After She's Gone

  For once, she didn’t argue.

  Standing in the living room of Cassie Kramer’s LA apartment, Rhonda Nash did a slow burn. The place, obviously, had been left in a hurry. There were a few clothes left in the bedroom closet, a couple sweaters tossed onto the bed, and the trash, what little there was of it, hadn’t been taken out. Some mail, mostly junk, was scattered on a small desk. The bed hadn’t been made. It was as if Cassie Kramer had gotten a call in the middle of the night and blown town, which wasn’t exactly what had happened according to the landlord. Still, it was becoming more evident by the second that Nash’s trip to California might have been, if not a wild goose chase, then too little, too late. The apartment was in minor disarray and, if the landlord were to be believed, Cassie Kramer had barely touched down before she’d fled LA, as quickly as possible. From what Detective Nash could determine, she’d been in California just long enough to ask questions about her sister, ruffle some feathers, then race out. Cassie had been seen with Holly Dennison the night before the set designer’s murder and she was still a person of interest in her sister’s disappearance. If nothing else, she was guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. As she eyed the living room and bedroom of the apartment, Detective Nash wondered if Allie Kramer’s sister’s culpability ran a little deeper than that.

  “She said she was going back to Oregon for a while. Didn’t know exactly when she’d return, but wanted to keep the apartment,” Doug Peterson had told her. Pushing seventy, with thinning white hair and a bit of a paunch, Peterson owned the large home on the property and rented out this little apartment.

  Currently, Peterson was hovering on the tiny front porch and holding a black cat while stroking its fur and keeping an eye on Nash and Hayes as they poked around. He didn’t set foot in the apartment, just hung near the open door. She sensed he wanted them to leave things be, but didn’t have the guts to take on the police. “She’s been a good tenant, Cassie has,” he said. “Quiet for the most part. Respectful of the property. Always pays on time. Even when she isn’t in town.”

  Yeah, yeah, Cassie Kramer is effin’ fantastic, Nash thought sourly, but kept her opinions to herself. “Good to know.”

  She’d already seen Holly Dennison’s corpse and the mask that had been left at the crime scene. She’d talked to the LA techs and cops who’d been at the scene, but had spent most of her morning with Jonas Hayes who had brought her up to date on his investigation.

  Glancing around the apartment one last time, she figured her next move was to have another face-to-face with Allie Kramer’s sister.

  And she hoped to do it in Oregon, if that’s where she’d flown.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Virginia Sherling insisted across the wireless connection. “I never texted you. I don’t text.” There was irritation in the doctor’s voice.

  “Could someone else have?” Cassie asked. She was standing on the porch off of Trent’s back door and staring at the dreary day. The sky was gun-metal gray, the clouds low. Cattle lumbered in the fields separated from other pastures where horses plucked at the grass. A cool wind slipped through the screens, to tug at Cassie’s hair.

  “My phone is always with me or in my office or my house, so I don’t see how.” Her tone changed. “How’re you doing, Cassie?” Was there an undercurrent beneath the solicitous tones, a hint that Dr. Sherling thought she was making up the story about the texts?

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Again, Cassie sensed a falseness to the psychiatrist’s words. “I think it might be a good idea if we had a session. I’d like to hear how you’re doing, what you’re working on, where your life is heading. Your thoughts on everything. You did leave abruptly.”

  “I’ll call you,” Cassie said. “Right now, I don’t have time, but thank you. Good-bye.” She hung up before the doctor could say anything else.

  “Not her?” Trent asked, as she stepped inside.

  “No.”

  “I have a theory,” he said slowly, his gaze careful, his eyebrows drawing together as they always did when he was thinking.

  “All right . . .” she responded cautiously.

  “The kid who knows all the stats? Rinko? What if he got hold of the doctor’s phone and texted you quickly, then erased the message so Doctor Sherling wouldn’t find out.”

  “The message about Santa Fe?”

