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  Using her remote control, she opened her driveway gate and pulled her little Honda into place.

  As she exited the car, Bridget came flying out from her front door.

  “Marnie! You’re back so early. Are you all right? I knew I should have gone with you. Oh, they weren’t rude or mean or anything, were they?”

  “No, I’m fine, really,” Marnie said, and she really hoped that she was a good actress, good enough to pull off that kind of a lie to her cousin. “I just... I just needed to leave. To come home.”

  “I’ll make tea. My side? Your side?”

  “My side. I know it’s just getting toward evening, but I’m thinking about to going to bed really early.”

  “Right after tea,” Bridget said. “Oh, and food. You’ll need food.”

  “I just left a reception,” Marnie argued. “There was food.”

  “And I know you. You didn’t eat any of it.”

  Marnie hadn’t eaten. Neither had she had anything to drink.

  Nope, not a drop of alcohol, and still she had seen and heard a dead woman.

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m really not hungry,” Marnie said. “Honestly.”

  “Yeah, but you have to eat something. This is terrible, tragic—but you have to go on living. If you’re going to get that children’s theater up and running on schedule, you’re going to have to start functioning again. That real estate agent, Seth Smith, called. I told him that you were a bit preoccupied right now, and he’s being understanding, but doing up a budget and taking care of all the details will take time—you have to start moving. He told me he has other offers. Of course, that could be a come-on, but...”

  “I’ll go see the accountant tomorrow,” Marnie promised. She smiled at Bridget. Neither of them had siblings, but their dads were brothers and had become the proud parents of baby girls the same year. Marnie and Bridget were as close as siblings—maybe closer. They had never had to fight over anything since they’d grown up in different homes.

  They weren’t, however, much alike in appearance. Bridget had very wild red hair and soft amber eyes in contrast to Marnie’s blue-green eyes and dark chestnut hair color.

  At the moment, however, Bridget was sporting some swatches in aqua and pink—very in the now. So far, Marnie had chosen to retain her own hair color. Her future was still uncertain; she made a lot of her current income from commercials she’d garnered here or there, and she was afraid of doing anything a bit off—even if hair did fix easily—when needing that money was still a major part of life.

  For Bridget, of course, it was different. She didn’t act—in fact, she hated acting. She also hated crowds, which was one of the reasons Marnie had talked her out of attending the funeral. Bridget was a writer; she had a great job as full-time writer for several shows on the new Sci-tastic cable channel, an outlet that specialized in sci-fi and fantasy themes.

  Bridget followed her cousin into her side of the duplex and headed straight for the kitchen. Marnie loved her kitchen. It was painted yellow, with herbs and flowers growing in the huge tiled bay window that overlooked the yard.

  Marnie walked into the living room and crashed onto one of her rich chocolate leather sofas.

  “How was the reception?” Bridget asked. “I can imagine it was a zoo. Everyone who hadn’t had a second for Cara Barton in life probably was there—I mean, what self-respecting actor would miss out on an opportunity for exposure like that? There was a ton of press there, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “A zoo, I’m sure. Hey, did the police get anywhere yet?”

  “No. I think they were at the funeral, but they all kept their distance. They were watching, I’m certain. I actually saw Detective Manning and her partner, Detective Vining, at the wake yesterday. They were...”

  “Watching?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Well, someone killed Cara.”

  “Yes, but those closest to her obviously didn’t do it. I mean, we were all there.”

  “Water is on. Look, you have some little meat pies in the freezer. I’ll pop a few of those into the microwave. It’s not gourmet and maybe not even really too healthful, but it’s something.”

  “Sure,” Marnie said, picking up one of the pillows on the sofa and holding it. She closed her eyes. Life was a nightmare. It was good to have Bridget in here, chattering away.

  Someone had killed Cara. Why?

  And why was she imagining that she saw Cara?

  “Hey! Someone is here,” Bridget called from the kitchen. “And... Whoa. Be still, my heart! This guy gives new meaning to tall, dark and handsome. Are you hiring a hero type for the theater? Or did you get some kind of an offer? Did your agent send this guy? I mean... Wow. Wicked-wow!”

  Marnie didn’t have to look out the window to see to know that Bryan McFadden had come to her house.

  She groaned out loud, looking around her living room.

  No. There was no dead woman there. Maybe it was him. Maybe he was somehow causing her to have some kind of a delusion.

  “Don’t let him in!” Marnie said.

  “Don’t let him in? Are you kidding? Who is he?”

  “Bryan McFadden.”

  “And who is Bryan McFadden?”

  “He’s no one. His parents were actors. He thinks he’s some kind of a cop or something. Just make him go away.”

  “Oh, Lord, I have done some things for you in my life, but make him go away? I’m not married, you know. I’m not engaged. I’m not even dating. And you want me to make this guy go away?”

  “Yes. Do it, please.”

  “McFadden, McFadden... Oh, he looks like that old matinee star Hamish McFadden. Is he—”

  “Yes. Make him go away. Please... Oh. Never mind!”

  She’d make him go away herself.

  Marnie leaped to her feet and flew to the front door, opening it.

