After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  Cassie wasn’t quite as clear as she explained about her text and meeting with Brandon McNary, then the feeling that she was being followed on the way to her car. She held back, though, and didn’t admit to the missing hours in her life. Confessing to losing track of time or even blacking out would only open a door she’d prefer to keep firmly shut.

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yeah.” Cassie nodded tightly and the muscles in the back of her neck stiffened.

  “You’re sure?”

  Why did the simple question seem like a trap?

  Without another word, Nash pushed the masks to one side then reached into her file and came up with a glossy picture. “Is this you?” she asked as Cassie, her heart turning stone cold, stared at a photograph of herself behind the wheel of her Honda. She saw the timestamp, remembered the flash as she pulled a one-eighty in the middle of the street in order to follow the bus.

  “Yes.” Cold dread congealed in her blood.

  “So how did this happen?”

  “After I left Brandon, or rather, after he drove off, I got into my car—”

  “After feeling that you were being followed?”

  “Yes. Anyway, I was starting to leave Portland and . . . and I thought I saw Allie. She . . . she was waiting for a bus, which came.” Cassie’s heart was pounding, and it was all she could do to remain calm. “I think she got onto it, but the bus blocked my view of the stop, so I made a U turn to follow it and hopefully catch up with her.”

  “At one fourteen in the morning?”

  “I don’t know what time it was, but yeah, that’s probably about the right time,” she said and tried not to panic even though it was evident the detective thought she was lying, that she was somehow involved in Brandi Potts’s murder. She should leave. Tell Nash she needed her lawyer with her, or just get up and walk out. But she didn’t. Because, damn it, she wasn’t guilty.

  Upon questioning, Cassie managed to describe the bus, the advertising panel of a local real estate firm on the back end as it belched exhaust on the route.

  Nash made a note. “So. Did you follow it? The bus?”

  Didn’t she just say so? Be calm. Stay cool. “Yes.” For as long as I can remember.

  “And was your sister on it?”

  Cassie licked her lips. Had Allie been inside? “No. I don’t think so, but I don’t know. She wasn’t in the alcove of the coffee shop when I drove past, but the bus was lit. I could see inside.” She willed herself to remember driving and craning her neck, looking upward through the bus’s windows. “There were only a few riders.” Two twentysomethings in watch caps, wires from headphones running from their ears. An old man in a bulky coat . . . and . . . She didn’t realize it, but she was slowly shaking her head.

  “You didn’t see Allie Kramer?”

  Cassie knew how fantastic this all sounded, how unreal. “On the bus? No. Not unless she was lying down.” But then where had she gone? If she hadn’t boarded the bus, what had happened to her? Dear God, had she even existed? Cassie’s head began a slow, low throb, from the base of her skull. Not now! She couldn’t black out now!

  “Do you remember where you saw her? Before she boarded?”

  Cassie blinked. Stared down at the picture. “Right there!” She pointed to the photo of her, flashed by the traffic camera. “The coffee shop at that intersection and I already told you, she was there, standing in the doorway waiting for the damned bus!” Her voice had risen and she wanted to shake Nash to make her believe.

  Making another note, Nash said, “And then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After you followed the bus. What happened?”

  There it was. The time gap. The black hole of her life where she had no idea what had happened. Had she chased Allie down? Driven aimlessly? She didn’t know. “Nothing,” she said quickly, her voice sounding strangled. Don’t let her get to you. Stay focused. Serene. You can do this. She said, “I drove home. I mean to my husband’s ranch.” It was all she could do not to squirm in her seat. But she did her best and wished to high heaven that Trent was with her. That, of course, hadn’t been allowed. He’d driven her to the station and was waiting nearby, probably going to be asked to confirm what he could of her story, but for now, she was on her own.

  Just like always, her mind teased as she’d always felt a little out of step within her small family. Allie, the baby, had always been Jenna’s favorite, probably because she, during their growing up years, had complied while Cassie had rebelled. Their father, too, had been more interested in the younger of his two daughters with Jenna, but that, recently, was probably because of Allie’s star power and how it had reflected upon him as her producer. With Cassie shifting her interests to screenwriting, Robert had lost a little interest in her.