  “He knows everything about sports and cars, right? That’s what you said and he sure as hell knew every detail about my truck. He’d spied it in the lot at the hospital and figured it belonged to me.”

  “That sounds like Rinko,” she said. “He’s amazing.”

  “Okay. So maybe Santa Fe isn’t about the city, but about the car, an SUV. And the 07 is the model year of the car. Maybe he’s talking about a 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe.”

  “That’s kind of a stretch,” she said, but felt as if she’d stepped into a time warp. How many times, while she was in the hospital, had Rinko gone on and on about the cars he’d seen in the parking lot? He knew what type of car each member of the staff drove and remarked when one of the nurses, aides, or doctors came in something new, or a loaner or their spouse’s vehicle. With his near-photographic memory, Rinko could remember most vehicles that had ever wheeled onto the tree-lined lot of Mercy Hospital.

  “It could be. But what does it mean?” she asked. “An SUV made in Korea?”

  “The vehicle was unusual, probably. My guess is it wasn’t normally in the lot, or he wouldn’t have felt compelled to send the text. I’m guessing it might belong to your nightmare nurse, the one who dropped her earring.” He carried his cup to the sink and added it to a stack of breakfast dishes. “Why don’t we go talk to Rinko?”

  She withered inside at the thought of returning to the hospital. She was certain to run into someone who would alert Dr. Sherling that she was on the premises.

  “Come on,” Trent said, and he was already reaching for his jacket. “We’ll make the rounds. First to visit Jenna, assure her you’re all right, then to Rinko to have a little chat with him, see what else he might be able to tell us about the Santa Fe.”

  “If that’s what it is.”

  “Easy to find out.”

  She recalled that Trent had been in military intelligence, though his stint in the army had lasted less than five years and had occurred before he’d met Cassie. “If I have to I can call one of the guys who was in the army with me. He ended up with his own detective agency. High tech. He has connections with the police.”

  “Don’t tell my stepfather. He thinks everything should go through the proper channels.”

  “For once I agree with Carter. That is, until the channels are clogged. After talking to Rinko, I think we’d better go to the police station to visit Nash and show off the fun gift that was left in your suitcase.”

  Her good mood evaporated at the thought of seeing the detective. “Nash thinks I did it, you know. That somehow I made Allie disappear.”

  “Maybe the mask will change her mind.”

  “She’ll probably think I was behind it as well.”

  “Maybe they can get some prints off it.”

  “Let’s hope. But . . . let’s not let Mom know that someone was in my apartment and left it there. She’d freak.” She thought of Jenna and how she’d become paranoid for her children after the trauma that had occurred ten years earlier.

  “She’s going to find out soon enough.”

  “No . . . I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Then at least let me talk to Shane.”

  “He’s not your biggest fan,” Cassie reminded him.

  “I know, but let’s pull him in. He’s an ex-sheriff who still has major connections with the department. He can decide how much your mom can handle.”

  She hesitated, but at least she knew she could trust her stepfather. Unlike Detective Nash, he didn’t think she was a suspect in her sister’s disappearance. “Deal.”

  Trent smi
led and gave her a wink. His grin was infectious and despite the trauma of recent days, Cassie returned it even though the last place on earth she wanted to be was anywhere near the Portland Police Department, well, unless you counted Mercy Hospital. But he had a point. “Okay,” she acquiesced. “Fine. I’ll go to the hospital and we’ll talk to Carter, but I’d like to avoid dealing with Detective Nash as long as possible. That woman has it in for me.”

  Before he could argue, she added, “Just give me time to walk through the shower and change. Fifteen minutes and then we’ll go.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said automatically, then caught himself.

  His words burned in her brain. As cozy as being here with him had been, as comfortable as the ride from California had turned out to be, she was definitely not his girl or woman.

  But she was still his wife.

  The pregnancy test was negative.

  Again.

