After She's Gone

  Trent walked into the barn, stacked the final carton on top of the others he’d hauled from the local lumberyard. By the time he was outside again, the rain that had been threatening all day had begun in earnest. No more misting drizzle, now the heavy drops poured from the thick underbellies of the clouds huddling overhead.

  Shorty parked and hopped down from the cab of his truck to the gravel spread between the outbuildings. “Sorry about the time. Damned cows got out at my place. Sheeeit, I’m gonna have to patch that fence again.” He looked up from beneath the brim of his Oregon Ducks cap, rain drizzling from its bill. The ranch hand was half a foot shorter than Trent, whip-thin, and tough as nails when he wanted to be. He was wearing his usual outfit: a short yellow slicker, jeans, battered boots, and the University of Oregon cap, though Trent was certain Shorty had never set one booted foot on the campus in his life.

  Shorty asked, “You need help with the load?”

  “Just finished.” Trent slammed the tailgate closed, heard the lock click, but gave it a tug, just to be sure it would stay latched.

  “So I guess I should get to work inside?” He hitched his grizzled chin toward the machine shed where the old John Deere was waiting for a part that was due into town within the week. So far it hadn’t shown up.

  “Yeah.” Trent eyed the weathered barn with its attached grain silo. He’d love to start roofing the sucker, but rain was forecasted for the next three days, so it was best to wait as it would be easier and safer to peel off old shingles and walk on the sloped roof when it was dry. He scowled, hated to be held up by the weather, Mother Nature, or God Himself. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, but he ignored it. Probably just another reporter looking for a new angle in the Allie Kramer mystery. As Allie’s sister’s husband, he sometimes got calls where nosy members of the press asked questions he’d rather not answer.

  Trent whistled for his dog, who’d sneaked inside and curled up on an old horse blanket the barn cats usually claimed. “Hud. Come.” The mutt, a speckled shepherd who had wandered here as a half-grown pup, bounded into the rain, then beelined for the porch, where he sat and waited near the door, his feathery tail dusting the old floorboards.

  “He don’t like the rain much,” Shorty observed. “Seems as if maybe he should be a California dog or an Arizona dog. Somewhere where it don’t drizzle all the damned time.”

  Trent pulled the barn door shut, the casters screeching a bit.

  “Could use a little lubricant on them wheels.”

  Trent nodded.

  “Think I saw a can of WD-40 in the equipment shed,” Shorty went on. “I’ll give ’em all a squirt today.”

  “Good idea.”

  “So, guess what I heard in town?” Shorty said, returning the conversation to where he’d begun. “It’s about your wife.”

  Trent tried not to change his expression. “I’m not married.”

  “Ain’t ’cha?” Shorty questioned.

  “We’re separated.” Shorty already knew this, he was just yanking Trent’s chain. “It’s just a formality.”

  “A legal formality.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What did you hear?” Trent asked impatiently.

  “Well, I had to stop in town, for some wire to patch the damned fence and, well, decided to have a quick one before I came over. It was all the talk at Keeper’s,” he said, mentioning a favorite local pub.

  “Something about Cassie?” Trent’s voice was clipped. Cassie Kramer was out of his life. Again, he reminded himself. He’d been seriously involved with her twice: first when they were dating and she was too young for him; the second time, when they’d both matured some and he’d thought marrying her was what he wanted.

  His jaw clenched a bit when he thought of their breakup. Lies. Accusations. Mistrust. On both sides. But now he was single again—almost—and the less he knew about his ex, he figured, the better.

  “I guess she’s out of the hospital,” Shorty stated evenly, as if he’d just said it was a wet April day, which, of course, it was.

  “And you know this how?”

  “Oh, I’ve got my ways,” Shorty assured him with a sly smile that showed off teeth yellowed by tobacco and far too small to fill his gum line. “I guess the doctor wasn’t ready to release her, but she just walked out. Someone at the hospital called Jenna, and she was fit to be tied. Already upset with the other girl gone missing, you know.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice to the loose gravel. “Weird thing that. How does a person, make that a famous person, just up and disappear?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “Don’t know.”

