Where dreams go to die...

Starring in a cult TV show was a blessing for Marnie Davante, especially now that her former fame could support her future dream of starting a children’s theater. So she’ll work the convention circuit. But then a costar is brazenly murdered in front of her. With a killer who vanishes into thin air with seemingly inhuman skill, and strange events plaguing Marnie, she feels she can’t even trust her own senses.

Although his dear departed parents were famous actors, PI Bryan McFadden is about as far from Hollywood as you can get. The former military man is reluctant to get involved in such a bizarre case, but it quickly becomes obvious that Marnie is in grave danger, and he is compelled to help. It’s unclear if the killer is an obsessed fan or something more sinister. Could the show’s cast be cursed? How can Bryan keep Marnie safe when it becomes apparent there’s a force determined to make this her final curtain call?

Also By HEATHER GRAHAM

A DANGEROUS GAME

WICKED DEEDS

DARK RITES

DYING BREATH

A PERFECT OBSESSION

DARKEST JOURNEY

DEADLY FATE

HAUNTED DESTINY

FLAWLESS

THE HIDDEN

THE FORGOTTEN

THE SILENCED

THE DEAD PLAY ON

THE BETRAYED

THE HEXED

THE CURSED

WAKING THE DEAD

THE NIGHT IS FOREVER

THE NIGHT IS ALIVE

THE NIGHT IS WATCHING

LET THE DEAD SLEEP

THE UNINVITED

THE UNSPOKEN

THE UNHOLY

THE UNSEEN

AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS

THE EVIL INSIDE

SACRED EVIL

HEART OF EVIL

PHANTOM EVIL

NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

THE KEEPERS

GHOST MOON

GHOST NIGHT

GHOST SHADOW

THE KILLING EDGE

NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

UNHALLOWED GROUND

DUST TO DUST

NIGHTWALKER

DEADLY GIFT

DEADLY HARVEST

DEADLY NIGHT

THE DEATH DEALER

THE LAST NOEL

THE SÉANCE

BLOOD RED

THE DEAD ROOM

KISS OF DARKNESS

THE VISION

THE ISLAND

GHOST WALK

KILLING KELLY

THE PRESENCE

DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PICTURE ME DEAD

HAUNTED

HURRICANE BAY

A SEASON OF MIRACLES

NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

EYES OF FIRE

SLOW BURN

NIGHT HEAT

Fade to Black

Heather Graham

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Heather Graham Pozzessere 2018

Heather Graham Pozzessere asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9781474082808

Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Graham stands at the top of the romantic suspense category.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Graham is a master at world building and her latest is a thrilling, dark, and deadly tale of romantic suspense.”

—Booklist, starred review, on Haunted Destiny

“Intricate, fast-paced, and intense, this riveting thriller blends romance and suspense in perfect combination and keeps readers guessing and the tension taut until the very end.”

—Library Journal on Flawless

“Graham is a master at writing stories that weave the paranormal with the everyday…. This book was a great read with twists and turns on every page that is classic Graham style.”

—RT Book Reviews on Wicked Deeds

“A compelling and suspenseful case that keeps readers guessing until the end…. Graham is a master at crafting stories that never feel old.”

—RT Book Reviews on Dying Breath

“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Graham is the queen of romantic suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews

For Deborah C. Neff

Incredible bookseller and so much more—

Incredible friend!

CAST OF CHARACTERS

The McFadden brothers—Bryan, Bruce and Brodie, all former military, now registered as private investigators

Maeve and Hamish McFadden—celebrated actors of screen and stage, killed tragically in an accident

The Krewe of Hunters

Adam Harrison—head of the Krewe of Hunters

Jackson Crow—field director, Krewe of Hunters

Angela Hawkins—special agent, married to Jackson Crow

The Cast of Dark Harbor

Marnie Davante—most popular character, played Madame Scarlet

Cara Barton—played the matriarch

Jeremy Highsmith—played the patriarch

Roberta Alan—played the sister

Grayson Adair—played the brother

Bridget Davante—Marnie’s cousin, a screenwriter

Vince Carlton—television producer/director

Malcolm Dangerfield—popular action actor

David Neal—stage manager

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Prologue

Comic Con, Los Angeles

Blood-bone stepped out onto the show floor, his massive black cape sweeping around him, his supercharged sword lighting up the space around him in all colors of the rainbow. The black-masked and black-suited villain was from the new cable show Wolfson, which was topping ratings charts across the nation.