  Sitting on the edge of her bathtub, Jenna Hughes decided she was done with the whole baby-making idea. Maybe God was telling her that she was too old, that she should be satisfied that she had healthy children who now were grown women. For a second she thought of Allie, still missing, and Cassie, who had so recently been a patient in a mental ward. She clenched her hands into fists, worried enough about them and probably didn’t need a new baby in the mix.

  Still, it was hard to accept.

  Yes, she was no longer a young woman. She’d passed forty a few years earlier, but it was hard to give up the dream of sharing a child with Shane. Now, glancing in the mirror, she saw a feathering of small lines near her eyes that hadn’t been there a few years earlier, and there was more than one silvery thread stubbornly showing in her black hair.

  Jenna bit her lip, a new habit that had come with the strain and concern over her daughters.

  Shane didn’t have children. Not biological. Not adopted. Just the stepchildren he’d inherited when they’d married. He hadn’t wanted children with his first wife, Carolyn, and it had been a deep fissure in that marriage. Once he and Jenna had married, he’d changed his mind. However, he’d never been as disappointed as she when she hadn’t gotten pregnant.

  Obviously another baby wasn’t meant to be.

  She could be okay with that.

  Maybe.

  If her daughters were safe. She thought of her previous pregnancies, the births, the joy of life and the sadness, of the mistakes she’d made, the guilt over decisions that hadn’t turned out well. God knew she hadn’t been a stellar mother, and more often than not she’d second-guessed herself. But being a parent meant making errors that sometimes came back to haunt her, one of many being that she’d hoped neither Cassie, nor Allie, would turn to Hollywood. She hadn’t wanted them to follow in their mother’s footsteps.

  However, the bright lights of Hollywood had beckoned them, her daughters’ desires amplified by their father’s own dreams.

  Rubbing the kinks from her neck, she reminded herself it was all part of being a parent: heartache and joy, happiness and pain. And always, inevitably, guilt.

  God knew she had enough on her plate with the children she already had. She threw the test strip into the trash and told herself, “No more,” then checked her watch as she passed through the bedroom she shared with Shane. Cassie had called and said she’d be coming by.

  The dog started making a ruckus, barking her fool head off. Jenna hurried down the stairs of this old ranch house with its log walls and paned windows. She’d bought it when she’d relocated from California and Shane had moved in as soon as they’d married, now nearly ten years ago.

  She racewalked through the hallway, threw open the front door, and, with the dog galloping ahead of her, spied Cassie’s little Honda appearing over a slight rise in the lane to her house. “Thank God,” she murmured. She hadn’t bothered with a coat and rain was lashing from the sky. Jenna didn’t care as she ran across the wet grass and muddy puddles only to stop on the gravel drive at the spot where Cassie stopped her car and flung open the door. Relief washed over her at the sight of her daughter and damn, if a lump didn’t form in her throat when Cassie climbed from behind the wheel.

  “Cassie!”

  “Geez, Mom, you’re getting wet.”

  Jenna threw her arms around her daughter and desperately tried not to cry. She’d been out of her mind with worry. Allie was still missing. Cassie had been distant, her mental health fragile. Jenna felt a gap widening between herself and her two children and she hated it. She clung to Cassie as if to life itself. “I’ve been so worried.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Good.” Jenna squeezed her eyes shut and wished she could believe it. God, how she prayed that her daughter was healthy and strong.

  “And we’ll find Allie, Mom,” she said as the wind blew cold down the Columbia Gorge.

  How? How can we find her when the police haven’t been able to?

  Jenna nearly broke down. Her throat closed, her eyes burned, and she held Cassie tight. “Of course we will,” she whispered, her voice cracking a little. What she would give to have Allie with them right now. Memories of moving to Falls Crossing assailed her, memories of carving out a new life for herself and her two girls on this very patch of land, this ranch nestled near the shores of the river.

  Fighting a losing battle with tears, Jenna finally released Cassie and realized that Trent Kittle had been in the passenger seat and now was standing on the opposite side of the car. She’d never thought she would approve of Kittle, but found herself grateful he appeared to be in Cassie’s corner. “Come on. Let’s go inside. You’re moving back, yes? Into your old room?”

