For now, she stepped quickly through the doorway into a large room that smelled of sweat, plastic, and antiseptic.
Lucinda, dressed in sweats, was working at walking between two parallel bars, a therapist at her side. Her hair was scraped back with a headband, unkempt curls showing dark roots. She was concentrating hard as she inched her way down the length of the apparatus. Her face was flushed, sweat making her skin sheen under the fluorescent lighting.
As if sensing someone’s presence, Lucinda looked into the mirrors lining one wall and caught sight of Cassie’s reflection. She stumbled, but the aide who was with her was quick to grab her as Lucinda caught her balance again, her lips flattened with unrepressed fury.
“Get her out of here,” she gritted.
“Lucinda, wait.” Cassie stepped farther into the room as Lucinda made it to the far end of the bars and with the aide’s help nearly fell into a waiting wheelchair.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Really?” Cassie was flummoxed and tried to skirt the thin woman in nurse’s scrubs who was attempting to block her access.
“I think you should leave,” the woman said firmly. Her name tag read Louise-Marie and she was tough-looking, her expression brooking no argument.
Ignoring her, Cassie said to Lucinda, “I just wanted to see how you were doing, that you were okay.”
Lucinda shot her an oh-sure glare. “I was nearly killed, all because your stupid sister didn’t show up on the set again, and they thought they could get away with shooting the film without her, meaning using me. Shooting around her,” she stressed, her lips curling as if she’d just tasted something foul. “And I get shot in the process. Ironic, don’t you think?” She caught a glimpse of herself and frowned. “God, where’s Laura Merrick when you need her?” she muttered, mentioning the makeup person who’d been on the set of Dead Heat. Another glance in the mirror and she blinked quickly as if fighting a sudden spate of tears. “How could anyone do this?”
“It was an accident.”
Again, the dark glare. “I was almost murdered, but I think they meant to shoot Allie. Or maybe even you. Not me, for God’s sake!” Reading the protest forming on Cassie’s lips, Lucinda held up a hand. “I’m not talking about that Neanderthal Sig,” she said, meaning Sig Masters, the actor who had fired the prop gun on the set. “He was just a pawn. Like me. In the wrong place at the wrong damned time.” She yanked the headband from her hair and mopped her forehead. “Y’know he actually sent me flowers. They came with some kind of sympathy note that said ‘Sorry.’ Can you believe that?” She rolled her eyes. “I mean who does that? Almost kills someone and sends them roses and carnations and shit?”
Cassie shook her head. The truth was no one, not even the cops, thought Sig Masters was behind the accident. His record was clean and he had no ax to grind, no motive to harm Allie or Lucinda or her.
“I just want to find my sister,” Cassie said.
Lucinda snorted through her nose. “I didn’t think you two ever got along. I heard that the only reason you had a bit part in the movie was because she threw you a bone, or that she thought it would be good for publicity or something.”
“Wow.”
“Oh, come on. Everybody knows.” Lucinda lifted a dismissive shoulder, then wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “As for trying to find your sister, she’s probably already dead somewhere.” Cassie made a sound of protest but Lucinda went on without a hint of emotion, “I kinda thought you might have an idea of what happened to her.” She unlocked the brakes of her wheelchair and began rolling closer to the doorway where Cassie stood, still blocked from entering farther by the intractable Louise-Marie.
“Why would you think that?”
Lucinda gave a humorless laugh. “Everyone knows you were jealous as hell of her success, and then after she goes missing and I get shot, you end up in the nuthouse?” She was close enough now that Cassie didn’t have to shout. “That’s convenient.”
“What’re you saying?” Cassie asked, stunned. “You think . . . that I know where she is?”