The character of Lars Wolfson, the hero of the show, had made several appearances that day as well, some costumes better than others.

But just as they liked to say women love bad boys, people of both sexes and all ages seemed to really love a good villain.

Young men and women, children, old men and old women clapped and all but swooned and rushed over to him. Blood-bone was the most popular new villain to grace the pages of comic books since the beginning of the written-and-drawn comic world.

He suddenly cried out, “Those who oppose me—pay! They pay the ultimate price.”

The crowd around the actor—or would-be actor, dressed up for Comic Con—grew substantially, people everywhere snapping photos.

“We bow to you, Blood-bone!” the crowd called out in turn.

“Jerk,” Cara Barton declared beneath her breath.

“He’s just playing, creating a good show,” Marnie Davante said.

“Lord, who are you? Pollyanna? Mary Poppins?” Cara asked her, letting out a long sigh.

“He’s just playing. Let him entertain. Relax. Try to have fun,” Marnie said, offering Cara her beautiful and natural smile.

Marnie. She was the type who would make the best of it.

Cara wished that she could. But it was dismal.

No. It was beyond dismal. Continuing to plug a show that had been off the air for ages, just because she had no other options.

And still, sitting at their booth, Cara smiled as graciously as she could. It was a smile that she’d practiced over the years, yet still felt plastered into place.

“How’s this?” she asked Marnie.

“Grim, but it will do,” her friend said, laughing.

Grim. Yes.

However, Cara kept smiling.

* * *

It was amazing; it was an unbelievable thrill. He was able to watch as if he were a fly on the wall, as if he were at a screening, seeing it all unfold. He knew the angles from which the cameras would be rolling; he could just see it all.

And he was the puppeteer. He was the producer, the director...

Everything all rolled into one.

He could already picture the blood.

Cold-blooded Comic Con? He needed a better title...

Act 1, Scene 1...

Cameras rolling.

Action!

* * *

The damned wannabe actor in the Blood-bone costume was really becoming annoying.

The few people who had been coming toward Cara Barton and the old Dark Harbor cast were now rushing off to see Blood-bone.

It was a comic-book convention, Cara reminded herself. And she knew how a comic con went.

Monsters roamed the floor in costumes that rated between the ridiculous and the divine. Superheroes in stretchy, skimpy attire were just as plentiful—some looking quite good, and some who obviously owned no mirrors. Booths sold T-shirts, toy weapons, jewelry, corsets, steampunk clothing and other items, makeup, art and just about anything that might relate to the comic world in any way.

The fans loved connecting with their favorite comics and movies and TV series. Writers’ row offered comics, graphic novels and novels of all kinds.

Artists’ row offered some fantastic pieces, from those who had long been in the business to those who were just starting out.

And then there was Actors’ Row.

The place where used-up B-list stars came to die.

Well, as far as Cara was concerned, it really was a kind of death—it was where one came to pray to sell enough twenty-dollar-a-shot autographed pictures to pay the rent for the month. Maybe that train of thought was a little melodramatic. The show was in syndication, and they all made residual money, but it did not provide for the lifestyle that many a popular actor had become accustomed to, so, in a sense, it was about a particular kind of survival.

But that was all going to hell. They’d been just about to get some fans—and then Blood-bone came out of the woodwork, swinging his great cape and his laser sword. If only he weren’t out there—probably paid a fortune by the convention organizers to give the attendees a bit of a thrill for free.

Oh, the bastard! She didn’t even know who was behind the mask. Blood-bone wasn’t even always portrayed by the same actor. And at this freak show, anyone could dress up. There were actually dozens of Blood-bones roaming the convention room floor; it was by far the most popular costume of the year. Hell, she could put on the damned costume and lift shoes and play Blood-bone. In fact, if they’d let her, she would. That could mean some big bucks again!