  And how would you write this scene? You wanted to use Allie’s disappearance as inspiration for your next screenplay, so how do you think you’ll do it from a prison cell?

  Cassie gripped the edges of her chair and forced her mind to the interview.

  “There is something else,” Cassie said, and reached into her jacket pocket to withdraw her phone. “I left this in the car last night and this morning there was a text on it.” She scrolled to the cryptic message and handed it to the detective.

  “ ‘Help me’?” Nash read.

  “I don’t know who it’s from. The number means nothing to me but Brandon McNary got a text from a number he didn’t recognize. It said, ‘I’m okay.’ Nothing more. He thought his text was from Allie and I thought mine was, too.”

  “You wrote back?” Nash said, staring at the screen. “But no response?”

  “Right.”

  “Why do you think it’s from Allie?”

  “Who else?” Cassie asked.

  “Someone pranking you?”

  “It could be, but . . . I don’t know. I thought you might want to see it.”

  Nash nodded. “Can I keep this?”

  “Yes.” Cassie hated handing over her phone, but knew the information on it could be accessed by the police through the phone company; all they needed was a search warrant, and though the detective would be searching through her phone’s contacts, texts, call log, and apps, she didn’t care. She didn’t have anything to hide and she wanted to prove it.

  Nevertheless, it made her nervous.

  Nash asked more questions about the night before. Over and over again, as if she hoped to trip Cassie up, but Cassie held firm, never once straying from her actions, both in Portland and in LA, keeping her missing hours to herself.

  Finally, exhausting all her inquiries, Nash said, “I think Detective Hayes will want to talk to you.”

  “Again,” Cassie corrected, her heart sinking. She was already going out of her mind, wanted to leave this place ASAP. “Is he here?”

  “No. The interview will be by phone. We’re kind of changing it up a bit, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine,” Cassie lied, but wondered if she were making a big mistake, if the police would twist her words, if she really should have refused to talk to them without an attorney as Trent had advised.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to have counsel present,” Trent had suggested. He’d been driving, Cassie in the passenger seat of his pickup as they’d left his place. She’d glanced in the side view and had caught sight of Hud waiting on the porch. Her heart had squeezed and she’d felt a premonition of doom, had almost insisted Trent turn the truck around. But it would have only put off the inevitable.

  “I’ve got nothing to hide,” she’d finally said, determined to get the damned interview over with.

  “I know, but—”

  “I can handle it,” she’d snapped, just as his cell phone had beeped. He’d glanced at the display. “It’s Carter,” he’d said, and answered, driving one-handed on the county road leading to I-84 heading west. The conversation had been quick and one-sided. “. . . Well, at least that’s something. Hopefully something will come of it . . . Yeah, we’re on our wa
y there now. Thanks . . . How long? You would know better than me, I think. A couple of hours? . . . Yeah, both of us . . . call when you know more.... Okay. Thanks.”

  He’d hung up and said, “Carter says ‘Good luck.’ ”

  “I’ll probably need it.”

  “He’s also said Sparks ran down a lead on the Santa Fe. He and Carter are on their way to Molalla. They matched one of the 2007 Hyundais to a dealership out there.”

  “And?”

  “And this particular dealer sells all his cars with a license plate holder that not only has his name on it, but a little art.”

  “Let me guess,” she said, astonished that Rinko’s obtuse lead would go anywhere. “It’s got a horse on it.”

  “Actually a cowboy riding a bucking bronco in honor of the Molalla Buckeroo, a rodeo event the town holds every year. Apparently Belva Nelson lives in some little farm outside the city limits with her niece and husband. The niece’s name is Sonja Watkins. Ring any bells?”

  “No.” She’d been certain. She’d never heard of either woman. “Who are they? How are they connected?”

  “Carter isn’t sure, but here’s the kicker: Belva Nelson is in her seventies and an RN. She worked in Portland, but she’s retired now.”

