After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 174

“We don’t know anything more.” That was a lie. Nash had spoken to her associate. Jenkins thought she might have identified the family who had adopted Jenna Hughes’s firstborn, a family by the name of Beauchamp. Gene and Beverly Beauchamp of Seattle, who had adopted two girls, one soon after the birth of Jenna Hughes’s baby. Jenkins had contacted the couple and was gathering information. As soon as the morning, they would have answers. Then, Nash would share them. And hopefully either arrest someone or at least bring them in for questioning. The name Beauchamp rang bells with her and she thought she’d seen it somewhere. When she got home, she’d double-check her notes.

“What about the nurse?” Cassie asked. “Belva Nelson?”

Nash hedged. “We’re still looking for her.” So far they’d found nothing.

“Have you come up with the name of the family who adopted the baby . . . my sister?”

“No.” Another dead end. So far.

Cassie let out a long breath. “I’d like to meet her,” she said, “but it might not be so good.”

“How so?”

“How would you like to wake up one morning and find out that you were the daughter of Jenna Hughes, the woman who was nearly killed after giving up on Hollywood? And then you find out your siblings are Allie and Cassie Kramer.” She snorted a little laugh. “We’re not exactly the poster children for stability, now, are we?” Suddenly serious, she asked, “Do you think she’s involved?”

Good question. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

“So, do you think I could have my phone back?”

Nash had anticipated that question. She fished in her purse, retrieved Cassie’s cell and handed it to her.

“Did you find out who sent me the text?”

“Not yet, but—”

“I know. You’re working on it.”

The husband moved from the window. “I think we’re done here,” he said. “It’s been a long night. We’ve told you everything we know.”

And it’s not enough, Nash thought, but kept her observations to herself.

For now.

CHAPTER 35

Sleep had proved impossible.

After making love to Trent, Cassie had stared at the ceiling while the wind and rain lashed at the house, rattling the windows and rushing through the trees. The smell of smoke from a recent fire in the wood stove drifted through the air and Trent, lying next to her, was dead to the world.

While he snored she thought about the party with its weird stage sets and mannequins of Allie. Had her sister, the one she’d never met, been in the crowd? Had Allie? Where the hell was her sister?

Tossing and turning, throwing off the covers only to shiver and pull them to her chin, she wondered about Belva Nelson and Whitney Stone and all the peripheral players. And the masks? Who had sent the horrid masks? Who?

She forced her eyes closed and tried to clear her mind. No more thoughts of the evil that she sensed surrounding the movie, no more worries about siblings, real or imagined, no more—

From the foot of the bed, the dog growled. Low. A warning.

“Shh,” Trent mumbled, rolling over and wrapping an arm around her waist. Snuggling up against him, her naked body cupped by his, she felt the warmth of his breath tickle her nape. She relaxed and hoped to keep the demons at bay.

Another growl.

This time the dog was on his feet; she heard his claws clicking against the floor. Cassie opened a bleary eye, and swearing under his breath, Trent released her and rolled to the side of the bed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t know.” He walked to the window to stare into the night, his silhouette visible against the watery light from an outside security lamp. Long legs, slim hips, broad shoulders, all sinew and muscle. He waited a few seconds, staring outside.

The dog was at the door, whining.

“He usually doesn’t spook easy,” Trent said and reached for the pair of jeans he’d tossed over a side chair.

“You’re going outside.”

“Got to check the stock.” He glanced at the bed where she had scooted to the headboard, the blankets pulled to her chin. “Maybe just a coyote.”

“Maybe.”