"Mom, call the police."
"I know, James," she assured her younger son. "I am going to talk to them, but you all need to be safe first."
Thomas sighed. "Where?"
"With us?"
Brenna turned to see that Will Chapman and Terry Brown had followed her over from the press room when a security guard had alerted her to an "incident" with the children.
"You ran off in a hurry. Is everyone all right?"
"There's been a little excitement," Brenna downplayed. "Hang on."
As Will and Terry talked quietly with Thomas and James, Brenna tried to reach Ryan. He had stopped crying, but he continued to sniffle as he rubbed at his runny nose and eyes.
"Ryan, it's time to go home," she coaxed. She took a box of tissues from Karen. "Come on, let's clean up." He sniffled hard once and rubbed his nose on his arm, looking at her, his eyes narrowed. It was the same furrow his mother had when she concentrated. "Are you tired?" It was well after six o'clock. He shook his head. "Hungry?"
"Yes."
"Well, I've got some food at home. Do you like soup and sandwiches?" He turned up his nose at her. "How about just peanut butter and jelly?" He nodded, but still would not move toward her. "Are you scared?" He nodded. "Because of your dad?" He nodded again. "I'm sorry," she said. "He won't be coming back again."
"Why not? What did I do wrong?" he asked, tears brimming in his eyes.
"You? Ryan, no, you did nothing wrong," she said emphatically.
There was a long silent stretch of time as Ryan thought. Brenna wanted desperately to hug him, but she held back, waiting.
"Did Daddy really hurt Mommy?"
Ryan's voice was filled with an uncertainty and hesitation that a five year old should never have. Brenna couldn't help the tears that formed in her eyes.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Yes, he did. I'm sorry."
"Why did he?"
"I don't know why. I just know I don't want the same thing to happen to you. Your mom wouldn't want that either." She could see the upset and confusion in his expression. She had to give him the time to come to grips with his emotions on his own, if he could.
When at last he spoke, his voice was small, but it held a tendril of hope. "Miss Lanigan?"
He stood up and walked to her. Resisting the urge to wrap her arms around him, she responded cautiously, "Yes?"
"Do you love me?"
She kept very still. His father no doubt said he loved him. Will Ryan believe me or not? "Yes, I do love you, Ryan. So very, very much."
"Can I see Mommy?"
"Of course you will see her," Brenna soothed.
"Now?"
He obviously wanted to ask his mother who he should be trusting, and Brenna was sorry she had to make him wait. "Not now." He looked up past her and she realized the others in the room had come up behind her. "Do you think you can trust me just a little longer?"
Ryan didn't answer but she held his gaze for a long moment. When she finally broke the connection and looked back over her shoulder, Brenna met Will's eyes. "I'm going to send you to a friend's house for tonight, okay?" Chapman assented with a nod. "Thomas and James, too?" she asked the big man. He nodded again. "Ryan," she smiled at him, "do you have a favorite movie?" The boy nodded. "Do you think my sons would like it?"
"Star Wars: Episode One," he said. "Do they like pod racers?"
Brenna looked up imploringly at Thomas, and he supplied the clincher. "We love the pod race." Ryan beamed. James groaned, and Thomas took Ryan's hand, leaving her watching the three boys head for the door with Terry following close behind.
Will put his hands on his hips. "Are you sure?"
"Mitch is obviously following me. I've got to separate myself from the kids until we get him back under wraps."
"He's certainly bold," Will commented. "I can't believe he came back here."
"He looked pretty bad when I last saw him. You'd think he'd attract attention."
"We're a studio. Hell, maybe he came in with an extras call. Or passed his scratches off as the results of a bar fight."
"Doesn't exactly speak well for our security," Brenna said.
"You can't worry about that now. Security will look for him. What's next for you?"
"Well, we're done with the press for now. I hope it holds them. I want to get back to the hospital."
"You need company."
"No, I don't."
"That wasn't a question." Will lowered his voice. "We have to split up. Get a plainclothes officer, take the studio limo, but don't go into town alone, Bren."