But this Blood-bone was evidently committed to pretending to be the real thing. He postured and postulated. Everyone ran up to him, waving autograph books, begging him to pose for selfies with them.

It made her sad.

Yes, sad for herself and for many others.

Just one booth down, the great-great-great—oh, so many greats—grandson of a German shepherd of tremendous TV fame was letting out a sad little yelp now and then.

There was a leak in the ceiling. It happened to be right above Actors’ Row. The aging star of a long-ago weekly Western TV series was valiantly trying to save his photos from the dirty droplets that fell now and then.

It was heartbreaking to see the poor pup and the faded star reduced to this. And now, with that wretched Blood-bone figure running around, for the most part the actors were being left alone.

Ignored.

At least the dog didn’t know that he was a has-been.

Only every now and then someone would pause and look and remember them. After all, Dark Harbor had been an extremely popular show in its day.

Cara had actually sold a few pictures—mainly thanks to the rest of the cast, especially Marnie Davante. Just a few more and rent for another month in West Hollywood—where she could still hope for the guest spot on a show now and then—was guaranteed.

She looked down the table. There was Jeremy Highsmith. Her TV husband. All those years.

And, now, go figure!

Maybe it was all bearable.

Along with the stupid Blood-bone guy, it didn’t help that they’d happened to draw the booth next to Malcolm Dangerfield, the new superhero of cable television.

Malcolm was not dying in any way.

Malcolm was charging a hundred dollars a shot for pictures taken on a cell phone.

People were paying it.

That made Cara’s position very hard—well, in her mind. Marnie didn’t care; she was chatting with their onetime castmates: Jeremy Highsmith, Roberta Alan and Grayson Adair.

The lines to pay a hundred dollars for a selfie with Malcolm were deep. And now, on top of that, Blood-bone was right in front of them, drawing any possible customers away. Cara didn’t think that Blood-bone would be there long, though. She could see that Malcolm Dangerfield was gone, that his publicist was managing his line. He had probably gone to complain to the comic con management about the Blood-bone guy in full costume who was messing with his line.

“Oh, my God!” someone screamed. Cara waited for the screamer to call out Malcolm Dangerfield’s name. Or to go running across the floor, amazed that they’d seen the “real” Blood-bone.

But the screaming fan wasn’t coming for Malcolm or Blood-bone.

“It’s Madam Zeta!”

Cara smiled. A real smile.

She was not Madam Zeta.

Nope!

But she was with Madam Zeta.

People might not be coming for her, but at least they were coming toward her little group.

Madam Zeta had been played by Marnie Davante.

And Marnie was seated next to Cara—on her right side at the booth.

Marnie smiled, and her smiles were always real. She was ready to greet a fan. She was a good kid.

A really good kid, Cara knew. Marnie hadn’t wanted to be here; she hated doing comic cons. She didn’t say as much to Cara because she was a nice person. She had agreed to come along because she knew that signing pictures was how her old costars—Cara, Jeremy, Roberta and Grayson—survived.

None of them had gone on to find work on another series.

But Marnie had moved on. Marnie had kept acting. Cara had kept waiting for a new TV series or, at the least, a good supporting role in a movie.

Marnie had gone back to theater, which she loved. Theater didn’t always pay well in LA, but Marnie had also caught the occasional commercial or modeling gig. Like everyone else, she went to dozens of auditions for roles, but she seemed to accept that easily and kind of kept on ticking—just like the Energizer Bunny.

Marnie hadn’t cared if Hollywood was calling—or if she was cast in a road show, just as long as she was working and she fulfilled her professional obligations. She had done okay, maybe not as a multimillion-dollar-earning star, but as a working actress. She was even about to open her own theater, which would be named for her dad—The Peter Davante Theater for Young Artists.

Fancy name for a kids’ theater, but hey, to Marnie, it was living the dream. Personally, Cara thought that working with young people—children—was akin to water torture. But Marnie loved theater and she loved kids, so...go figure. For her, it worked.

