After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

“Privacy.”

Cassie’s ears pricked up. “For what?” A baby? Had she been pregnant and was hiding it, didn’t want anyone to know?

“A little nip or tuck.”

“Allie? She’s perfect.” And young. She would have been far too young for any kind of plastic surgery. No, her father had to be mistaken. It didn’t make sense.

“I’m not sure I’m even right,” he said. “Maybe it was Phoenix. And 2007 doesn’t sound right either. More like a year ago.”

That didn’t help. “Did she have any connection in Santa Fe? A friend or some kind of business?”

“Sorry, honey. I don’t remember. Your sister didn’t exactly fill me in on her personal life. As public as her image has become she’s a pretty private person.”

True enough, Cassie thought, though still wondered why she was left with the cryptic text message . . . and from her psychiatrist, no less. The text bothered her enough that she’d have to break down and call her doctor.

“So why go back to Oregon?” her father asked. “Because of your mom?”

“No.”

“Ahh. Trent, then?”

“No!” she said sharply. Too sharply. “Trent and I are over.”

“Are you?”

She bristled. “It’s just something I have to do.”

“Okay, no judgment call. Whatever you want to do. It’s probably a good idea to be closer to your mom.” He didn’t sound convinced, but at least he left Trent out of the equation. “You know, what with Allie missing, Jenna needs you more than ever.”

That guilty knife twisted in her gut again. She leaned back on the barstool and eyed her open roller bag. “Dad, I’ve got to go. Really. I’m only half packed. But I’ll call you the next time I come here. Promise.”

“And if you learn anything about your sister?”

“Absolutely.”

“All right, then.” There was a glitch in the conversation, as if he had something more to say but couldn’t find the words. “I’ll catch you later, Cass. Take care.”

“You too, Dad.” Her throat was suddenly thick and she cleared it as she hung up. There was a time when they had been a happy family, when she and Allie had been their father’s “girls.” That’s what he’d called them. “My girls.” Until he’d found a new, younger wife.

She stared at the phone, felt a wash of nostalgia and, as always, ignored it. She didn’t have time to get hung up on old memories and could-have-beens. The past was over and gone and tomorrow morning, depending upon what, if anything, she learned from Laura, she was heading north.

CHAPTER 16

Holly Dennison paid her tab and collected her debit card from the bartender of the Pinwheel, a hot spot not far from the beach. After taking a final swallow from her daiquiri, she licked her lips and slid off the barstool. As her feet hit the ground she wobbled a little, cursing her shoes, the heels that were a smidge too high for her to walk steadily, especially after three—or was it four?—drinks.

She’d come to the bar alone because she’d heard that Luca Valerio, the Italian heartthrob who was in LA to promote his latest film, liked to hang out here, so she hadn’t bothered calling any of her girlfriends to meet for a drink. She’d hoped to “run into” him, strike up a conversation, and hit things off. The truth was that Holly had nursed a crush on him for years. But of course he hadn’t shown.

While she’d waited, she’d sampled everything rum on the menu and when she realized Luca probably wouldn’t be arriving, that her information, as usual, had been faulty, she’d tried to hook up with a couple of other guys. They all had girlfriends whom they were meeting, so she’d backed off, even though the cute one had suggested he call her “later.” Uh, no thanks. Holly had a hard and fast rule when it came to dating and other women’s men: They were strictly off-limits. At least, if she knew about the woman. She’d overstepped her bounds a couple of times because the jerk who’d picked her up had neglected to tell her that he was married. But she always asked, although if a guy was willing to step out on his wife, what were the chances of him not lying about it?

She decided to go home. She was tired. It was after midnight and she needed to be up by six thirty or seven as her sister Barbara was dropping off her little niece for the day. Holly couldn’t wait. Though she wasn’t ready for kids herself yet—hell, she didn’t even have a boyfriend at the moment—she adored watching little three-year-old Adele for Barbara. On those days when Barb had to run errands, or get her hair colored, or go to a doctor’s appointment or whatever, Holly stepped in. That is, when Barb allowed it. Which wasn’t all that often. Sometimes her sister could be such a bitch. Fortunately Barb’s jerkwad of a husband, who wouldn’t give up golf, poker, or work, in that order, to watch his own daughter, was always relieved that Holly was quick to babysit. She figured it was her brother-in-law’s loss even though Frank had been, and always would be, a self-centered egomaniac. And that was on a good day.

So she was giving up searching for Mr. Right for the night.

Making her way to the front door was a trick. The rum hadn’t seemed to have much of a kick as she’d sat on the barstool and sipped her drinks, but now, as she wended through nearly empty tables, the liquor had definitely found its way into her bloodstream, making walking steadily a trick.

Outside the wind was cool, a stiff breeze blowing in from the Pacific, the smooth sound of the tide drowned by the few cars rolling past. Above the streetlights, Holly could barely make out the stars overhead, not that she really cared. She wondered if Marlie Babcock had intentionally sent her on a wild goose chase. Marlie was just mean enough. Holly should never have trusted her, another set designer whose connection to Luca had been a previous film they’d both worked on.

Big deal, she thought now, wobbling a little.