After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

Stone insisted that in following installments what had happened to Allie Kramer would become crystal clear.

Now, she picked up her stemmed glass and twirled it in her fingers. Staring through the clear liquid, she viewed the television and the distorted image of Whitney Stone’s face. Perfect. She took a sip.

Stone was gazing so intently into the camera and reminding viewers that the star of Dead Heat, Allie Kramer not only had gone missing, but her disappearance had occurred just ten years after she and her sister, Cassie, as well was their mother, Jenna Hughes, had survived a horrific and brutal attack.

Pictures of the three women filled the screen.

Her fingers tightened over the stem of her glass.

Whitney Stone posed the questions:

Was this Hollywood family cursed?

Was another psychotic fan on the loose?

Could Jenna and her daughters never find a “normal” or “peaceful” life?

“Of course not,” she said to the flat screen. Another sip as anger sparked deep inside.

A montage of pictures rolled across the screen, short clips of Jenna Hughes in her starring roles. For a few seconds Jenna Hughes became Anne Parks in Resurrection. One by one, there were more quick tidbits, glimpses of other roles Jenna had played as the heroines of Beneath the Shadows and Bystander. Then, to top off the collage, the last clip was of Jenna as a naive teen in Innocence Lost, the movie destined to become an overnight success and elevate her to stardom.

The screen suddenly split and Jenna’s image filled one half, while Allie Kramer, at around the same age, was on the other. Both mother and daughter had been catapulted to fame, as teens at the center of a darkly sexual coming-of-age film.

The comparison was obvious. Though Allie couldn’t pass for her mother—too many of her father’s genes were evident in her features—the resemblance to Jenna Hughes was noticeable.

Watching the quick little clips, she felt her insides churn. She barely heard Whitney Stone’s promise of a soon-to-be-aired “explosive interview” that would “shatter” the image of the reclusive Jenna Hughes and her family. A family portrait of Jenna, Cassie, and Allie came into view and as the camera zoomed in closer, Whitney Stone’s voiceover assured the viewers that, “The daughters of Jenna Hughes are not who they seem to be!”

“No shit,” she whispered, alone in the dark room. Anger coursed through her veins and her jaw hardened. She watched the image of Jenna and her daughters fade into individual pictures, first Jenna, then Cassie, and finally the missing Allie, before they slowly vanished from sight.

That damned bitch, Whitney Stone, pulled the teaser off beautifully. Perfectly. Stirring the pot, adding to the mystery surrounding the Kramer sisters and promising a full-blown exposé on the secretive little family. Whetting the viewers’ appetites for more info on Allie Kramer’s disappearance, Whitney Stone had also created the illusion that she was actually the star, a heroine fighting for truth and justice.

Because Whitney Stone knew far more than she was telling.

She clicked the television off and silently congratulated herself for a job well done. The wheels had been set into motion. And it was just the beginning. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headboard of the bed and tried to calm herself. Her headache pounded painfully, the demons inside hitting their sharp fists against her skull, demanding to be set free. “No,” she said aloud. But, oh how they wanted to get loose. She’d named them. Pride and Invincibility were the most vociferous, their talons scraping through her gray matter. But their companion, Fury, deep-seated and ever growing, was the worst. Fury would be her downfall, she’d been told by more than one shrink. Fury would push her over the edge of sanity.

She thought about a drive along the coast. Something to calm the nerves. Wine hadn’t helped and she could drink a little more, but then she’d be over the edge and she couldn’t afford to lose her perspective.

The need inside her grew, began to thrum, a desire to hunt. She told herself to fight the feeling, that this kind of obsession was what the psychiatrists had warned her about, but her whole body ached to do something, anything to scratch the insidious itch. And why not?

She’d already picked out who would be the perfect victim, who would play her part.

The shrinks she’d seen would disapprove. “Tsk. Tsk.”

A half-smile played across her lips and she opened her eyes to the thick darkness. “Save me,” she whispered to the empty room and then laughed out loud.

The doctors were idiots.

She clicked off the TV and changed, then headed out the door. Cool air brushed her skin as she found her vehicle and, driving through the deserted streets of the city, she headed west.

She was keyed up. Eager. Her nerve endings alive. Adrenaline pumping through her veins.

It was dangerous being out where someone might see her, where a traffic cam, security camera, or even the camera app on a cell phone of someone who, like she, was up so late, but she didn’t care. The night was thick, clouds gathering overhead. The closer she got to the ocean, the freer she felt. She rolled down all of the windows, letting the scent of the sea into the car’s interior.

She felt tense.

Needy.

The wind tugged at her hair. She should feel free. Exhilarated. But she didn’t. Deep inside, anxiety roiled, coupling with a base, dark, and pulsing need, a desire she couldn’t fight much longer. Whether she admitted it to herself or not, she was on the hunt. It felt good, yet scared her to death. That’s where the rush came into it. She licked her lips in anticipation and hated herself for it.