But Cara felt that Marnie also thought that the conventions were where washed-up stars came to die. Metaphorically, at least. There were, of course, those few—like Malcolm Dangerfield—who were at the top of the game, making enough in a few hours to pay Cara’s rent for the next year.

And then there was Marnie.

She was here—simply smiling through the torture of waiting for fans—out of friendship.

To be fair to herself, Marnie had been young when their show had been canceled—barely twenty-four. And Cara had been...

Well, hell. Not twenty-four.

The cancellation of their show—Dark Harbor, the story of a town inhabited by vampires and other strange supernatural beings—had been a true death knell for her career.

* * *

It was playing out beautifully, as if it had all been rehearsed. Here, Actors’ Row, the lineup...a dog, an old dude from some mostly forgotten weekly flick...and then...

Yes, them. The cast from Dark Harbor.

And it was coming closer and closer...

He could feel it.

He didn’t know exactly when, and he hadn’t known that he would feel this...exhilarated!

But it was alive, kinetic...wired! With anticipation.

Yes, it was coming...

Soon. So soon. He could almost taste it on the air.

* * *

For Cara, there hadn’t been a lot of great offers to follow the lamented demise of Dark Harbor. A few little bits, guest star gigs, here and there. Her agent tried her best.

But when no decent acting offers were forthcoming, there were always conventions. And there had been talk—just a rumor so far—that there might be a Dark Harbor reunion show. A producer had apparently been a huge fan and now wanted to bring them back.

So far, though, none of the core actors had been approached. Or so they all claimed.

It was still just speculation. And she didn’t dare believe the rumor—it was too painful. But then again, she had seen a tall guy with a superhero T-shirt under his blazer walking around, watching them all. Someone had said he was Vince Carlton, a cable show producer and director.

The money from a reboot might not be huge. Still, Cara’s agent had mentioned a call that suggested such a thing might be possible—if so, was she willing?

Of course!

Anything would be better than eight-by-ten-picture money.

But it would all be too depressing to believe that it might happen—and then have their hopes dashed on the rocks of Hollywood capriciousness.

For now, fan conventions and picture sales were important.

Thankfully—for Cara and the rest of the cast—there was Marnie. She was like the best kid in the family, the one who looked after and took care of her siblings. She would always make the group complete and show up when needed, helping them all survive the torment of comic cons.

There had been five main players in the series. Cara had been the matriarch of the supernatural family, and still, she’d admit, was the least of the five characters.

But Marnie’s role—that of Madam Zeta—had become beloved, and her character was now a classic. Therefore Marnie was the most important person in their group.

And sometimes they weren’t invited—or offered any kind of prime slots—unless Marnie agreed she would be with them.

The show had ended five years ago.

Their days in the sun seemed to be over.

Sometimes, Cara wasn’t sure if she was more bitter toward the no-name Blood-bones of the world, the Malcolm Dangerfields—with their hundred dollars a pop for a photo—or Marnie, who would always just take her damned lemons and make lemonade.

No! Cara thought. Once again, she wasn’t being fair to herself.

Not fair. She loved Marnie. The woman couldn’t help being gracious and elegant and kind. She was blessed with a sweeping headful of burnished brown hair and bright blue-green eyes, legs that were certainly what men considered to be wickedly long and a patrician face with perfect features. She was also quick to smile, quick to sympathize and ready to help out. It was her presence here that had allowed them to sell many pictures. Madam Zeta had been the darling of the show. And Cara knew that while she loved Marnie, she was envious, as well. None of Marnie’s fault—she was simply still young, and Cara was not.

She realized she was staring at Marnie, who looked back at her curiously.

“I’m not a bad person, am I?” Cara asked her.

“Of course not! You can be a bit Hollywood jaded, but hey, we’re in Hollywood. That’s to be expected,” Marnie assured her with a shrug and a grin.

“Madam Zeta, Madam Zeta, Madam Zeta!” Someone was screaming again, racing up to the Dark Harbor booth.