  Cassie’s heart had skipped a beat. “Did she work at Mercy? In the psych ward?” Was it possible? Had Carter and Sparks located someone who purported to know that Allie was alive?

  “Unknown. They’re working on it. This isn’t really a job for the state police. It’s Portland’s case, but Sparks is intrigued and is doing this on his own time.”

  “Belva Nelson,” she’d repeated, but the name still meant nothing to her. “How . . . I mean how did she get into the hospital?”

  “If she did. Nothing’s certain. Carter’s gonna call back once they’ve visited the place.”

  “Hopefully he’ll come up with some answers,” she’d said, trying to figure out how a retired nurse from a town thirty-odd miles from Portland had anything to do with Allie seeming to vanish. Could this woman be the key to unlocking the entire mystery? Cassie had felt her pulse jump a little, then had refused to allow herself to feel the tiniest ray of hope. Belva Nelson could be just another dead end.

  Now, in the interrogation room Cassie watched as Detective Nash gave a nod to the mirror and within seconds a phone was delivered by a uniformed officer who hooked it to a jack in the wall. The cord stretched to the table. Nash dialed. Less than a minute later she was connected to Detective Hayes in LA and the interview continued for another forty-five minutes, directed by Nash, with Hayes asking a few questions for clarification.

  The whole experience was surreal. And unnerving.

  The questions became pointed and went over the same information Nash had asked earlier: Did she see the victim, Brandi Potts, last night? Did she know Brandi? Was there a connection between Brandi and Holly Dennison or Lucinda Rinaldi? Did Allie ever talk about either woman? Did Cassie own a gun? Could she provide an alibi for the hours surrounding Brandi Potts’s death? Did Cassie have any idea why the mask was left at her apartment in LA? Did she know about the other masks? Did she know of any reason either woman would have been killed? Any known enemies? Did she know if the two women were close? And just how close was she to either?

  No, no, no!

  How many times did she have to explain that she knew nothing? She answered each question as best as she could, but her knowledge of either victim was limited. Yes, she’d had drinks with Holly, but that was it. She’d driven her friend home the night before her death and hadn’t seen her again. She wasn’t even sure if she’d ever had a conversation with Brandi Potts.

  The detectives’ questions were getting them nowhere.

  And still Nash kept firing them.

  Why would someone place the masks on the victims or leave one at her apartment? Why scribble the words Mother or Sister on the back of each?

  Cassie was losing her patience. “I don’t know,” she said for the dozenth time. “Look, if I knew anything, I’d tell you.”

  Nash’s smile was icy. “Well, that’s certainly reassuring.”

  “I mean it, I don’t know.” She’d almost pounded her fist on the table she was so frustrated, tired, and angry. But that wouldn’t solve anything. She forced a calmness she didn’t feel. “So I’m going to go now. I’ve told you everything I know, which is nothing, so there’s no reason for us to waste any more of your time or mine, or his,” she said, rolling a palm toward the phone from which the disembodied voice of Jonas Hayes had boomed. Standing, she headed to the door.

  “I wouldn’t advise you leaving just yet,” Nash said, and Cassie whirled on her.

  “Tough. I’m going.” She only hesitated long enough to see if the detective would try to stop her. She didn’t.

  “I’m sure I’m going to have more questions for you,” Nash stated, and was unable to hide her annoyance.

  “I’m sure,” Cassie said. “You have my number. Oh, wait. You also have my damned phone.” Then she opened the door and nearly bolted from the room.

  Sonja Watkins wasn’t happy to find an officer of the law on her sagging front porch. Pushing forty and skinny as a rail, she stood behind a broken screen door and smoked a cigarette while a television blared from somewhere in the depths of the house. Two dogs of indeterminate breed lay on mats on the porch and chickens picked at bugs and grain or whatever in the sparse grass of the yard. The house, vintage 1940, sat on a plot that had to be five acres of fenced scrub brush. A boat and four older-model vehicles, two of which didn’t appear to run, were parked in a wide gravel area in front of a weathered barn. No Hyundai SUV.

