Deeper in the plastic tub she found the stuffed elephant that had been Allie’s “go to” cuddle toy as a toddler and into school. Jenna smiled and stroked the once-blue trunk, while noticing one of the eyes was missing and there was a rip in the seam of the elephant’s belly.
She remembered telling her girls to clean out their rooms and haul all their things up to the attic during the remodel of the bedroom wing. Apparently this box was never retrieved and returned to Allie’s room. Like so many things, she thought.
Footsteps heralded Shane’s approach.
“Jenna?” he called up the stairs. The first step creaked with his weight. “You up here?”
“Coming,” she said, and reluctantly left the old rocker with its memories behind. She hesitated for a moment beneath the single burning bulb and cast one final look around, all the while thinking of her daughters.
“Please,” she prayed under her breath as she clicked off the light, “wherever they are, keep them safe.”
ACT II
In her darkened room she waited impatiently. She’d intended to leave earlier, but remembered the television program, so she’d lingered.
Lying on the mussed bed, a half-drunk glass of chardonnay on the nearby table, she reached for the television remote, which lay on the night stand. The scratch on her wrist was still purplish red where she’d run the edge of the broken glass across her skin. Lips twisting, she switched on the TV just as Justice: Stone Cold was being aired. In tonight’s edition, there was supposed to be a teaser for future programming, all concerning the disappearance of Allie Kramer.
She waited as the advertisements tried vainly to sell her products. “Come on, come on,” she said, her eyes narrowing, her patience running thin.
Suddenly, big as life, a head shot of Allie Kramer, the start of a trailer for Dead Heat.
Her insides clenched and she felt a little frisson of anticipation.
The clip from the movie started with a close up of Allie playing the character of Shondie Kent, first her full face, then moving to one hazel eye where a bit of refracted light showed in her pupil. Finally, as if through Shondie’s vision, the tiny spot of light became larger, filling the screen with blurry images that sharpened into the scene of two frantic women running through the rain-washed streets of Portland, Oregon, panic and fear evident in their expressions.
The mood was dark.
Eerie.
Nearly perfect.
Craaack!
A gun went off.
The second woman stumbled as the scene faded to black.
Watching spellbound, she felt a deep sense of satisfaction. No one would ever guess how it happened, how the bullets in the prop gun had been exchanged, and who was the real target. She took a sip from her wine. That part, the mistake with the victim, still bothered her. Needed to be fixed.
On the screen, the scene changed again and the earnest and beautiful face of investigative reporter Whitney Stone appeared. Her hair was dark, cut at a sharp angle, her eyes large and sincere, her chin pointed and her attitude one of incredible concern. She started speaking intimately into the camera’s lens.
For the truth.
For justice.
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For the public’s right to know!
Even better.
Whitney promised a complete exposé on what really happened to Allie Kramer. Was the wildly popular actress alive or dead? Or maybe being held captive? Used as some kind of sex slave? Or bargaining chip? Or was this all an elaborate publicity stunt foisted on the American public by Galactic West Productions, the company that had produced the movie? Too many questions had no answers, but Whitney Stone vowed to uncover and dissect the truth for her viewers during Mystery Week on the cable station on which her program aired. What more intriguing mystery could there be than what had happened to America’s Darling, Allie Kramer?
“America’s Darling?” Like Allie was Shirley Temple or Sandra Bullock or Reese Witherspoon or whoever the current sweetheart of the week was?
Her insides curled.
Even though Whitney Stone’s interest was all part of the plan.