It was a man, tall, gangly and blond and fairly good-looking; when he called out, a few other people turned away from the Blood-bone character on the floor and paid attention to the little group of five in the Dark Harbor booth.

“Oh, cool! It’s the whole cast!” someone else cried.

And suddenly, Comic Con was good. People had heard. Lots of people were looking at the booth with real interest.

Fans began to come up, and before Cara knew it, they were all signing the best cast picture they had. It featured Marnie as Madam Scarlet Zeta, the family psychic with superhuman strength, who also earned them what they needed to keep up their decaying mansion and most often ferreted out the deadly creatures in Dark Harbor. On each side of Marnie, the rest of the cast was gathered: Roberta Alan as Marnie’s older sister, Sonia Zeta, the family member granted the power of cloaking those around her; Grayson Adair playing Nathan Zeta, brother of Scarlet and Sonia, the family member gifted with ability to freeze vampires; Jeremy Highsmith as Theodore, patriarch of the family and the bearer of the legacy that allowed the family to fight off evil and protect the town.

Also, of course, there was Cara herself, as Elizabeth, the dignified and elegant matriarch, caring mother, ever aware that her children met far too much danger, and ever ready to give her life for theirs.

They had that one photo that could be pretty damned hot—that family photo. When it was signed by all of them, it sometimes became a collectible item—sold on internet auction sites to overseas fans for more than they ever got for it. That photo often kept a roof over Cara’s head. It was their priciest at fifty dollars, whether they were all in attendance at an event or not. It was up to the buyer to hunt down the rest of the cast if they wanted the complete set of signatures.

And they were all there that day. Now the ball was rolling!

They could sell hundreds.

Naturally, it was that one that young, tall and good-looking man wanted, except that he also wanted a few solos of Marnie—though none of the others. She always chatted and tried to get people to buy more, but it didn’t even matter that they weren’t buying more.

The young man had started an influx of people. They were buying the cast photo.

“Madam Zeta! Mrs. Elizabeth—all of you! Amazing,” the young man said.

“Marnie Davante,” Marnie said, smiling and taking the young man’s hand. “And you’re...?”

Who cares? Cara wondered. Just sell him a picture.

“David Neal,” the young man said. “We actually have an appointment next week.”

“Oh?”

“Stage managing position,” he replied.

“Oh, wonderful!” she said enthusiastically.

“Marnie does love kids,” Cara put in.

Jeremy Highsmith—on Marnie’s other side—cleared his throat. “I think we have a bit of a line forming.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like—” Marnie began.

“The cast picture,” David Neal said.

* * *

So close... So close... He could stand there and smile, anticipate and nearly smell and feel and taste it in the air...

Blood...

Death...

The drama and horror were almost unbearable.

* * *

Cara was in heaven. So many people.

They were signing the “family” photo when the Blood-bone character came swinging his way toward their booth, cape flying behind him, mask in place and sword streaking colors through the air.

He wielded the sword well, as if he’d had training in swordplay. Well, many actors had.

He wielded it straight to the booth.

He pushed past some of the fans, and they all laughed, of course. It looked like it was a bit of impromptu theater.

Blood-bone pointed at Marnie. She rose from her chair and pointed at him, playing along.

“Be gone, Blood-bone. You may play your evil games in your show, but you may not come back to threaten ours!”

Blood-bone swaggered toward Marnie, his lighted sword swirling almost hypnotically.

“You won’t get past me!” Marnie told him.

He kept coming. So many people were watching!

Cara leaped up by Marnie. She set her arm around the woman’s shoulders.

“Don’t you dare come for my precious daughter!” she cried.

There was no way that she wasn’t getting some attention and play out of this. Who knew who might be out there? Another job could be on the line. That producer could see how dedicated they were.

“I know his every evil thought! He will never get by us!” Marnie cried. She was grinning, and that smile of hers seemed to draw an even larger crowd. Yes, it was all play.

All fun.

And Cara had to get in on it, big-time.

“Indeed, we will smite you. I warn you again—touch my daughter, you evil thing, and we will see that you rot in hell forever!”