  He was a solid six foot four, and in the dark suit he’d chosen for the funeral, he was definitely impressive in his size and stature. He had a way of looking at her so directly that it was unnerving.

  He was attractive; that was certain. Very. In a land of attractive people, he had something else, as well. Maybe it was that very steady way he had of looking at a person. Rock-solid. More. She felt as if Bridget could create one of her sci-fi ray guns based on his gaze: a green ray of light that drew her to him while she wanted to run away—or at least slam the door on him.

  Yes, his very stature was imposing.

  He probably knew it. Maybe he even used it to bully people.

  She didn’t let him speak.

  “Mr. McFadden, I left the funeral reception to avoid you. I don’t appreciate you coming to my house to hound me. You may be working with the police, but if you harass me, I will get a restraining order against you.”

  “You’re going to need me, Miss Davante,” he told her. He produced a card. “My cell number is there. Call me when you’ve figured out the fact that you can’t do this alone.”

  “Oh, hello there!”

  Bridget had come to stand behind her and was looking at him over Marnie’s shoulder.

  “Hello,” he said pleasantly, lowering his head slightly to see her. “Bridget Davante, I presume. A pleasure to meet you. I watched Deadly Venom and Bloody Claws the other night. Very tongue-in-cheek. Absolutely ridiculous, but the writing was wonderful.”

  “Thanks! I was head on that project,” Bridget said. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Mr. McFadden was just leaving,” Marnie snapped.

  “Apparently, I’m leaving. But thank you,” McFadden said. He turned his intent gaze back to Marnie. He spoke lightly, but there was something very serious about him. “Call me when you need me.”

  Not if you need me. But when you need me.

  He had some ego.

 
“Sure,” she said.

  And she closed the door, leaving him standing there with the card in his hand.

  She turned around and leaned against the door. Bridget stared at her.

  “Are you crazy? If that man came to my door...”

  “Don’t you dare let him in if he comes to your side!” Marnie told her.

  “Why?”

  “He’s—he’s annoying!”

  Bridget sighed softly, her hands on her hips. “Poor Marnie. I am so sorry for all you’ve been through. You need rest. I’m going to finish with the tea, get you to eat something and then leave you to get some sleep.”

  Bridget was wonderful. Marnie told herself just how lucky she was. Adoring parents, a cousin like Bridget and friends in film and theater who were truly wonderful, too.

  Even the dead ones!

  The thought came to her unbidden. She pushed it aside.

  Damn McFadden!

  If he hadn’t fed into her fantasy, she’d be fine now. If he hadn’t shown up at the funeral reception, she would have stayed. She would have talked about Cara with others. She’d be on her way to feeling normal.

  Maybe...

  Bridget was back in the kitchen.

  Marnie walked through the living room, past the dining room and down the hall that led to the two bedrooms: hers and the one she kept for guests—mostly her mom and dad when they came to visit.

  The guest room was quiet—with no attendant ghost.

  Her room was equally empty.

  She drew the curtains across the windows out to the back, overlooking the small kidney-shaped pool that was shared by the duplex.

  The yard was empty.

  She checked the back door while she was making her search; it was locked and bolted.

  “Did you want to eat in the dining room?” Bridget called to her.

  “No, the living room is fine, thanks!” she called back and hurried to join her cousin in the kitchen.

  Bridget was taking the meat pies from the microwave.

  “I’ll pour tea,” Marnie said.

  When they were set, she carried out a tray while Bridget set up two little card tables for them. “Did you want to watch TV? Probably not the news...”

  “It’s okay. You can turn on the news. It happened, and it’s all over. Cara is dead and buried now, and I have to get accustomed to the facts. Here, I’ll turn it on.”

  A cable news show flashed onto the screen; the coverage was on the funeral.

  Marnie saw herself and her fellow castmates.

  She saw Malcom Dangerfield and Vince Carlton and David Neal and many others.

  She saw Bryan McFadden in the background: tall, stoic, reserved...

  She saw no sign of Cara Barton.

  It must have all been her imagination; she had been under way too much pressure.

  And at the funeral, that wretched man had fed into her guilt and fear and misery.

  “I don’t quite understand what you’ve got against the man,” Bridget murmured. “I mean...tall, dark...gorgeous. Strong. Polite and courteous.”

  He is trying to convince me I’m seeing a walking corpse.

  Marnie told her, “He’s after something. That’s all. Leave it be, Bridget, please?”

  “Of course,” her cousin said.

  They watched more of the spectacle. The channel went on to show dozens of clips from Cara Barton’s many performances.

  Marnie was in many of the clips. Naturally, as Cara had been her TV mother.

  Marnie realized that they had both finished eating long ago. She stood, picking up the paper plates their microwave meals had been on.

  “I’m going to get some rest,” she told her cousin. “I’m okay. Really.”

  Bridget stood up and stared at her, nodding. “You’re not okay. But I will leave. Anyone who won’t even talk to someone who wants to get to the bottom of this...and frankly, anyone who won’t talk to him... You’re just not really doing well at all. But try to rest. And make an appointment with a therapist. That is not just a Hollywood thing—people all over the country are living better lives because they see someone they can talk to.”

