After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 86

Again.

But then wasn’t she always about her husband? She figured it was a character flaw. One of far too many.

CHAPTER 19

As Trent waited in Cassie’s apartment, he figured he might be stood up.

Or, more likely, played for a fool.

It was a chance he’d decided to take.

He’d found breakfast and coffee at a deli six blocks away, returned his rental car, then taken a cab to the apartment to find that Cassie still wasn’t home. Her place was small and compact, three half-packed suitcases flung open on her bed, her closets virtually stripped, the bathroom nearly empty of products, the refrigerator not much more than a bare lightbulb.

It did appear as if she were leaving, that she’d returned to LA to grab her things. And play private detective. Trent wondered about that, her quest to find her sister. Maybe it was natural but he doubted a would-be actress, sometime writer, recent mental hospital patient would have more luck finding out what had happened to Allie than the police with their manpower, sophisticated technology, and training. Allie and Cassie had always had a love/hate relationship, hate being the best-stated emotion recently.

He’d been the cause of that.

Hell, he’d been the cause of a lot of friction in Cassie’s life.

While he’d been at her place he’d snooped a little and didn’t feel all that bad about it. She was his wife, he rationalized, and she’d just walked out of a psychiatric wing. He hadn’t found much of interest except for the single keepsake from their wedding, a picture of the two of them in Las Vegas, the glass covering the photo broken, the frame placed facedown as if she hadn’t wanted a reminder.

But it hadn’t been in the trash.

Or missing.

Maybe that was a good, if slightly marred, sign.

He was just replacing the photo, standing it up, when he saw her pull into the parking area. Without her roller bag, she was out of the car and heading inside. He met her on the tiny porch.

“So you are still here” was her greeting.

“I missed you, too.”

She shot him a dark look. Obviously she wasn’t in the mood for levity. “Let’s go.” Passing through the living room, she spied the photograph, hesitated, then flipped it facedown again before storming into the bedroom.

He followed after her and watched as she opened drawers in her dresser and threw a few more sweaters and jeans into the open bags. Without looking up, she zipped up the first roller bag and said, “Why don’t you make yourself useful and help me take these out to the car?”

“Wrong side of bed?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What I meant to say was why don’t you please make yourself useful and take these out to the car.”

He chuckled. Her head shot up and it looked as if she might let loose again, but all she did was shake her head. “You’re just being a little intense,” he pointed out.

“I’m busy and . . . you know, it’s been kind of a bad day.” Then she stopped short. Her face fell and all of the bristly anger he’d witnessed melted into sadness. “Oh, God, you don’t know.”

“What?”

“Holly Dennison is dead,” she said and bit her lip. “Murdered.”

“What?” He thought he’d heard wrong.

“She was the set designer on Dead Heat.”

“I know who she is. You’ve worked with her before.” He was stunned. “Murdered?” he repeated, and the bad feeling that had been with him for the last few days intensified. “When did this happen?”

“Last night, I guess. I just found out a couple of hours ago from Laura Merrick.” Calmer, she told him what little she knew and all that Trent got out of it was that Holly was found last night in the Venice area.

“My God, Cass.”

“I saw her the other night and . . .” Her voice trailed off and she cleared her throat, blinking rapidly.

“I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I, but I have to get back to Oregon. I’m sure the police will want to talk to me, but they can damned well do it up there. I had nothing to do with any of this.”

“I’m coming with you,” he said suddenly.

“No, you’re not.” She gazed at him as if he’d lost his mind.