The Blood-bone character looked at her. She could have sworn that beneath the black mask, the man smiled.

He raised his sword...

Cara pushed past Marnie.

“Don’t you dare!”

But his sword was poised.

And it came down. Again and again.

Cara really didn’t know what hit her. At first, there was nothing, and then there was an incredible burst of pain. The kind of pain that brought brilliant stars bursting before her eyes, that brought a sea of darkness, black sweeping away the tiny bursts of light...

She gasped.

She felt something trickling on her.

Felt herself falling...

She heard Marnie scream, felt Marnie’s arms go around her.

Theater, it was all theater, all show...

But it wasn’t.

Blood-bone was gone, swooping his way back into the crowd.

Cara was bleeding; her grasp on Marnie was weakening.

“No, no, no, stay with me, Cara. I love you, my friend, stay with me,” Marnie ordered.

But Cara knew that she could not.

Comic Con. It was a comic convention.

And Cara had just never imagined that—for her, at least—she could be so very right.

That it could be, quite literally, where old stars came to die!

1

Bryan McFadden could always feel her, of course. As soon as she decided to grace him with her presence.

Yes.

She was there again.

Watching him, his every move.

He pretended that he didn’t see her. He also did his best to hide a smile.

She wanted something, of course. Or he was due for a lecture, a long litany on how to live his life.

He’d been splitting logs outside his cabin when he’d first become aware that she was there; he continued to chop firewood. If she was going to haunt him because she wanted something, she was bloody well going to have to do so with more than a bunch of her dramatic sighs.

He paused for a moment; the sun was riding in the sky on a beautiful day. The mountains and valleys of Virginia were, in Bryan’s mind, the most beautiful places in the world to be. Here, right at the base of the Shenandoah Mountain, he could enjoy both.

This place had been—as long as he could remember—a haven. He and his brothers, Bruce and Brodie, had always been able to go a little wild out here. They’d never been bad kids, but they had been full of energy and ready to run, climb, fish, swim and love the rugged beauty of the land.

The family cabin was just a weekend retreat.

Home was DC, near the National Theatre, a half-dozen other theaters and easy access to the casting agents who were closer to their parents—Hamish and Maeve McFadden—than any blood relative might expect to be.

Though he and his brothers had long ago left their boyhoods behind, they had managed to stay in the same basic area. And, mainly because each of them had joined a branch of the service—Bryan, the navy; Bruce, the marines; and Brodie, the army—they had maintained the manor house close to a river in Northern Virginia where they had actually grown up.

He was heading back there in the morning. His time here—used to reflect on his choices regarding the future—was at an end. He wasn’t sure he was feeling more certain any one course was right above the others. Bruce and Brodie were coming in the following week; it was time for them to really decide what they were going to do.

As kids, they had quarreled and squabbled. Tumbled on the ground and tussled now and then—and stood ferociously against anyone who insulted one of them or dared to speak ill of their parents.

But life had gotten hard—and made them close.

They were all pretty sure they could work together; they’d talk it out for the final decision in the weeks to come.

Of course, she was still watching him. Still waiting for a response.

She sighed again. Maeve McFadden was certainly an example of the word diva. Not so much in a bad way—she had an ego, but not the kind with which to hurt others. She was passionate, she was demonstrative; she didn’t just “talk with her hands,” she talked with her arms, with her whole body.

But if she wanted something now, she was going to have to talk to him.

With words.

Finally, she did. She rather wafted over and leaned against the wood rail fence that surrounded the little cabin and the area with the chopping block where he was working.

“Bryan McFadden, you’re ignoring me!” She pouted.

“And it’s not working, eh?” he asked, but he smiled at her—she was his mom, and he did love her.

She smiled back and then plunged right in.

“Her name is Marnie, and she really needs help. My friend Cara—Cara Barton, I know you must remember her. She was one of the stars of that yummy vampire show, Dark Harbor, and before that, we were both way younger and in a Christmas romantic comedy together. That doesn’t matter. What does matter is this—Cara was tragically cut down. And now Marnie needs your help. I’m not sure she knows it yet, but Cara has told me. And poor Cara! She’s dead. Most horrifically and dreadfully dead.”