  “I promise I’ll look into seeing someone. Even though I’m not the one who writes scripts about alien vampires battling genetically altered South American lizard people, but hey—yep, I will seek help.”

  “Hey! Dawn of the Lizard People had a huge audience when it aired, not to mention that it did incredibly well in syndication.”

  “Personally, I loved it. Bridget, I’ll be fine. I just need to...sleep.” Marnie couldn’t tell her that she needed to be alone—without seeing the dead woman who had been buried that day.

  Bridget walked to her and gave her hug. “I’m only a phone call or a wall-knock away.”

  “Thank you. Really. Love you—but you can go,” Marnie said.

  Bridget left. Marnie followed her to the door, locked it and slid the bolts.

  She turned and looked around the living room, and then let out a sigh of relief. There was no one there.

  The news anchor had actually gone on to talk about the weather—LA would enjoy exceptional late spring–early summer weather: sunshine and balmy breezes, a beautiful temperature of 80ºF during the daytime hours, dropping just down to 70ºF by nightfall.

  “Bed,” she murmured aloud.

  She would leave the TV on. The ambient noise would be good for her nerves.

  She walked tall and straight, as if there were someone there to see her courage.

  All the way back to her room. Once there, she shed her clothing, letting it lie in a heap, something she didn’t do often. She found her favorite soft cotton Disney sleep T-shirt and slid into it, and went to brush her teeth. Moments later, she crawled into her bed.

  The lights remained on in the living room, and while she had the drapes closed, there were floodlights over the backyard and pool area. It was enough so that she didn’t feel plunged into darkness. She hated the dark—the true dark. She always had. There hadn’t been any childhood trauma to bring on such a feeling. She simply hated the dark—the unknown, or so she had heard.

  She lay down, aware that she was truly exhausted. She hadn’t thought of anything but Cara since her friend had been murdered before her eyes. But she had been busy. That day, there had been the police, the shock, the grilling. Then there had been the arrangements—she and Roberta, Jeremy and Grayson getting together to do their best to do right by their friend. There had been the wake. And today, there had been the funeral and the reception. And now...

  Now it was over. It was time to get on with life.

  Something clinked on the ground out by the pool.

  Marnie shot out of bed and stood there, shivering and listening.

  Nothing.

  She forced herself to walk to the drapes, to pull them back and to look out.

  She waited, watching, not aware that she wasn’t breathing until she suddenly and instinctively sucked in a lungful of air.

  Run. Wait, don’t run—where to run to? Just go pound on the wall, head over to Bridget’s side of the duplex...

  No. She gave herself a shake—mentally and physically. The police were working on the case. She was home, safe.

  If she ran now—out of the house, even over to Bridget’s—she would never have the courage again to just live, to be herself, to chart her own course in the world without fear.

  There was nothing in the yard. She was still grappling with the idea that she had seen the specter of Cara Barton at the funeral, but her house and yard were ghost-free right now.

  She let the drapes drop and lay back down. She stared over at the window.

  And then she saw a shadow; it was definitely the silhouette of a person, someone walking across her yard.

  She leaped out of bed. Her phone was in the front of
the house, in her purse. She had to fly to it, call 9-1-1, get help...

  She raced toward the living room.

  As she fled her room, she heard the crash of glass as something slammed hard against the window.

  4

  The man saw him. He was agile and quick, and was back over the little picket fence that surrounded the duplex property even as Bryan made a leap to reach him.

  Bryan had noticed the man walking down the street, hands stuffed into the pockets of a dark hoodie—it was actually brown, not black. But that didn’t matter. He’d held his head low—no way to recognize him.

  He stood about six foot even and weighed maybe 180 pounds. Bryan took note and had watched him. Then he gave chase as soon as he’d seen the man slip over the fence into Marnie’s backyard, breaking into a sprint when he heard the crash of shattering glass.

  The guy was extremely nimble.

  Stuntman, maybe?

  Didn’t matter during the chase. Bryan hopped back over the fence, tearing down the side street off Barham, heading up the hill where some of the houses were mansions and some of the yards offered too-good places to hide.

  Yes, but there were alarms up that way, too.

  Bryan could run—he’d kept at it since he’d left the military. Running was a good thing to be able to do well, especially when you knew that you wanted to be in the investigative or law enforcement fields.

  This guy had to be Olympic quality. He was gaining distance.

  Bryan’s feet struck hard on the pavement; they were moving farther uphill.

  He began to gain a little ground. And then, as he swung around a corner, he dropped just in the nick of time. A whoosh of air too close to Bryan followed a loud crack.

  The man had fired at him.

  He rose, drawing his own weapon, but in those few short seconds, he knew that he’d lost his quarry. Panting, he paused, hands on his knees, looking up at the street and the way it divided. No clue as to which way the man had gone. He slid his Glock back into the small holster at the back of his waistband. As a precaution, he’d applied for a special carry permit as a security contractor working temporarily in California. He hadn’t been sure he’d need it, but now he was glad.