  Cassie and Trent exchanged glances over the top of her car.

  “Silly of me,” Jenna said, catching the eye contact and feeling a moment’s confusion mingled with relief. “You’re with Trent. Married. Together.”

  Cassie appeared uncomfortable and it seemed that rather than answer, she turned her attention to the dog, petting Paris’s wet head. Were they together again? It seemed so, but the last Jenna had heard, before Cassie had checked herself into Mercy Hospital, was that she was ending her marriage. Maybe the divorce had been tabled. Maybe they were working things out. Though Jenna had never been on board with the relationship.

  He’d been too old and experienced when they’d first started seeing each other in Falls Crossing. Cassie had been recovering from the trauma of being nearly killed by a stalker who had his sights set on Jenna and her daughters, and she’d also been dealing with the pain of her most recent boyfriend’s murder. She’d witnessed Josh die, so Trent—older, more mature, kind of a bad boy who’d been through the military—didn’t seem to be the right guy at the right time. At least not to Jenna. But once Cassie took off for Hollywood and had been on her own a bit, she’d hooked up with Trent again and that time Jenna hadn’t been as against the relationship. Now, standing in this cold rain, she was grateful her daughter had someone who, it seemed, still cared for her. Cassie took a long time to pet the dog, then both she and Trent followed Jenna into the house. In the living room, Cassie dropped her purse onto the floor and tumbled onto the couch, taking over the very spot she’d claimed as a teenager. The dog, muddy feet and all, hopped up beside her and wiggled close. Trent sat nearby, in a leather recliner, and Jenna dropped into the rocker by the window, the chair that had become her home while sitting and waiting for news of her missing daughter. A fire glowed in the hearth, red embers nearly dead, the smell of wood smoke heavy.

  “Whitney Stone’s been calling me. Well, along with the others,” Jenna said, switching on a table lamp. “So many reporters or paparazzi or whatever these days!”

  Cassie made a sour face. “Whitney Stone actually tracked me down in California.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s pretty . . . determined.”

  “Ruthless,” Cassie said, before launching into her story about the reporter chasing her down and trying to film her at a park. She ended with, “I nearly ran over her goon of a camerama
n. Geez, what’s wrong with that woman?”

  “Greed. Ambition. Whatever. She feeds into the public’s fascination with the minutiae of celebrity life. That’s why I ended up here.”

  “And how did that turn out for you?” Cassie tossed out, then seemed immediately rueful. “Sorry.”

  “I got Shane out of the deal,” Jenna reminded. Then, “The trouble is Whitney Stone wants to not only talk about what’s going on now, she’s putting out a ‘special report.’ I think it’s about what happened in the past. The stalker during the ice storm.” Cassie’s eyes looked bruised and Jenna added, “None of us want to live through that again. I’m just giving you a heads-up in case you didn’t know.”

  “She told me,” Cassie said.

  “I’m sorry,” Jenna responded, heartfelt.

  Trent stood and walked to the fire, then bent down and added a log to the already burning pieces of oak. Flames caught quickly on the dry moss to crackle and burn hungrily, all the while casting the room in a shifting golden glow.

  Cassie said slowly, “I want to show you something.”

  Jenna noticed Trent’s hand tightening over the fireplace poker. He shot Cassie a warning glance that her daughter ignored as she scrounged inside her purse.

  “What?” Jenna leaned closer as Cassie extracted a small plastic bag and handed it to Jenna. Inside was an earring, blood red and in the shape of a cross.

  “Ever seen it before?” Cassie asked.

  “No . . .” Jenna surveyed the bit of jewelry, then started to hand it back. “No wait . . . maybe. God, a long, long time ago. I had a bit part in a soap opera when I was first starting out. North Wing. The show was only on for two seasons, then died. And my part was nothing, a foot in the door to get into the business, you know? My character, Norma Allen, barely spoke. Really, I was little more than an extra who played a nurse who was always in the background.”