“How do you know?”
“Okay. You got me. I don’t.”
“Right.” He looked around for an ashtray, found an empty roller pan and frantically jabbed out his filter-tip.
“What else can we do? You’ve got a lawyer.”
“Yeah, and he’s costing me an arm and a leg. They’re all bloodsuckers!”
“Or lifesavers.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong. I got the gun that you locked in the prop closet. It was ready to go and . . . And I fired it on the set . . . and . . . Oh, Jesus, do you know how many nightmares I’ve had about Lucinda going down? She could have been killed. I could have killed her. Allie Kramer’s damned lucky she wasn’t on the set that day.” He buried his face in his hand and the dogs, now it sounded like a third, had started baying from behind the plastic, began to howl.
“Yeah, Allie was lucky,” she said and despite her show of bravado felt a deep-seated fear. She, like Sig, was under investigation. It was all so crazy. She picked her way past the paint can with a drizzle running down its side of some gawd-awful mustard color, to the front door. “Look,” she said before stepping outside, “take my advice and listen to your lawyer. Make sure he’s the best one you can find.” And then she left Sig with his Marlboros, hideous paint, and miserable dogs. She found her way to her car and slid inside.
She’d done her duty.
Now, Sig was on his own.
Scraape!
Like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, the screeching sound echoed through Cassie’s brain. What was it? Where was it coming from? Fear crawling up her spine, she sat up in bed and peered into the half-light. Was it her imagination? She strained to listen. Something had caused her to waken so sharply and she had the uneasy sensation she wasn’t alone.
Her door was cracked, a sliver of bluish incandescence filtering in and offering a weird illumination.
Still, she saw nothing.
Scraape!
She jumped. Bit back a scream.
What in God’s name was that?
The screeching sound was so close. But from where?
Heart in her throat, she tossed back the covers.
Her bare feet landed on the cool tiles of the floor. In only her hospital gown, she crossed the room and pushed the door open a little farther.
Beyond, the corridor was empty, the eerie light seeming to move, like the play of shadowy light on water, the hallway long and austere. Her pulse was deep and hard. Fear collected in her gut.
Where was everyone?
This was a hospital, wasn’t it? There should be nurses and aides, doctors and patients, even if it was late at night. The corridor seemed to stretch for miles, but she walked silently toward what appeared to be the source of the light, a brighter end of the hallway far, far away. Identical doors lined the hallway.
She tried the first.
Locked.
Frantic, she pushed on the one on the opposite side of the hallway.
It didn’t budge.
Nor did the next or the next or next.
Were there footsteps behind her?
She broke into a jog and threw a glance over her shoulder, but saw no one, just the never-ending hallway that seemed to disappear into nothing. Fear rising, she ran on, checking each doorway, knowing before she pressed on the levers, that the locks were in place.