After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 78

So far.

Surfing the Internet hadn’t helped much either. From hours on the computer, she’d learned little more about red cross earrings, or nurses’ uniforms from fifty years prior. She’d also searched Santa Fe, New Mexico, but she had no idea what she was looking for there. She’d even Googled her sister and hoped she’d find some crumb, a little speck of knowledge about Allie that she hadn’t known before.

Her searches weren’t entirely altruistic, of course. Though she desperately wanted to locate her sister, to find out what had happened to Allie, there was another side to it. The more she delved, the more she realized what a great screenplay she could write, and she’d scribbled notes to that effect.

But of course the screenplay was secondary, she told herself. Allie’s whereabouts and well-being came first.

Last night after getting home late, she’d stayed up until her eyes had blurred. She’d felt as if she’d been running in circles when she’d finally dropped off, most likely because the night before had been such a madhouse with its outré nightmares, glowering black cat, and uneasy feeling that someone had been inside her home.

This morning, aside from running later than she’d hoped, she felt a little better, a bit more ready to take on the world, and, she reminded herself, start over. She showered, twisted her hair onto her head, dabbed on lipstick and mascara, and grabbed her roller bag in case she needed a quick change. She would come back for the rest of her stuff, which was half packed into three more suitcases, after her appointment at Salon Laura. Though she was set to have her hair trimmed by another stylist, she hoped she’d be able to track down Laura Merrick. She had a gut feeling Laura could help her, no matter what the stylist had said.

She stepped outside to the brilliance of another sunny LA day, then nearly stumbled as she caught sight of Trent-Damned-Kittle leaning his jean-clad hips against the passenger side of her car. She blinked, slack-jawed, but there he was in faded jeans, a black T-shirt, cowboy boots, and aviator sunglasses. Two days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw. The twist of his blade-thin lips was the only sign that he’d seen her. Worse yet, the black cat that had scared the liver out of her two nights before had the audacity to sun himself on the Honda’s roof. At the sight of her, the cat scrambled down to the hood, then leaped away to slink quickly into the shrubbery.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Cassie asked tightly, walking straight up to him, dragging the roller bag behind her, its wheels scraping on the uneven asphalt.

“Waitin’.”

“For?”

“You.”

She swatted at a bee that buzzed near her head. “Well, you found me.”

A dark eyebrow cocked, silently asking why else would he be camped out here.

“I thought you were in Oregon on your ranch or . . . whatever.” She glared at him. She didn’t need the aggravation of her husband, make that soon-to-be-ex-husband, this morning.

“I was. Flew down late last night.”

“And . . . what?”

He hitched his chin toward a Ford Explorer parked next to the owner’s garage. “Spent a few hours there. In the rental.”

“You slept in your car?” she asked as she stopped a few feet from him and squinted, trying to read his expression behind the shades. “You could have knocked on the door.”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded, agreeing. So damned affable. All an act. “And you could have not answered. Just like you didn’t respond to my calls and texts.” He stretched to his full height, casting a shadow across the hedge. “This way I figured you’d have to talk to me.”

“I still don’t have to talk to you.”

“I’ll buy coffee.”

“Don’t try to charm me.”

“You’re still pissed.”

“Extremely so. But I don’t have time to discuss it or anything else. I’ve got an appointment at nine.”

“Somewhere close, or . . . ?” He glanced pointedly at her roller bag.

“Hair. With Laura. This is just the first bag I packed for the trip back to—” Hell. Why was she telling him anything?

“To where?”