She took a sip of coffee and considered. Was she signing herself up for another emotional roller-coaster ride?
A plate of bacon and toast was warming in the oven. Gingerly, she carried the hot plate to the table. Her stomach growled before she dug in. God, she was hungry!
She demolished the bacon, saving just one bite for the dog that snapped it up on the fly and looked eagerly for more. “Sorry, Bud. That’s it.” She plopped the last bite of toast into her mouth and heard the rumble of an engine and crunch of tires on gravel. “Maybe Daddy’s home.” As she dropped her plate into the sink where a frying pan was soaking, she peered through the window to see Trent jogging to the back door.
Her heart did a quick little flip as she heard his boots hit the first step of the back porch. Hud gave an excited yip, then raced to the back door and stared at it as if willing the thick panels to open. Then Trent rushed in, his face set and hard, his lips compressed.
“Hey, Cowboy,” she started, then caught his mood. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you know a woman by the name of Brandi Potts?”
The name rang distant bells, but she couldn’t place it. Slowly shaking her head, she said, “Maybe I’ve heard the name . . .”
“Maybe as an extra on Dead Heat?”
“Possibly. Why?”
“You haven’t seen the news?”
“No . . . I just got up. What happened?”
“She was murdered last night.”
“What?” Cassie gasped. “Murdered?”
“Gunned down on the very street where Dead Heat’s final scene took place, about a block away from where Lucinda Rinaldi was shot. It’s all over the news.”
“My God.” She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to.
“That’s the second one with ties to the movie. Third, if you think Lucinda Rinaldi was an intended victim.” He stared at her and didn’t say the obvious, the unspoken thought: Fourth, if Allie turns up dead.
Shaken, her knees suddenly weak, Cassie leaned against the counter. “I don’t get it. Why? This is horrible.” She didn’t know Brandi Potts, couldn’t even dredge up a picture of the woman in her mind, but she felt a deep, overwhelming sadness. “How? What happened?” she asked as he took a seat at the table.
“Details are sketchy. I heard about it on the news this morning, called Carter and he checked, then called me back. Apparently she was out running late last night, early in the morning really, and her route took her on that same street, which is where she was attacked. Looks like a gunshot.”
“Like the others.” A coldness that started in her soul swept over her. She rubbed her arms, tried to think straight. Another murder? Why? She sat down opposite Trent.
“Yeah.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
The question was rhetorical, but he answered with, “I wish I knew. You think this has anything to do with McNary? Him being in town?”
“Because he was out last night? I don’t know. The guy’s a prick, yeah, but a murderer? That just doesn’t seem right.” Then she caught his drift and sucked in a breath. “I was out last night. Don’t tell me that just because I was out, you think—”
“Of course not.” His gaze held hers across the table. “But other people might. The cops.”
Her stomach did a nosedive. He was right. She thought about asking him to lie for her, to say that they’d spent the entire night together, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead she tried to concentrate on what had happened last night, the quicksilver moments in time that didn’t hold together. Some events, though, were clear. “You know, I thought I was being followed last night. I mean I heard someone behind me on my way to the car after meeting with McNary.”
She saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. “What happened?”
“Nothing, I ran into a big guy, a preacher, or maybe a priest, I think. He wore a clerical collar, but no one was following me and then . . . then, I know this sounds crazy, but I thought I saw Allie.”
He froze. “You saw your sister?”
“I thought so at the time, for a minute anyway. She was standing in an alcove, a doorway to a coffee shop. Maybe waiting for a bus?”