"He's not after me; he's after Ryan."
"As long as he thinks you have Ryan, you're a target."
"Maybe we can use that to our advantage," Brenna mused. "What if I lead him to someplace the police can grab him?"
"How will he find out where you are?"
Despite the seriousness of what she was suggesting Brenna couldn't suppress a chuckle. "That's the easy part. I'll let the press follow my every move."
Chapter 20
The suburban community where Brenna made her home sloped down from the foothills. The single lane streets wended away from a tiny, exclusive business district, ending in loops and cul-de-sacs where driveways departed through tight clutches of trees toward some famous and not-so-famous homes. Built before the age of cookie-cutter construction companies and when land tracts were more generous, each home spoke, if not necessarily of the current resident's character, at least of their tastes in postmodern Spanish art deco or classic European villa or of some other bygone Hollywood era.
Despite the high concentration of celebrity homes, and the lack of gates at the entrance roads, the paparazzi tended to remain clear of the area. Until this week. Their numbers had swelled from two or three photographers, to dozens of news stations following the single press statement by Pinnacle Pictures two days earlier:
"Cassidy Hyland, accompanied by Brenna Lanigan, both cast members of our Time Trails series, was transported to Pasadena City General for treatment of injuries sustained in an encounter with Hyland's ex-husband. Shooting on the series Time Trails has been temporarily suspended."
Everyone knew the history of the two actresses. If not, it was widely documented in interview archives. Before the public had completely recovered from the revelation that Mitch Hyland's attack had been provoked by a jealous rage, news crews following the women to the hospital caught a juicy sound bite: Lanigan declaring to a desk nurse, "I'm her lover." Now most of the studios were carrying Brenna Lanigan's press conference, but Don Deering wanted a full interview and was determined to get it.
As the KTLA van stopped before the private home, it became just one more amongst the dozens of news vans lining the small street and milling reporters with still cameras. The hospital had been crowded. Don had asked one question, then, getting no answer, he decided to wait until things died down a little, hoping Lanigan would come home. Straightening his tie, he hopped down from the passenger side. His cameraman and driver, Lou Phillips, set the hydraulic on the transmitter and pulled his camera from the back, hooking it into the feed with a quick cable connection.
"Shit, Don." Lou looked around. "I thought you said we'd be first on this."
Don shushed him. "What's going on?" he asked another reporter.
"Studio unit reported Lanigan is on her way here."
"To make a statement?"
"Had a full press conference at the studio. So...not sure," the reporter admitted.
Damn. Don knew he had sensed something when dealing with the two women almost five months ago. He had been covering their mishap in the Sports Warehouse. Now they had admitted they were lovers, and he possessed some of the earliest footage of them intimately close, likely just as their relationship was starting. He wanted to get one or both of them alone for an exclusive perspective piece.
"I'm going to get the lay of the land," Don said to Lou.
"Gotcha."
Lou settled against the side of the van
and shot a few minutes of establishing footage, as Don got a feel for the character of the neighborhood and the house he was approaching. It was a cozy, ranch-style home done in hand-hewn stone and wood fascia with a big front picture window. The shutters were stained rosewood, picking up the dark reds in the drapes. Lanigan had a very homey personality, he suspected, imagining there was a fireplace at the end of the stone chimney where she probably curled up. "Nice place," he commented aloud.
He crossed the lawn, peering briefly through slats in the privacy fence, unable to determine the lay of her backyard. He heard an engine and quickly hurried back to the public easement.
A delivery van from Flowers Unlimited pulled up alongside the mailbox, and a delivery man slid out. "What's going on here?" he asked as Deering joined him.
"Waiting for the lady of the house to come home," Don supplied. He was surprised to see scratches and a bandage on the man's nose. "I didn't know the world of flower delivery was so rough."
"What? Oh. Yeah, well a guy didn't like that some other guy wanted flowers delivered to his girl."
Deering shrugged. "I gotcha. Take it out on the messenger. Hope you got in a few good licks."