“Mother—”

“Don’t you dare tell me that dead is dead—dreadful or otherwise. She was murdered. Viciously murdered by a sword-wielding villain. Well, someone in a costume. But... Oh, Bryan. It was horrid, quite horrid—you must have heard about it on TV or in the news online!”

“Nope,” he told his mother.

“How could you have missed the news?” Maeve demanded. “Oh, I do hate to say it, but Cara is far more famous now in death than she was in life.”

“I come out here to enjoy the mountains and scenery, Mom. Not watch TV.”

“The news would be on your phone.”

“News is on anywhere, Mother, if you look for it.”

“All right then, I’ll tell you about it. Comic Con—West Hollywood.”

“I thought the big comic cons were in San Diego. Maybe New York.”

“Comic cons are all the rage—they are cropping up everywhere,” Maeve informed him. “And this—Oh, son... Horrible, horrible, horrible. Cara was my good friend. Okay, so imagine this. The cast of Dark Harbor is lined up at a booth. People are flocking over to them for signed pictures. There’s a Blood-bone character whipping his sword around—at first, all to the delight of the crowd. Then he walks up to the Dark Harbor cast booth and starts off as if he’s performing with them—and then he brought his sword down, slashing poor Cara to death, right across her throat!”

“In the middle of a crowd of people, some costumed character slashes a woman to death and walks away?” Bryan demanded, incredulous.

“Well, that’s just it. People thought it was a performance. Cara fell dead, the others began to realize it—people were clapping, thinking it was just an impromptu show done very well. Blood-bone walked off... The cast began to scream. Cops came, but by then, the killer was gone. From what I understand, it was a zoo.”

“But no one noticed a masked man in costume?”

“Well, of course, they did. They gathered up at least twenty Blood-bones—you know, conference attendees in Blood-bone costumes—but they don’t believe that the killer was any of the men, or the one woman, with whom they spoke. They couldn’t find a Blood-bone with actual blood on him or a lighted sword that was really a sword. Don’t you understand? Someone is going to get away with this. Bryan, you have to do something.”

“Mom, at the moment, I’m not a cop.”

“Don’t be silly, darling, I know that. And if you had stayed on the force, you’d be a Virginia cop, anyway. However, you did get your PI license.”

“Yes, I did.”

“So you need to get out to California and help Marnie Davante. Please.”

“Mom, you know that I’m supposed to be meeting with your other sons next week. They’ll be back by then.”

“I know where they are,” Maeve said indignantly. “Brodie took a temp job as a bodyguard for that chain store CEO, and he’s still in China somewhere. Bruce was helping out a friend who is with the Texas Rangers.”

“Right. But we’re due to get together and decide if we do want to form an investigation company.”

“That would be in the near future. You need to help Marnie now.”

“Mom, I have no ins with the West Hollywood Police or even the California State Police. I’m sure they would resent—”

“Please.”

“Mom, again, I’m not in Hollywood. I’m sure there are very capable police out there. Your friend isn’t being threatened—she’s already dead. I’m not sure—”

“It’s Marnie! Cara is terribly worried about Marnie.”

Bryan stopped pretending that he could continue chopping wood. He leaned on the ax and looked at the ghost of his mother.

“Does Marnie know that she needs my help?”

“How could she?”

“Come on then, what do you want out of me?”

“Someone who is invested in the horrible thing that happened—and in Marnie—believes that a dead woman is out there trying to help solve her own murder. Please, Bryan. It’s you—you need to help. You were just working with that FBI friend of yours, helping track down that missing child. And you said that he knows Adam—my friend Adam Harrison? Well, my friend and dad’s friend. I think your father knew Adam first.”

“Yes, I was working with a friend named Jackson Crow, and we were lucky—we found the missing child.” He didn’t mention that his old friend was with a special unit of the FBI, or that he’d suggested that Bryan might be just right for that unit.