  “But you knew her, right? She was your sister-in-law?”

  Hell yes, he knew Allie. All about her. Far more than he should. “We weren’t all that close.” That was a lie and he figured Shorty knew it. Trent squirmed a little inside, but he didn’t so much as blink. He was used to the curiosity. Jenna Hughes was Falls Crossing’s biggest celebrity, even if she’d given up acting years before. When her daughters followed in her footsteps and began making their own movies, the townspeople in the area took notice and liked to claim that Cassie and Allie Kramer were locals, though they’d both spent most of their years growing up in California. It didn’t matter because both of Jenna Hughes’s striking daughters had graduated from the nearby high school and therefore were considered Falls Crossing’s own.

  “If she was alive, you’d think she’d at least have the decency to call her folks and tell ’em she’s okay.”

  “You’d think,” Trent said, though deep down, he wasn’t convinced that Allie Kramer had a whole lot of decency in her.

  Shorty wasn’t going to leave it alone. “Didn’t you and her—?” He wagged a finger back and forth.

  “Didn’t we what?”

  “You know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I thought you two were an item. You and the younger one. One of them other times you and Cassie were ‘separated’?” Shorty’s pale eyes sparkled. He’d always loved needling Trent.

  “You thought wrong. Look after those casters, would ya?” Trent said, and headed into the house, where the dog, spying his approach, did a quick twirl of excitement at the door. “And then come on in.” He opened the door and glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll buy you a beer.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Lunch, if you could call it that, consisted of a cup of watery coffee and a Big Mac. Not a great combo on a strong stomach, even worse on a queasy one like Cassie’s, and she was paying for it, her insides gurgling as she pulled into the covered parking lot of the apartment building where Allie had rented a suite of rooms while filming Dead Heat.

  Located in the Pearl, a hip district tucked beneath the West Hills of Portland, the three Art Deco buildings that comprised the Calista Complex were nearly a hundred years old, but had been renovated recently.

  Parking was a bitch in this area, so she was lucky Allie’s space was empty, the car Allie had used in Portland, a sporty BMW, towed away by the police in their search for clues to her disappearance.

  At that thought Cassie felt a pang of dread. “Where the hell are you?” she whispered as she parked and listened to the engine tick once she’d switched it off. The lot was underground and dark, a few pipes overhead dripping condensation from the low cement ceiling, just a handful of cars sprinkled between thick pillars that supported all eight stories of the Calista.

  Cassie was one of the last persons to see Allie before she vanished. They’d fought, which she’d admitted and a nosy neighbor had confirmed, so the police had been interested in her for a time, either thinking she’d been in cahoots with her sister, or worse, that she had somehow been integral in Allie’s disappearance.

  “Yeah, right,” she muttered, unbuckling her seat belt before getting out of the car and locking it remotely. Her skin crawled in this wide space with its weak overhead lights and tire marks on the floor. No one else was around, which was a good thing, right? And there were cameras mounted in the
corners of each level of the garage, so if anything happened . . .

  They didn’t help Allie though, did they? No camera lens caught anything unusual on the night she disappeared.

  Ignoring her jittery nerves, Cassie made her way to the elevator and with the key Allie had given her, she ordered the elevator car that was already waiting, its doors opening with a hiss, no one inside. She punched the button for the eighth and uppermost floor and was grateful the car didn’t stop on its ascent. Again, she was aware of the camera mounted somewhere overhead in the elevator carriage, but didn’t look up until the car slid to a smooth stop and the doors parted again. Then she sneaked a peek and wondered about the tape of Allie’s last journey in the car. The police had it, she knew, but she hadn’t yet viewed it. Wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

  Feeling like she was trespassing, she slid her key into the lock and, glancing over her shoulder to make certain she wasn’t observed, she opened the door of Allie’s apartment. Inside, the faded scent of her perfume still lingered, bringing back memories of the last time she’d been here. “Not now,” she reminded herself.