"Yeah. Well, I've got to deliver this. Can't leave it out here."
The muscular shoulders shrugged. Don couldn't help thinking the man's bluejacket looked just a little tight. Must work out, and the company hasn't gotten him a new uniform yet.
Noting the man's name tag, Don offered advice, "Jim, she's not home. But there's word she's on her way." The man shrugged away from him and opened the back of his van, pulling out a bouquet and starting up the front walk. "Where're you going?" Don followed the delivery man up the drive and along the walk to the front door. "We aren't supposed to be up here."
"To deliver this."
Another car drove into the cul-de-sac. Don glanced over to see a limousine garnering all the camera attention. Behind him, he could hear the delivery man trying the knob.
"I told you..." The man's shoulders blocked him and the front door opened. "How in the hell...?" Darkened blue eyes met his and a strong hand wrapped around his throat, dragging him inside the house.
Brenna anxiously studied the news assembly. It seemed every outlet she had left behind at the studio had dispatched a unit to her home. She sat in the back of a studio limo; the driver, however, was from the plainclothes division of the LAPD.
"I'll walk you to the door." He keyed the in-car radio. "This is Unit 1-9. Move in to the Lanigan address," he said into the microphone. "Let's hope our boy took the bait."
He moved the car forward steadily despite the crowding cameras. Once they were inside the Lanigan property line, the press fell back. He stepped out first and opened the door. When she got out of the car, everyone surged forward like a sea crashing, thrusting microphones and portable recorders and cameras in her face.
"Ms. Lanigan! How did the fight with her husband start?"
She sighed and put her hand up defensively. "It's late. Don't you all watch your own news?"
Not being indulgent sorts, the reporters stayed. "What's next for you?"
"A little sleep. Please."
With the officer watching her back, Brenna turned around and pushed her door open. Distracted by the crowd, it didn't register that she had entered without benefit of the key. Letting the officer in behind her, she shut the door between herself and the press, resting her forehead against it as she set the lock.
"I'm going to check through the house," the officer informed her.
She nodded wearily. "Fine." There had been no sign of Mitch. If he hadn't heard the news reports meant to bait him to her house, he could be anywhere. She wondered if he had headed for Cassidy's home instead. Their children should be safe with Chapman, but maybe she'd better call.
She tingled at the sudden realization that she had included all three boys in her thought. Our children. Mine and Cassidy's. Wearing a wide smile, she started toward her bedroom.
There were the sounds of a scuffle ahead and two figures emerged into the hallway from her bedroom. At the sight of her, Mitch struggled against the cuffs behind his back. "Where's Ryan? You were supposed to bring the kids home."
"They're all safe, away from you."
She put her hand on the officer's arm. "Be sure you find out how he got on the studio lot looking like a reject from a fight film."
"Will do, ma'am."
She started past him to her bedroom, but he stopped her. "You shouldn't go in there, ma'am. I'm going to call for the paramedics."
Brenna blinked, then went to her bedroom doorway and looked inside, stifling a gasp at the sight. The reporter, Don Deering, his face black and blue, lay unconscious across her bed.
Chapter 21
Brenna Lanigan's exhausting morning had begun before dawn and now, with the sun high overhead, she had begged off of meeting her coworkers at the commissary in order to spend lunch with someone very precious. She pushed the door closed behind her with a satisfying thud. Walking past the bathrooms which opened onto the corridor, Brenna slipped her arms free of the heavy military-style vest which she wore over a light gray cotton undershirt. Her mood lightened at the sensation of air circulating on her skin.
"How's things today, Ms. Lanigan?"
The guard was seated at the desk in the corridor. Bestowing a warm smile on him, Brenna's eyes brightened from gray to a deep blue as she stopped next to him. To her right was a pair of swinging double doors, a large sign beside them stating "Props". "Great now, Harry," she answered. Behind him was a single door, inset in the wall and painted the same light gray of the walls. She stepped past him and grasped its knob.
"Enjoy your lunch," he said. "I'll keep it quiet out here for you." He wrote her name on a check-in pad and checked his watch before writing her arrival time next to it.
