by A. C. Dillon
They're not snowflakes. Their texture is more that of a dust, crumbling between my thumb and forefinger.
"Stardust," a voice behind me says.
I turn around, instinctively recoiling from her despite my own request for this meeting. My need doesn't shake the sense of dread, nor does it somehow normalize these exchanges. I'm still talking to the dead, and it still terrifies me.
"You asked for me. I'm here."
"People are dying. Because of me, a woman is dead."
Louise frowns. "You really love to put the weight of the world upon your shoulders, don't you? You're more dangerous to yourself than I thought."
Puzzled and chilled, I shut the window. "I don't understand."
"Yours is the bleeding heart that becomes a puppet in the wrong spirit's hands, if you don't learn to control the door," she explains. "You're starting to understand, aren't you?"
"I need help to stop the killer."
Louise edges forward now and I can see her feet are bare. Behind her, a shimmer of light hovers near the exit. No larger than a basketball, it pulses, blinking in pink.
"She's already crossed," Louise tells me. "Not all violent ends create a restless soul. Despite her death, she had no unfinished business compelling enough to remain. All she is now, is stardust. Remains cast aside as a descent begins."
"Whose descent?"
"You know already."
Glancing at the fading orb, she cradles it in her palm and blows gently upon it. It drifts slowly in my direction, its hue dimming rapidly to an off-white.
"The first lesson is to listen to the quiet ones. They're safest, but they have something to say. All of us do."
The orb has shrunk to the size of a softball, slow-blinking at me. I reach out tentatively, my finger grazing its airy surface. I close my eyes, willing it to speak to me, offering to hear its message. The orb hovers, as if pausing to scrutinize me. I can feel it looking through me.
'I trusted,' I hear a soft female voice say. 'It was a lie.'
"I don't understand..."
The room begins to spin and I grab wildly at the window ledge, only to find it's gone. It's all gone: the familiar brick and mortar of my scholastic days is crumbling away, soaring through the night sky and ignited. Falling stars tumbling to the weary bosom of earth.
I slam face-first into a white door and realize I'm in some sort of hallway. An apartment building? The door reads 2B and I try the knob, unsure of what I expect. I know I didn't expect it to turn and open for me.
I enter slowly, keeping a wall to my back as I study my surroundings. Exposed brick on a far wall. A black leather sectional sofa faces a plasma TV. The glass of what was once a coffee table is fragmented on a blue and grey area rug, sparkling like the diamond on my hand. A shattered glass lamp from Ikea, the polished stones it once contained now scattered like pennies in a well.
To my right, a kitchen. Open concept, it features an island that divides it from the dining room proper. Simple marble countertop, standard fridge in aluminum finish. Marring its pristine surface is a splash of blood at head-level—for me, anyway. A shattered bowl in a pool of deep crimson on the floor suggests a life once mundane quickly became a life ended.
"Who did this?" I whisper.
There is no reply, only the peculiar clock on the mantel. Seemingly a large crystal of raw sapphire, its hands shift to the hour and a bird merges, tweeting its song. The melody is familiar, but I can't place it.
A creaking jars me from my study of the timepiece. Spinning around, I spy a shadow in the farthest corner of the apartment. It begins to move, to approach. I understand that somehow, it sees me. It knows what I know.
"Get me out of here!" I plead softly.
"Get yourself out," Louise replies, standing beside me now.
The shadow edges closer and within it, the glint of a blade. A knife. Can you die in a dream? As I press myself against the wall, I wonder if I'm about to find out.
"Help me!"
"Help yourself. You have to learn." Glancing at the approaching figure, she stands before me. Shielding me from harm. "Find an anchor in your mind. Something you can go back to. Focus on it and feel the door shut."
Something to go home to... Someone...
'I'm your constant,' Andrew whispers in my ear.
A constant. Never changing. Always there. I think of him now, think of the minutiae of his features. I think of the feel of his arms around me and I close my eyes. Pull me back inside, I urge him.
