After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 26

When she’d checked herself into the hospital, the few things she’d left in the hotel room had been transferred to her mother’s house in Falls Crossing, to the very bedroom she’d occupied as a teenager. What had been a convenience at a low point in her life now seemed completely wrong. Uncomfortable. As soon as she figured out where she was going to end up, even temporarily, she’d get things moved, but she wasn’t certain where she’d land. Back here in this retro apartment in LA? Or somewhere else entirely. Of course it depended upon what had become of Allie.

For what had to be the zillionth time, she tried to call her sister and for just as many times she heard that the voice mailbox associated with the phone was full. She texted her again. Call me. But she figured this text, like all of the other ones she’d sent, would show on the screen of her own phone as delivered but not read.

What had she expected?

She walked into the kitchen area where a yogurt container with a spoon sticking out of it was growing mold. She rinsed them both and put them into the dishwasher. After this small nod to housekeeping, she checked the refrigerator to find two bottles of chardonnay, a few bottles of water, and a cube of butter. Not much sustenance here. Next, she gathered her things: makeup, a few clothes, the mail, and her laptop, then locked the door behind her and wondered when she’d return for the rest. Her future was unclear, but it would stay that way until she found out what had happened to her sister.

Outside, she located her car, a seven-year-old Honda Accord parked where she’d left it, in the shade of a palm tree. With over a hundred thousand miles on the odometer and a crack in the driver’s seat, the car was well used, but it didn’t matter. What did was its ability to start, and it did that without a hiccup, the smooth little engine turning over on the first try.

Her first break.

The gas tank was half full, so she took off. As she entered the main street, she turned on the window spray and wipers to clean off the dust, bugs, and bird droppings from the glass. LA was a clogged network of side streets and freeways as usual and she had to wear sunglasses against the glare from the California sun. Soon she was at Allie’s condo. The building was super-chic and modern, a direct opposite to her own residence.

She parked in an empty spot in the garage, one marked RESIDENTS ONLY, and took an exterior elevator to the third floor. Using the key she had made when Allie had once entrusted her to water the plants and pick up the mail while she was on location, Cassie stepped inside and drew a breath. The place was a mess, left so by the police as they’d searched the unit looking for clues to Allie Kramer’s disappearance. Drawers and cupboards had been left open, furniture moved, fingerprint dust covering most surfaces, closet doors ajar.

As she walked through the spacious unit, Cassie felt as if she were walking on Allie’s grave.

What’re you doing here? What do you think you’ll find? Something the police missed? C’mon . . . With their manpower, technology, skill, and expertise?

The simple truth was she was curious. Yes, she was searching for some clue as to the sister she desperately wanted to find, but there was also a morbid curiosity factor embedded inside her. She could get a closer glimpse into Allie’s life, a glamorous existence that she, Cassie, had never experienced and never would. And the writer in her wanted more information. Unwittingly Allie’s vanishing act had given her fodder for her next story and whetted her screenwriter’s appetite.

She walked through the connecting rooms. Long, low couches were huddled around a sleek tile fireplace where gas flames appeared to float upward through clear glass stones. The fire was off now, but Cassie remembered sitting near it and reading lines with Allie, in one of their few moments of civility.

The mental images came in bits and pieces, some painfully sharp, others blurred and nearly forgotten. Then there were those that were missing altogether, like the night that Allie disappeared. Yes, they’d fought—there were images of the struggle burned deep into her brain—but a lot of that night was foggy at best, some hours simply unaccounted for. God, how could she forget . . . and why? Usually her periods of missing hours were preceded by emotional anguish, but she just couldn’t remember, certainly not everything. She hated to think of the reasons, couldn’t go there. Even for Allie.