Or she’s really dead.
Cassie felt a sharp pang, one of real worry. However, she didn’t believe Allie was really gone. No. Her sister was alive. She had to be. There was no death scene at the end of her screenplay.
“You’re a true bitch,” she said to her reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall near the bathroom. She was capitalizing already on her sister’s troubles. She’d been searching for a new idea for a screenplay and Allie’s story, as told by her older sister, was a gift. Though she’d pushed these thoughts to the back of her mind while she was in the hospital, her destiny now seemed clear.
And Allie was not dead. She just had to find her.
Grabbing up her phone, she felt a jab of guilt about not calling her mother, but pocketed the cell anyway and headed out again. She had work to do and for some reason she felt as if the clock was ticking, not just the seconds of her life, but the time to solve this mystery.
Solve a mystery? You?
“Oh, shut up!” she sputtered. She made certain the privacy sign was positioned over the door handle of her room, then double-checked to see that the lock engaged.
Her next stop? Allie’s apartment, the one she’d leased during production of Dead Heat. The cops had already been through it, of course, but Cassie hadn’t been since the last time she’d seen her sister.
In her mind’s eye, she caught a glimpse of Allie as she’d last seen her. Small, scared, but angry enough to glare at her older sister. “This is all your fault,” she’d said, in a barely audible whisper. Her face had been devoid of makeup, tears streaming from her expressive eyes, wetting her lashes. She’d seemed, at that moment, so much younger than her years. “If something happens to me, Cassie, you’re to blame.” She dashed the teardrops from her face. “Remember that. Okay? You. And you alone. You’re the reason!”
Trent heard the familiar rumble of Shorty O’Donnell’s half-ton truck grinding its way down the lane. He turned, a carton of roof shingles balanced on one shoulder, and spied Shorty hunched over the wheel of his twenty-year-old pickup, the older man squinting through the windshield. Originally painted red and tan, the Chevy was now equipped with a faded green front panel and black tailgate, replacements for original parts that had been dented so badly they’d been scrapped long ago. New dents had appeared over the years.
Trent didn’t have to check his watch to know that Shorty was late.
Then again, Shorty was always late. Had come into the world three weeks overdue according to his mother and hadn’t caught up since. As long as Trent had known him, over three decades, Shorty had always shown up long after he was due. Today was no exception. No big surprise there.
Trent walked into the barn, stacked the final carton on top of the others he’d hauled from the local lumberyard. By the time he was outside again, the rain that had been threatening all day had begun in earnest. No more misting drizzle, now the heavy drops poured from the thick underbellies of the clouds huddling overhead.
Shorty parked and hopped down from the cab of his truck to the gravel spread between the outbuildings. “Sorry about the time. Damned cows got out at my place. Sheeeit, I’m gonna have to patch that fence again.” He looked up from beneath the brim of his Oregon Ducks cap, rain drizzling from its bill. The ranch hand was half a foot shorter than Trent, whip-thin, and tough as nails when he wanted to be. He was wearing his usual outfit: a short yellow slicker, jeans, battered boots, and the University of Oregon cap, though Trent was certain Shorty had never set one booted foot on the campus in his life.
Shorty asked, “You need help with the load?”
“Just finished.” Trent slammed the tailgate closed, heard the lock click, but gave it a tug, just to be sure it would stay latched.
“So I guess I should get to work inside?” He hitched his grizzled chin toward the machine shed where the old John Deere was waiting for a part that was due into town within the week. So far it hadn’t shown up.
“Yeah.” Trent eyed the weathered barn with its attached grain silo. He’d love to start roofing the sucker, but rain was forecasted for the next three days, so it was best to wait as it would be easier and safer to peel off old shingles and walk on the sloped roof when it was dry. He scowled, hated to be held up by the weather, Mother Nature, or God Himself. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, but he ignored it. Probably just another reporter looking for a new angle in the Allie Kramer mystery. As Allie’s sister’s husband, he sometimes got calls where nosy members of the press asked questions he’d rather not answer.