The figure is five feet away. It has no face, only eyes. Eyes of coal that bore through me, that cut to my core and know I am weak flesh, ripe for the taking. It's now or never.
"GET OUT!" Louise screams.
In my mind, I see the door to the tunnels beneath Casteel, sturdy metal and silver knob. I see my prison, the one I've escaped. With all of my might, I heave it shut...
Autumn awoke with a gasp, her hand moving to touch her face, her eyes, her chest. Inventory. Am I still here? Behind her, Andrew stirred, the arm across her waist tightening.
"What's wrong?" he murmured.
"Nothing," she replied softly. "Bad dream about Veronica." It was half-true: the easiest of lies.
His reply came in soft kisses as he curled protectively around her frame. Autumn allowed herself to relax into his touch, closing her eyes against the early morning sunlight trickling between the curtains. A constant. She understood Louise's warning now. She would heed it. But at least she'd found a way to shut the door, if only temporarily.
Her mind drifted to the voice in her dream: "I trusted." Who did Sophia Bradley trust? Had she known her killer? How had she been deceived? Her writer's mind could conjure up at least a dozen scenarios where even a cautious woman might allow a killer into her home.
On the nightstand beside her, the phone rang. Groaning, she reached for her cell and cursed the call display. She'd been so hopeful that Jeremy would help her avoid this.
"Hello?"
"Autumn Brody?"
She knew the voice immediately. "This is her."
"This is Detective Barrington from the NYPD. We spoke on Wednesday regarding an incident involving Veronica St. Clair."
Rolling onto her back, she waved off Andrew's quizzical expression. "I remember. I take it you received the information I sent over with Jeremy."
"I have. Mr. Dixon was helpful, but this novel is your creation. I suspect that together, we might be able to determine who else could be targeted. Would you mind meeting with me this morning?"
"Anything to help Veronica. I'll need an hour."
"I'll come to you, Ms. Brody. One hour, the lobby of your hotel."
Hanging up, Autumn massaged her temples. A wicked migraine was brewing and she sensed that her chat with the eager investigator would only aggravate it. Andrew looked as exhausted as she felt, his features caught between a scowl and pain.
"Meeting with the cops?"
"Mmhmm. You stay here and sleep; I'll just be downstairs." Kissing his forehead, she slid out from beneath the covers and rose to her feet.
"Thank you," came his muffled reply from beneath the duvet.
Autumn allowed the rainfall shower to cascade over her face, washing away the helpless woman of yesterday. If she had learned anything from her mistakes last year, not involving the authorities sooner was the biggest. Maybe she didn't trust them, but it didn't mean that playing solo detective was wise.
The more people who understood what this creep was capable of, the safer they all would be. That was what mattered.
* * *
Detective Barrington was so nonchalant as she shook Autumn's hand, the teen questioned how seriously she was taking the case.
Gesturing to the hotel restaurant, she suggested they grab lunch while they talked. Dressed in black slacks and a v-neck cotton top, one could easily mistake her for an uptown resident, having a casual meal with a relative or friend. Her order for a virgin Cosmo only added to Autumn's discomfort.
It was only when the wa
itress slipped away to fetch their drinks that the real Detective Barrington emerged.
"In light of your interview yesterday, you may find yourself dealing with increased attention today. I'd prefer our discussions be as discreet as possible—for your sake as much as the investigation's."
"Oh. Okay then."
Running a hand through her wavy hair, Barrington continued. "If you're right about your theory, and I believe you are, I'd like the perpetrator to be uncertain as to how much headway we've made. Let the mouse believe it's the cat chasing its prey. It's hard to do in the world of Broadway, where the colour of someone's panties is newsworthy, but we'll do what we can."
"That makes sense." Autumn paused as the drinks arrived, waiting for their server to depart. "Were you able to review the book at all?"
"Just chapter five, which Mr. Dixon was kind enough to point out for us. I have a team running through it from start to finish, but I'd rather get to the key events with you." Sipping her Cosmo, she smiled. "I play a good game with the boys of the station, but even I have my more feminine vices."
