After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 83

Join the club, Cassie thought as she followed a step behind.

She made her way through the salon to the front of the shop and eventually to her car. After climbing inside and starting the engine she sat for a second and thought about Holly and how hard it was to believe she was dead. Murdered. Who would want to take her life? Granted, Cassie didn’t know a lot about Holly, only that she had a sister, a niece she adored, and a brother-in-law she didn’t like. She’d always been looking for Mr. Right and had never found him, though she’d never given up hope.

It seemed strange, more than coincidental, that three people who had worked on Dead Heat had suffered tragedies recently. Not only had Allie gone missing and Lucinda been shot, but now Holly, vital, fun-loving Holly was dead.

How odd was that? More than odd, it was eerie. And sad. Fear crawled up her spine as she headed back to her apartment.

And Trent, she reminded herself.

He complicated things.

And confused things.

Somehow she had to convince him and maybe herself that their relationship was over. She should call her attorney, have him dust off her divorce papers, sign them, and be done with it. Why was she just hanging on to a marriage that was dead, had already died a horrible death on the altar of adultery?

With her own younger sister. No, make that younger, more beautiful and more talented and much more famous younger sister.

Could the scenario get any more cliché? Sometimes she felt as if she were in some kind of soap opera.

The old pain twisted deep in her heart.

Somehow, she’d have to get over it.

Jamming her Honda into gear, she drove toward home, dust covering her windshield, sunlight bouncing off the hood of her car. Traffic was heavy and slow. She was tucked behind a behemoth of a vehicle, some old Chevrolet, a pristine two-toned model from the middle of the last century, buffed and waxed so that it gleamed, as the male driver in a little cap tore up the road a good five miles under the speed limit.

Annoyed at the pace, Cassie was already checking her mirrors, just about to pass when her phone jangled. She fished in her purse, plucked out her cell, saw Cherise’s name on the display and, risking a ticket, hit the button to answer.

“Cassie?” Cherise said, before Cassie could say a word. “Oh my God, I just heard about Holly. It’s awful. Awful!” She sounded breathless as she echoed Cassie’s feelings.

“Horrible. I’d like to—”

“Laura just called me and told me you were trying to reach me,” she interrupted. “She said you thought I’d blown you off because I took a job with Brandon, but . . . oh, this is so, so horrible. I can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I.”

“I know, I know, it’s like the movie’s cursed or something. I mean what else could go wrong?”

Cassie shuddered to think.

“Look, if you want to talk to me, okay, I can meet you in half an hour, then I have to be someplace, but I don’t know what I can tell you. Laura said you were trying to figure out what happened to Allie and I swear to God, I don’t have any idea, and so please, please, please don’t be mad at me for going to work with Brandon. I know he’s not your favorite person but with Allie gone I needed a job and—”

“Cherise,” Cassie cut in. “Tell me where to meet and I’ll be there.” Cassie explained where she was and Cherise suggested a coffee shop about fifteen minutes away, closer to Cassie’s apartment. “Perfect. I’ll meet you there.” For the briefest of seconds, she considered calling Trent to tell him she’d been held up, but discarded the idea immediately.

She’d only seen him for a few minutes, long enough to have an argument, and already she was acting like a wife, like she needed to report in. “Forget it,” she muttered under her breath. At the next opportunity, she shot past the guy in the red and white Chevy straight out of the fifties.

She reached the coffee shop a few minutes before Cherise. Standing in line to order and scouting the crowded seating area in search of a free table, she spied the other woman driving into the lot. Cell phone pressed to her ear, Cherise wheeled into the lot in a champagne-colored Mercedes convertible. Parking spaces were at a premium and she had to wait until another car had backed up, then she squeezed into a slim space, beating another car coming from the other direction. The Mitsubishi’s blinker indicated that the driver had intended to claim the spot, but Cherise didn’t appear to care or even notice.