After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 162

Cassie scanned the room with new eyes. Could one of the people within these walls, someone who had worked on the film, be her half-sister? It seemed impossible, but . . . Heart thudding, she swept her gaze across the room, landing for a split second on the possibilities. From Little Bea in her classic black dress and heels, to Cherise, elegant in red, or Ineesha, fit as ever in a backless gown, or Laura in ivory, or Sybil Jones in a man’s black tux. All of these women were about the right age and, if Cassie let herself imagine it, could resemble her. Sure, Little Bea was tiny, but so was Jenna, and her chin was just pointed enough . . . and Laura’s eyes. Didn’t they look a little like Jenna’s? And Cherise, she had Jenna’s slim build, her heart-shaped face. Or was Cassie mistaken, just fantasizing? Seeing similarities when there were none?

Her head pounded a little as she spied Lucinda Rinaldi wearing a sequined blue strapless dress but seated in an electric wheelchair. Lucinda looked a lot like Allie, the resemblance close enough with the right lighting and camera angle to be her double.

“You okay?” Trent asked, sensing her hesitation.

She rolled her eyes. “Am I ever?”

He actually laughed. “Good point, Cass. Come on. Let’s dive into the shark tank.”

Following his lead, she took the two steps downward into the crowded, noisy room. She reminded herself that this was her chance to finally talk to some of the people who had avoided her. Little Bea. Dean Arnette. Sig Masters. And others. The problem was that Cassie was still a little unfocused, the life-sized mannequins of Allie, coupled with the recent news that she had a half sister and the murders of people associated with the film, crippled her slightly.

Pull yourself together.

Think!

Don’t miss this opportunity.

But the individual sets and mannequins bothered her. Each positioned lifelike doll seemed to be watching her with those glassy eyes so like her sister’s. Cassie had the unsettling feeling that Allie was here. Watching. If only in the form of the inanimate life-sized dolls.

Walking deeper into the room, Cassie felt swept into the sea of people. Actors, producers, grips, people who worked on the lighting and sound, the writers, and on and on. The press had been invited as well, of course, as this was an event to promote the movie. Posters from the movie abounded and an adjacent room nearby was showing clips of Dead Heat over and over. Champagne and cocktails flowed, and music from the score of the film had been piped in, barely audible over the hum of conversation. And then there were the staged scenes featuring Allie, as Shondie, in mannequin form.

Ugh.

Forcing her gaze from the sets, she walked through the throng, forcing a smile, murmuring a quiet, “Hi,” to those who passed, avoiding reacting to the curious glances sent her way. Because of Allie? Because she was with the husband she’d vowed to divorce? Because she’d recently been a patient in a mental hospital? More likely, she thought sourly, all of the above.

“See . . . this isn’t so bad,” Trent said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. She caught his gaze and realized he was teasing. Parties had never been his thing and no doubt this over-the-top circus with the paparazzi in the wings and gossip flowing like water, was, for Trent, a form of pure torture.

At a table of canapés, she stopped and again surveyed the crowd. Along with those she didn’t recognize were the people she’d worked with. Brandon McNary was holding court, his unshaven jaw fashionably scruffy, his dark hair mussed, a gray jacket, open-collared shirt, and jeans. Several women in their early twenties or late teens were hanging on his every word.

Oh, save me.

Cherise Gotwell stood nearby, sipping champagne and gauging the crowd, while Little Bea buzzed through the knots of people and Laura Merrick moved from one group to the next. Lucinda Rinaldi didn’t even bother forcing a smile as she wheeled through the throng; and the rumors that she was still going to write a book and name names, all the while suing everyone she could who was associated with the film, hadn’t died.

Cassie couldn’t blame her. Allie’s double’s injuries were real and severe, so why wouldn’t she make a few bucks because of it?

Like you, she thought, thinking of the screenplay of Allie’s life she’d barely started, taking advantage of the situation, the tragedy involving your sister and you don’t even know how it ends.