Autumn smiled, sipping her lemonade. "It must be hard at times. No matter how far we've come, sexism is alive and well."
"Ain't that the goddamn truth," Barrington agreed. "My first day on the force, at least three guys laughed about me being Morgan Barrington. Assumed it was a guy's name, of course. It's fine: I kicked their asses on our annual drills. Might have punched one of them below the belt by mistake."
Sliding a picture across the table, Morgan continued. "This may be hard to look at, but in light of your own experiences, I suspect you're strong enough to manage. From what you know of your novel, would this crime scene fit your chapter five scenario?"
Autumn gasped, her stomach fluttering as she examined the photo. The marble countertops... the fridge... the blood... I was here. In my dream, I was here. Even the shattered bowl was as she'd seen it. Nodding in shock, she slid it back towards the detective.
"It's a perfect match," she managed to reply. Keep it together.
Barrington tucked the photo back inside her case folder. "I'm sorry you had to see it. It was a lot of blood."
"I've always been queasy around blood," Autumn offered by way of explanation.
In her mind, she wondered if Sophia's living room featured a black leather sectional sofa and an exposed brick wall. In her heart, she knew that it absolutely did.
"As you can imagine, we're anticipating that Ms. Bradley has come to serious harm, likely worse. Judging by the attack on Mr. Parsons, this person sees certain people around Veronica as threats."
"He thinks he loves Veronica," Autumn concluded soberly.
"Whether we understand it or not, if you ask our suspect, it's real love." Barrington pulled her omnipresent notebook from her pants pocket and withdrew a pen. "What I need to understand now is: what happens next in Dissected? Who are the victims? How are they connected to the character of Laurel?"
Autumn began running through the storyline, victim by victim, taking care to make connections between Laurel and those attacked. In her book, the targets were all either academic competition for Laurel or people who had wronged her at some point. At one point, Laurel's dorm mate was attacked; another classmate was killed; an instructor who harassed Laurel for refusing his sexual advances found himself dead on an examination table. Everything escalated to an impossible situation, one where Laurel was forced to choose between herself and another innocent woman.
"Not a pretty story," Barrington mused.
"Life isn't pretty," Autumn countered soberly. "But in fighting for her survival, she finds the strength to reclaim herself from her abusive relationship, as well as fending off the killer. She carves her own path, one where she severs the ties that bind her to toxic people."
Morgan settled back in her chair, draining her drink and flipping her notebook shut. "I like women who know how to survive. To fight and rise above. I relate more to them than the Kardashians and the debutantes. Dream big, work hard, hopefully make it. The story of Broadway."
Autumn sensed a story behind her words. "Was policing always your dream?"
"It was. My dad was a cop. Killed in the line of duty when I was five. My grandmother moved in to help my mother out. She was the dreamer. She was a Rockette, in her younger days. Whenever I got too serious or too wrapped up in my bitterness at a world that stole a good man, Grandma always had the same solution: 'Come on, Morgan. We're seeing a show.' With her connections, we often saw them for free, or special house rates."
"Sounds like a lovely woman. She wanted to keep you balanced."
Morgan smirked. "She also wanted to flirt with the actors. Colm Wilkinson was a favourite of hers. My God, she adored him. She was a good woman."
Catching the past tense, Autumn understood without asking: Grandma Barrington had passed on.
"It's why the guys always push me into the Broadway cases, or anything involving celebrity. Like any world, it has its own language, its invisible borders. People remember Grandma. They know I understand what it takes to survive in this business. They're forthcoming with me, and I respect their methods." Signaling for the bill, she tapped the case file. "For the record, I've cleared your friend, Evan Kowalczyk. I hope you understand that we have to be thorough."
"I do. I'm sure Veronica will be happy to hear it. She's always been a great judge of character, and she can be stubborn when her loyalty is challenged." Autumn gestured to the file. "With the book... Will you be able to find him?"