"Thanks." She turned away, pushed inward on the door, and entered the brightly painted room. The sound of her entry did not go unnoticed. As she rounded the edge of the door, a small blur hurtled toward her. Her reflexes, admirable for a woman over forty, allowed her to catch the blond five-year-old under his outstretched arms.
"Hi!" followed by a rapid series of questions, and news about his day, assailed Brenna's ears. She pulled Ryan's slender body into her own, instantly feeling less tired because of his enthusiastic greeting. Small arms wrapped around her shoulders and warm lips pressed a wet kiss on her cheek.
Her eyes grew moist, and she pulled back to look into his glowing eyes. "It's good to see you, too," she said, brushing her fingers through his thick hair. He's almost due for a haircut, she thought. "What's for lunch today?" she asked him.
"Mrs. G and I are making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches," he announced with pride. He tugged on her hand as she stood up. "Come on."
"Of course." Walking across the room behind him and carefully moving around the little tables, Brenna saw Karen Grinaldi standing beside a kitchenette counter, complete with undercabinets and a sink. Behind the caregiver was an oven inset in the wall.
"Good afternoon, Bren," Karen said warmly. "Do you have a long break?" She reached out a steadying hand to Ryan's back as the boy stepped up onto a footstool in front of the counter and reached for a jar of grape jelly.
"Long enough for sandwiches and milk."
"And cookies." Karen smiled. "Ryan wanted to bake some this morning."
"They're peanut butter, too," Ryan added, glancing away from his task of upending the jelly jar over the bread.
Both women moved to stop the mess before it happened. Karen grasped the bottom of the jar, beginning to turn it upright, while Brenna caught an errant glob of jelly in her cupped hands.
Ryan looked sheepish. Brenna smiled and said quietly, "Oops."
"Sorry," he answered, his smile faltering.
Brenna cleaned her hands at the sink. "No harm done, but remember, when you're working, you can't let yourself be distracted."
"I'll do better," he assured her gravely.
She kissed his
cheek. "I know you will."
With renewed determination and the smile returning to his face, Ryan went back to his task. One at a time he put the three sandwiches on the cutting board and Karen cut each in half. Brenna collected three plastic cups in different primary colors and filled each with milk from the refrigerator.
Carrying two plates, with Karen carrying the third, Ryan led the trio over to a child-height table and carefully set one plate in front of each chair.
Brenna set the milk cups down and turned to take a seat, only to find Ryan pulling out the one next to her leg. "For me?" she asked. He nodded. Seating herself, she adjusted to the tiny proportions and watched Karen do the same.
Ryan settled quickly onto his own seat between them.
He looked at Brenna expectantly, waiting for her to taste it first.
She examined her sandwich, the bread lumpy in several places over extra thick globs of jelly. "It looks wonderful," she declared with a smile.
Ryan beamed as she bit into a corner and chewed thoughtfully. "Good?" he asked.
She swallowed and cleared her mouth with a sip of milk. "Delicious."
Ryan giggled and took a bite of his own sandwich. Karen had already consumed half of her own lunch while Brenna played out her ritual with Ryan.
I need this time together as much as he does. Brenna felt her fatigue fading as she ate her sandwich and watched Ryan rush through his. As soon as they finished lunch, they could move on to the next phase of their time together — a phone call to his mother who was still in the hospital, a stay now concluding its second week.
Brenna had taken over caring for Ryan, bringing him with her to and from the set each day for Karen's childcare services. But the lack of contact with his mother wore on Ryan, and on Cassidy as well. So they had arranged to make the midday call to keep mother and son connected.
Ryan was already carrying his plate and cup to the sink as Brenna finished the last bite of her sandwich and the dregs of her milk. "Ready?" she called.
He ran over to the cubbies and pulled out his bright orange backpack, searching through it until he came up with a small cellular phone. The phone was Cassidy's, another connection between mother and son, and the number for the hospital room where Cassidy recuperated was programmed in the quick dial.
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