  The surrounding small farms, visible from the front porch, were neatly kept, the yards trimmed, the houses and outbuildings painted and clean. Not so the Watkins property.

  “What do the cops want with my aunt?” Sonja Watkins asked, eyeing Sparks’s badge suspiciously through the screen.

  Carter guessed this wasn’t the first time the police had shown up at her door.

  Sparks offered a thin smile. A tall man with curly black hair showing its first signs of gray, he was about six feet, his skin always appearing tanned, his eyes sharp and focused. Today, as usual, he appeared unruffled, as if he’d been through the drill a million times.

  “Is Belva Nelson here? On the premises?” he asked, flipping his badge holder closed and stuffing it into his pocket.

  “Why? She in some kind of trouble?” Sonja was little more than five feet, thin to the point of being skinny, her hair a dark auburn color, red streaks visible. A pair of readers were propped onto her head, and the cigarette burned between the manicured fingers of her right hand. She turned her head to yell over her shoulder, “Christ, Mick, could you turn the damned TV down?”

  One of the dogs lifted his head and gave a soft woof. The volume from within didn’t change. Pursing her lips in aggravation, she swung her head around again. “Wedded bliss.”

  Sparks was firm. “We just need to talk to Ms. Nelson.”

  “Well, Ms. Nelson ain’t here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.” A lift of the bony shoulders. A rounding of her eyes. “She don’t tell me where she’s goin’ half the time. And I don’t care. None of my business.” She took a long drag, shot a stream of smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

  “But she does own a 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe?”

  “Yeah.” Her look said, What’s it to ya?

  “Does she live here?”

  “Why?” She drew hard on her cigarette and in the ensuing cloud said, “Don’t you get it, she’s not here. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days.”

  “When do you expect her back?” Sparks asked pleasantly, though there was an edge of steel to his voice.

  “Don’t know. As I already told ya, she don’t answer to me! Shit, half the time she just picks up and leaves, don’t say a word about what she’s doin’ and shows up a few days later.” She turned her lips down at the co
rners. “It’s a real conundrum, now, ain’t it? But once again, it’s not my business. She pays her rent, I don’t go pryin’.”

  “So this is where she resides?” Carter cut in.

  She frowned. Shot him a look. Took a puff. Realized she’d given out more information than she’d intended. “You a cop, too?”

  “Was.”

  “I thought I’d seen you before. You were that sheriff that was caught up in that mess with the damned serial killer a few years back. The . . .” She snapped her fingers as she thought. “I don’t know his damned name, but he was the ice man guy.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sheeeit, that was one fuckin’ mess! It was all over the news.” She let down her guard for a minute and swung her gaze back to Sparks. “You were involved, too. I read all about it. Was kinda fascinated with the whole weird thing. So what the hell are you two doin’ askin’ about my damned aunt?” A dawning realization hit her. “This have somethin’ to do with Jenna Hughes or her damned missing daughter? Yeah, yeah, I read all about it and you—” She pointed at Carter through the mesh, smoke from her filter tip curling from her hand. “You married Jenna Hughes. Now I remember! Holy shit, what the hell do you want with my aunt?”

  Sparks asked, “Do you have a cell phone number for her, or some other number where she can be reached?”

  Sonja hesitated; she obviously wasn’t eager to help the cops. “She don’t use it like regular people. I mean, she uses it when she wants to talk to someone but doesn’t have it on all the time to take calls. She’s a little old school, if ya know what I mean.” She eyed them both and had another drag. “What’s this all about?”

  “She was a nurse,” Carter said.

  She gave a sharp nod. “A long time ago. Belva’s been retired for years.”

  “Did she ever work at Mercy Hospital?”

  She thought a second. “Don’t know. But there were several different ones, I think.”

  “In Portland?” Sparks asked.

  “Yeah.” She was nodding. “Look, I don’t remember the names. Mercy? Shit, could be.”