches before Andrew's arm shot out and slammed it. "Let me go," she hissed.

"Not a chance in hell."

She tugged on the handle but it was futile: Andrew's strength trumped her fury and guilt. "I can't stay here. I can't."

"Then I'll go with you," he replied firmly. "There is no goddamn way I am letting you out of my sight with this guy on the loose. You’re too important to me."

With a guttural wail, she slid to the floor, pressing her face to her knees.
Hide. Disappear
. She instinctively sought to be smaller when stressed, to be
less than
, to be
gone
. Dark spaces, small corners—these were her refuge in times of turmoil. She could feel the warmth of his hand upon hers but she batted it away, choking on a sob.

No love. No kindness. Not for me.

"You couldn't have known," Andrew repeated.

"The snakes," she managed to blurt out, continuing to weep.

"Everyone thought it was a prank," Andrew rebutted softly. "
Everyone
."

She should have sensed it. Should have known from the lack of contact from the stalker. Something was looming. He was escalating. But when Veronica had called prior to her performance to relate how Zach Parsons was furious about toy snakes hidden throughout his dressing room, Autumn had thought nothing of it. She'd
laughed
, even.

Parsons, it seemed, had something in common with Indiana Jones: a full-on hatred of snakes. Having spent his time off selling any information he could to the first bidder, Veronica and her cast mates had assumed the prank—including a snake popping out of his drawer like a slinky green Jack-In-The-Box—was a reference to both his nature and the musical. One of the stage hands had a particular hate-on for Parsons and was the prime suspect, Veronica had shared.

Not anymore. Not since the call she'd received just before eleven-thirty.

It was all over the local news outlets, as well as being picked up by TMZ
(Who else?
): actress Sophia Bradley was missing after what appeared to be a "violent struggle" in her Soho loft. Neighbours had called the police after hearing a scream and a loud
thump
and although the police would neither confirm nor deny any of the leaked information, their statement of concern for Sophia and belief in
foul play
made Autumn pretty confident that there was a blood-soaked kitchen floor.

Just as she'd written it in chapter five of
Dissected.

"What can I do?" Andrew whispered, kneeling beside her.

"Nothing," she whimpered, wrapping her arms around her knees. "No one can do anything. It's already begun."

In her mind, she could see her own story unfold: a cadaver assignment breaks open, its Y-incision flooding the classroom floor with a series of garter snakes. The cruelest classmate in the room runs away, frightened and furious.
Ophidiophobia: fear of snakes.
Next, the top student in Laurel's class goes missing, a pool of blood and shattered lamp all that she leaves in her wake.
The classmate—Shannon—turns up dead near the end of the novel.

It's how Autumn knew, deep down, that the police would never find Sophia Bradley in time. If he'd managed to elude detection this long, Veronica's stalker had proven he was both careful and detail-oriented.

"You really think he has your book and has decided to somehow bring it to life?"

"You have a compelling alternative?" Autumn's head snapped up, searching his eyes for absolution. "Because if you have one, I'd love to hear it. I'd love to not feel like my creation has become some twisted murder blueprint."

"I can't deny the similarities with the book. I wish I could. But this might not be her stalker at all."

"Andrew—"

"We have no proof he has the ARC. Veronica could have left it in the train wreck she calls her bedroom back home. She says she took it with her when she visited her mom a month ago. How many copies are in circulation?"

Autumn rubbed her eyes, leaning back against the wall. "Um... forty or so. The mainstream media and larger outlets will get theirs in October."

Andrew settled beside her, deliberately maintaining enough space to avoid contact. "So that's forty people, aside from your editor and the staff of your publisher, who know the plot of your book. If this is really some recreation of your book, that's a lot of people with the ability to do it."

"Occam's Razor: makes no sense for me to have a psycho fan as well as Veronica. You're reaching," Autumn rebuked him.

"Maybe... Or maybe they're one and the same."

What was once a small lump in Autumn's throat now swelled, threatening to choke her. "The stalker is a blogger, then?"

Inside her, the pieces tumbled into a fractured, albeit meaningful whole.
I'm looking at the timeline wrong.
They'd been so focused on the first overt contact by the stalker that no one had considered that obsessions often grew over time.

"He would have researched her," Autumn mused aloud. "The moment they announced
In the Garden
, the entire cast was in the spotlight. That was in March."

"When did the ARCs go out?"

"May," she replied. "If you Google Veronica, you find her roles in Casteel Prep."