After She's Gone (West Coast 3) - Page 164

Not only by the mother who had tossed her aside but by the biological half-sisters who’d grown up as Hollywood princesses. Just thinking about it caused the back of her neck to burn and the demons in her head to start to scratch and claw. Cassie needed to die tonight.

It was time to be done with this.

She had a history of destroying anyone or anything that got in her way; that’s why she’d made a success of herself despite being left with the moronic Beauchamps. It had been fine until she’d learned the truth, though. When her “mother” had slipped up, leaving the adoption papers on the desk before quickly locking them away again. That’s when it had all clicked.

She’d been sixteen at the time, the same age Bitch-Mama Jenna had been when she’d decided she didn’t want to be burdened with a baby girl, when her dreams of becoming a movie star and celebrity overshadowed any thoughts of motherhood.

Well, until Cassie had come along.

Her blood boiled at the unfairness of it all, and the anger that she’d had to tamp down for all of these years burned hot. Now, finally, vengeance was hers. Her pulse began to pound in her ears and she remembered every poster she’d ever collected, every time she’d tried to apply her makeup, the instances when she’d stared into the mirror and searched for the telltale resemblance. Hers, she admitted to herself, was slight, not as strong as her half-sisters.

She obviously took after the loser who had impregnated

Jenna, though, so far, she hadn’t come up with his name. It hadn’t been on the birth certificate. But she’d find him, and when she did? Bye-bye, Daddy.

The cockles of her heart warmed at the thought. She’d let Jenna know about that, too. She wanted the woman who had given her away so blithely to crumple to her oft-photographed knees.

And it all started in a few seconds.

The demons were anxious now, bloodthirsty. Their talons scraped against the inside of her braincase and she actually winced. But it was nearly over.

Just a couple more steps and then she’d look her sister in the eye before blowing her to Kingdom Come!


The roar of a gun blast still ringing in his ears, Trent took off, trying to run. Pain shot up his leg, but he kept moving, limping as he strode, all the while trying to stay clear-headed, though the loss of blood had definitely dulled him as well as slowing him down.


He wasn’t about to stop now. Not when Cassie’s life was threatened.

This was his fault.

He should have taken her advice and called the police, shouldn’t have come out here like some damned cowboy thinking he could solve the problem. Who was the nutcase chasing his wife? What the hell was she doing here?

He passed the frantic horses and wondered where the hell were the damned cops? His boots crunched on something on the floor.

Broken glass!

But he heard the women at the far end of the barn, near the silo.

“Little Sister,” a voice called out, and he felt a new, debilitating terror. Little Sister? What the hell did that mean? Cassie was the oldest . . . except for the daughter Jenna gave up.

Was it possible?

Had her firstborn turned out to be a monster? A homicidal maniac?

While the horses paced and snorted in their stalls and a high-pitched scream of a siren reached his ears, he shouldered his rifle and shoved the Winchester 30-30’s bolt into place. It snapped with a loud, distinctive click and he was ready.

Again a wave of blackness threatened to pull him under and he set his jaw. A light was pouring into the barn from the open doorway. He moved toward it.

Little Sister? Cassie’s heart was beating frantically, her breath ragged, adrenaline pumping through her system as the truth became crystal clear: The woman chasing her was her older half sister. The sibling she found out about earlier tonight. The baby Jenna had given up for adoption years ago. Just as she’d feared.

What were the chances?

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” The familiar voice sang through the barn where the air was cold, but Cassie’s hands sweated over the grip of the pistol. Teeth chattering, she clenched her jaw and, using both hands, leveled the gun as she prayed she could blow the bitch away.

“Come on, Cassie,” the voice called out from the darkness, and there was something familiar about it, a quality she recognized.

Tags: Lisa Jackson West Coast Mystery
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