After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

“Yes.”

“And there was talk of her being up for an Oscar, I think.”

“She wasn’t nominated.”

“But the buzz was that she should have been.”

“Her breakout role,” Cassie had agreed as the detective had scribbled a note to herself even though the session was being taped.

“It had to be difficult for you that your kid sister got it and you didn’t.”

“She was better suited. Younger.” Cassie’s palms had begun to sweat and she’d stuffed them under her legs, kept her face relaxed, though Detective Nash had hit a sensitive nerve. That role of Penelope Burke was an actor’s dream. In fact it had been Cassie’s dream. Allie had only learned of it from her older sister and then decided to audition.

“I understand she beat you out of roles more than once,” the detective had said as she scanned some pages from the file she’d brought into the small, airless room. “Three times?” She looked up expectantly.

“Uh . . . yes. Yes, I think that’s right.”

“You can’t remember?” Skepticism. “Boy, I would have known, if it had been me.”

“Three parts,” Cassie had clarified, keeping the edge out of her voice. Obviously the cop had been badgering her, looking for a way to get her to explode and say something she’d regret.

“There were signs of a struggle at her apartment. A broken wineglass on the floor. Furniture slightly moved. Since you were the last one there, I thought you might tell me about it.”

“We argued over the change to the script, and she got upset and dropped the glass.”

“It wasn’t more personal?”

“No.” Another lie. She’d wanted to expand, to blame it all on sister stuff, sibling rivalry, but she’d thought it best to keep her answers short and to the point. Her lies and equivocations simple. So she could recall them when necessary.

Detective Nash’s eyebrows had pinched together as if she were deep in thought. “Your sister and your husband had gotten together, hadn’t they?”

Cassie had seen red and her fingers had curled over the edge of her chair, her fingertips glancing off wads of gum. “While we were separated, Allie and Trent had gone out,” she acknowledged though Trent had insisted it had all been platonic, both parties concerned about Cassie. All bull, but she hadn’t admitted it in the interview. In fact, she hadn’t admitted to much, not when the questions had gotten more personal about her marriage nor when the detective had probed about her relationship with each of her parents. Detective Nash had even brought up the horrid ordeal she and Allie had gone through at the hands of their mother’s stalker, but Cassie had held on to her cool.

It had been obvious they considered her a suspect in her sister’s disappearance. She’d been one of the last, if not the last, person to see Allie before she vanished. The fact that she had no alibi, that she’d been alone on the night Allie had seemingly evaporated into thin air, had made her a “person of interest” in Allie Kramer’s missing person’s case. As such, she’d been under

surveillance, had felt people following her, watching her, and knew the police were discussing her motives and opportunity to do away with her sister. Paranoia had become full-blown.

Was it any wonder she’d checked herself into Mercy Hospital where she was under constant observation and psychiatric care? The staff at Mercy had been employed to help her, not be suspicious of her.

As she took her final sip of her coffee, her phone vibrated across the table and she snagged it. Another text from Holly.

In Santa Monica. How about drinks near the pier? Love to get together.

She could have a drink. She would talk to Holly, then head back to her condo. Her plan, loose as it was, included cleaning out the apartment, giving her notice, poking around LA for a few days, and finally heading north. Maybe at night. Traffic would be easier then, and she could start her drive up the coast, take the PCH toward San Francisco and chill out, enjoy the view of the Pacific lapping along the California shore, then cut over to the Five, sometime along the way. Or she could freeway it from here and the drive would take sixteen hours or so.

She tossed her empty cup into the trash and climbed into the heat of her car where she second-guessed herself. What good would meeting Holly do?

Maybe it will do nothing, not help at all, but it sure as hell won’t hurt, will it?

Before she could talk herself out of the meeting, she texted:

Sure. How about The Sundowner? I can be there in 20 min or so. It’s still happy hour.

Before she could jab her keys in the ignition, her phone chirped and she read: I’m there!

Cassie glanced at the rearview mirror. Worried eyes stared back at her.

What’re you doing? You don’t even like Holly. If she knew where Allie was, she would have told the police already. She can’t help you.