  As she reached for the light switch, she heard the scrape of a shoe against hardwood. The hairs on the back of her neck raised. “Allie?” she called as she stepped inside and peered into the living area.

  The silhouette of a tall man was backlit against the window, his dark form visible in front of the thin lines of gray light piercing through the slats in the blinds.

  Cassie’s heart nearly stopped. “Oh, God.”

  “Not Allie,” he said as she fumbled frantically for the light switch. “Nor God.”

  She hit the switch, and the ultramodern apartment was suddenly illuminated.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded, her heart thumping as she recognized Brandon McNary, not only Allie’s costar in Dead Heat, but a man with whom Allie had once had a very public and torrid affair. Their fights, splits, romantic trysts, and reconciliations were tabloid fodder, one of Hollywood’s most watchable and gorgeous couples. Standing in front of a sleek sectional, McNary had the audacity to smile at her, as if he knew he’d scared the living crap out of her.

  “Cass.” He was wearing a black shirt, beat-up jeans, and glasses. His usual three-day beard stubble looked closer to five or six and made him appear more intellectual than he actually was, like he was trying on his Johnny Depp vibe. At five-ten, he was lean and well muscled from hours working out in the gym, and every bit the image of a leading man in Hollywood. His tousled dark hair, deep-set eyes, strong jaw, and slightly off-center smile had helped make McNary a definitive male A-lister.

  And he was an ass. A real ass.

  Cassie knew.

  Hadn’t she once, stupidly, almost fallen for him? Almost, she reminded herself.

  “So?” she said, and repeated, “Why are you here?”

  “Probably doing the same thing you are,” he said with a shrug. “Trying to figure out what happened to Allie.”

  “You have a key?” She stepped into the living room with its gleaming hardwood floor.

  He hitched his chin toward the front door. “My place is across the hall, so we thought it was best to be able to check on each other’s apartment. I’m moving out at the end of the month. The film’s wrapped and it’s time to move on. Got another gig. Action-adventure. New genre for me.”

  If he thought she would congratulate him or even comment, he was wrong and the silence stretched until he said, “But, you know, I thought I’d take one last look around.”

  “With the lights off?”

  “I was just leaving. Already turned ’em off.”

  “Most people do it at the door, you know, so they don’t bump into anything on their way out.”

  “I know my way around,” he said, and crossed the living space to stop in the entry, close enough to Cassie to make her want to back up a step. “I’m not ‘most people,’ am I?”

  “No, you’re not,” she agreed coolly. God, he was smug, and though she hated to admit it, a decent, maybe even more than decent, actor. For a few weeks, before he met Allie, she’d even dated him. She’d been an idiot, but he was charming, in a self-serving manner, and when he focused on a woman, you could feel the heat. She certainly had. But now she knew there was a little snake oil running through his veins. “You were here looking for some clue to help you find Allie?”

  He frowned. “Well, yeah . . . and . . . I just wanted to, you know, occupy her space. We did have a thing.”

  “I thought you two had broken up again.”

  A shoulder lifted and fell. “With Allie, it was tough,” he admitted in a moment where he seemed to let down his guard. “I don’t have to tell you that. Half the time she was a woman in control of her destiny, the other half she was an emotional child looking for someone to save her.”

  “Like you?”

  “Exactly.” He hesitated, then added, “And sometimes . . . it was like I didn’t even know her. As if she really was someone else. You know what I mean, right?” He stared at her hard.

  She did, but wasn’t going to admit it. There were many sides to Allie. The bookish nerd. The successful Hollywood actress. The insecure little girl. The hateful, jealous bitch. But Cassie wasn’t going to voice her opinion. She didn’t trust his motives. They were always self-serving. She motioned to the interior of the apartment. “So, while you were playing detective, did you find anything?”

  A quick shake of his head.