"I hope so. Clearly, given the level of detail, this is someone very familiar with your writing. I'll be looking closely into anyone with intimate knowledge of the story, as well as access to Ms. Bradley."
Shaking hands, the women parted ways. Barrington seemed to believe she was better informed that before, but Autumn was left with more questions. While she'd briefly considered that the stalker had done this before, she'd pushed it aside quickly to focus on her friend. Natural? Certainly. But it wouldn't help them find a suspect. Narrow vision made for narrow avenues of exploration.
Maybe there are other actresses who've been stalked before... But how would she ever find out? Most women dismissed stalking behaviours. Even Veronica had dismissed the first few letters as typical "rabid fan" behaviour.
Who would have access to other actors and actresses? Who would know the gossip behind the scenes? Leaning against the elevator wall, Autumn suddenly thought of someone who might know more than anyone expected.
Best part: her source was one text message away.
* * *
"I told you not to use my blank Moleskin for your stupid doodles!"
Autumn winced as the brusque voice of Zoe Ferguson carried down the corridors of the O'Rourke. Known for cutting straight to the core of anyone in her path, the stage manager was currently shredding their intern for mistaking an unattended notebook in the supply closet as free to take. Why Zoe wouldn't keep her belongings in her office was beyond Autumn, but she wasn't in charge. Zoe helmed the ship most days, ensuring cues were met, equipment was maintained, and actors met their duties.
Her experience on several major productions in the last five years was what intrigued Autumn. That, and her rumoured fling with Parsons. If Veronica's stalker was partial to this theatre, Zoe would know of it. If he was merely partial to Broadway, she had likely heard something through the grapevine.
"Alright, I'm here!" Zoe announced bitterly, storming into Veronica's dressing room. "What fire am I putting out for you now?"
"Close the door," Veronica ordered her.
"Whatever!" Slamming it behind her, she leaned against it, arms folded across her chest. "This better be good, Veronica. The security hoops we're all jumping through have added a good hour to our daily routines."
"I'd say finding this guy and throwing him behind bars would make all of our lives easier," Autumn proposed.
With a sideways glare, Zoe groaned. "Is Nancy Drew on the case? You know, there are actual cops working on this thing."<
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"You know what happened when the cops were called about the ex who was stalking me? They knew where the guy would be and lost him. I don't take chances with the safety of my friends. I prefer results," Autumn stressed. "I assume you do as well."
Her tone softened, but only just. "Stop kissing my ass and tell me why I'm here."
"You heard about Sophia Bradley?" Veronica asked.
"Who hasn't? She's the CW's latest pet. The entertainment news outlets won't shut up about her."
"Well, her apartment looked like a scene out of a book. My book. The police are starting to think that Veronica's stalker has a taste for what he does. That maybe he's done this before. Which brings us to you," Autumn concluded, gesturing to the haughty manager. "Stage managers see and hear everything. If an actress had a stalker, or was just being bothered by an ex, you'd know, wouldn't you?"
"Damn right I would," Zoe replied, relaxing her posture. "The amount of shit I have to coordinate for a show—security, media, construction—I don't have a choice. If one of the cast is going to have the runs if they sniff avocado, it's my job to keep the guacamole out of the theatre. It's a pretty thankless job."
Veronica frowned. "Then why do it?"
Mulling this over for a moment, Zoe smirked. "You know, I once wanted to act. I think every little girl who grows up poor wants to be famous at some point. You think, 'If I had money, my parents wouldn't divorce. They wouldn't fight. I would have clothes that were new.' TV makes it look so perfect. They didn't make Barbies for girls like me," she added, gesturing to her caramel skin. "I think she had a black girl sidekick in that collection. No, I had Halle Berry. I had Aaliyah. I had the women who went out and busted their asses to be powerful. And even still, Oprah aside, look at how the media frames us: we're not allowed to be assertive or empowered. Women of colour in particular are always just 'bitches'. Women in general are hormonal, crazy, and weak. I caved early on and decided I didn't want the spotlight and the scrutiny. I love theatre, but I can't play the Hollywood Sweetheart."
