What was the fight with Allie about right before she disappeared?
Her lungs were starting to scream.
Why did Cassie just happen to be in LA when Holly Dennison was murdered?
Why would the killer leave the mask? Some sick joke? How did it tie in? What was that all about?
Pain burned through her chest. Serious pain.
Why kill Holly? What was the motive? Did she know something? Her murder wasn’t a random act, couldn’t be, not with the mask. So why her?
Her lungs were on fire.
What about Allie’s interest in Cassie’s husba—
She launched herself from the bottom of the tub and gulped in air. Huge lungfuls of air. She’d held her breath three seconds less than her best time.
Damn it all to fucking hell!
No—don’t get angry. You’ll do better next time. Take a few more breaths. Regain your equilibrium.
Slowly, she drew in air through her nose and expelled it through her mouth. Her heartbeat slowed and her anger melted away. It was still early enough that she could read a chapter or two of the paperback that had been sitting on her night table, or watch TV before turning in. She should probably catch the news. But she probably wouldn’t. A much more likely scenario would be that she would spend the next few hours in bed, with her computer, perhaps a last glass of wine, while going over her notes in the Allie Kramer disappearance case.
Finally, as the bathwater cooled, she climbed out of the tub and didn’t bother to towel off, just slipped on the plush robe and bent down to blow out the candle and whisper softly, “ ’Night, Love.”
CHAPTER 23
“Do you know what time it is?” Dr. Sherling asked. Her voice was groggy with sleep.
Cassie had dialed the doctor’s cell phone number on impulse. She really hadn’t expected the psychiatrist to answer. She’d gotten lucky. She glanced at the readout on Trent’s DVR player. It read nine forty-seven.
“I know it’s late,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Grumpily, Dr. Sherling said, “All right. I’m awake now. Sort of. But I have rounds tomorrow at six.” She yawned. “I suppose you’re calling about that television documentary, or docudrama, or whatever it’s called these days, and my advice is to not watch it. If you want, you can schedule a session and we’ll discuss it. Call my office. In the morning.”
“What docudrama?”
“On one of those mystery channels. You know, unsolved cases or whatever. The woman . . . oh, what’s her name, the nosy reporter, she’s on it.”
“Whitney Stone.”
“Yes, yes, that’s the one.”
Cassie’s insides tightened. “It’s on tonight?”
“Yes, in a few minutes, I think, but it might be best if you don’t watch it. I saw a preview for it, and the story isn’t about your sister going missing, but about the near-death experience when you and your mother were kidnapped.”
Cassie’s pulse sped up. “I wasn’t calling about the program,” she said, and explained about her visit to the hospital during the day, how she’d wanted to see Steven Rinko and not being allowed, how she’d been thwarted and belittled by the receptionist.
“Constance can get a little territorial,” the doctor admitted.
“Downright nasty. And judgmental.”
“Really? I don’t think so.”
“For sure. Tre—my husband was with me. He can confirm.”
“You’re back with him?”