  Her gaze swept the neat interior. “Who cleaned up? Not the police.”

  “Your mom, I think.”

  She felt another stab of guilt that she hadn’t yet called Jenna. “You talked to her?”

  “A while back, once the cops had done their thing and were done. I don’t think Jenna could stand it, the mess, I mean. And well . . .” He shrugged. “All of it.”

  Again the bad feeling that she was being a stubborn, uncaring daughter wormed its way through her brain. “I take it you haven’t heard from Allie?”

  He looked up quickly, anger flaring, his gaze drilling into her. “If I had, would I be here?”

  “I don’t know. Would you?”

  Shaking his head, he muttered, “You never let it go, do you?”

  “What?”

  “Everything and anything.” His tone was sharp, his famed mercurial temper showing itself, his too-handsome face flushing in an instant. His fists actually balled before he stretched his fingers. “No reason to tiptoe around. You have trust issues, Cass.”

  She couldn’t deny it. “And you have anger issues.”

  He opened his mouth, then snapped his jaw shut and glanced to the kitchen. “Sometimes.”

  “Most times.”

  “I’m working on them.”

  “Hard, I hope. Working on them hard.”

  His eyes gleamed. “What is it with you? Why exactly is it you’re out of the wacky ward?” he asked, then heard himself and amended, “The hospital.”

  “It was time.”

  His thick eyebrows shot up. “Your doctors released you?”

  “I’m out, aren’t I?”

  “For now,” he said under his breath, and moved to the door.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He hesitated, hand on the knob, then turned and walked so that he was close enough that he could touch her. “Cut the bullshit. You might have been the last person to see your sister before . . . whatever it is that happened to her took place. The cops are looking at you, Cass. I figured that was why you ended up in the mental ward.”

  “I had a breakdown.”

  He stared at her hard. “A breakdown.”

  “Yes.” When he just continued looking at her, she asked, “What? You think I faked it?”

  His eyes narrowed a bit. But he didn’t argue.

  “Well, now that’s crazy.”

  “There ya go.” He stepped back, and in less than a second his expression changed, the tension in his body dissipated. “I gotta run.” A beat. ?
??Nice seeing you again, Cassie,” he said without a drop of emotion, then flashed his famous smile. So well practiced, so sterile and cold. “Always a pleasure.” And then he was gone, the door closing softly but firmly behind him.

  She threw the deadbolt, even though she knew he had a key. Just turning the lock made her feel better.

  The man was a bastard. She closed her eyes and mentally counted to ten, all the while pushing all thoughts of Brandon McNary out of her mind. He just wasn’t worth the effort.

  Yes, she’d made the mistake of dating him a few times before he turned his attention to Allie. And of course she’d felt rejected and hurt, but that had just been her pride talking, and really more about Allie than Brandon. She hadn’t even been all that attracted to him. The truth was she’d rebounded with him after her last breakup with Trent, which had, of course, also involved Allie.

  Allie. Always Allie.

  Now missing.

  Cassie stared at the closed door wondering just what, if anything, Brandon knew about his costar and sometime girlfriend’s disappearing act.

  Not an act, Cass. You don’t know what happened to Allie. She could have been kidnapped or worse.

  And yet, she sensed that she might have been played. By Brandon McNary. As if he knew more than he was saying. But what? She felt a tiny niggle of fear for her sister, but refused to fall victim to the chilling idea that Allie could already be dead.

  “So get on with it,” she told herself, and stepped into Allie’s living room with its modern furniture in somber gray tones that reminded her of death. “Get over yourself.” Even the splashy, bright pieces of art on the walls, and the geometrically designed rug beneath the glass coffee table couldn’t dissolve the disturbing feeling that overcame her.

  Cassie had been here before, of course, a handful of times, the last visit having occurred on the day that Allie fell off the face of the earth. Her stomach clenched at the memory and the ragged remnants of the bitter fight that had ensued. Their argument had escalated, tempers flaring, egos rising.