He could only hope that she didn’t know that her old friend Adam Harrison had actually created the unit.

“How is Adam? Such a dear man.”

Hopefully, she hadn’t seen Adam since she’d...

He could never think the word died.

Maybe because she was his mother, and he did love her.

And maybe because she had never really gone anywhere.

“And you—all three of my boys—still at odds and ends, taking on various odd jobs.”

“Good jobs, Mom. We help people. You should be a happy camper. All three of us served our time in the military and went through college. And yes, in the last year or so we have taken on some strange jobs, but they’ve been good ones, jobs that help people.”

“And here’s someone who needs help. Yes, I hope, eventually, you and your brothers are going to get together. You’re looking to form a company. I do like that idea. You want to know what to do with your life? You’re doing quite nicely at the helping people thing, and this—this!—would be an important part of that. I mean, you broke my heart when you completely ignored the fact that your father and I were known for our extreme talents and absolute love of live theater. And you didn’t even want to head in the direction of film. I must say, I created—I created!—three of the most handsome men one could ever want to imagine, and you’ve no interest in using that beauty to a good—to a paying—end.”

“Mother,” Bryan said, “I believe you and Dad did emphasize that in life, looks mean nothing, that the heart and soul of a man or a woman matter most.”

Here she was, giving him a pitch about helping someone.

And she was still brokenhearted she hadn’t produced a single actor among them.

“Yes, well, of course,” Maeve said, sweeping back a long, curling strand of her dark hair. “Looks do not matter. Heart and soul and kindness and compassion. Things like that matter most with everyone you meet. Seriously, of course, decency—it’s a total given. But I have these three strapping lads! Strapping, I say—tall, dark and absolutely, stunningly handsome—and not one of you chose to use such wondrous good looks.”

“Mother, you don’t think you might be a little prejudiced on that?”

He moved past her to fetch another piece of wood.

She waved a hand in the air. “One can only be so prejudiced!” she said. “But that’s so far beside the point. I am afraid that I must have done something terribly wrong if not one of you felt the lure of the stage. The military! Well, I do understand. Your father and I were gone and... The military. Noble. What an honorable and lofty ideal—to serve one’s country. Yes, that was all quite fine, and thankfully you all came home in one piece. But that was then, and this is now. You went out and got a PI license. You’ve been working with the FBI and cops. You do realize that if you were to just choose to be an actor, I might not be so determined to haunt you?”

Bryan had the strange feeling that, one way or another, his mother was going to haunt him. And Bruce and Brodie. At least he had two brothers to share the burden. Of course, mothers were known to torment their sons.

Not usually, though, mothers who had passed away.

Bryan was the eldest; he had been twenty-four on the day that Hamish and Maeve had been leads in a DC run of Murder by Gaslight; they had both been killed—hand in hand—when the famous chandelier had fallen onto them both, killing them instantly.

It might have been fitting—they were known for having achieved the rarest of the rare, an amazing marriage and a true love affair; they were always together, beautiful people, blessed to have a wonderful family with their love and their three strapping sons.

It had been an incredible tragedy—for their sons more than anyone else.

Bryan had been the first to pull himself together. He’d been the first to see his mother. She had tiptoed behind him at her own funeral, bringing a finger to her lips and whispering, “Shh!”

He’d assumed he was suffering from PTSD—they’d lost both parents in a single blow.

And then he’d heard his father’s voice.

“Stop that, Maeve. I believe the boy can hear you. Don’t be a tease.”

“Don’t be silly. We’re dead. The living can’t hear us. I’m simply being a diva, darling,” Maeve had assured Hamish. “I’m making sure that the funeral is appropriately massive and...well, that people are properly emoting for us.”

“They’re emoting all over, including our sons,” the ghost of his father had said sternly.

“Oh, dear, yes—our precious boys!”

Then they had been gone. And that night—after an appropriate amount of Jameson whiskey—Bryan had convinced himself that they hadn’t really been there. That it was the shocking loss affecting him. Because he’d known it was what they would have wanted: a massive funeral with all kinds of press coverage.

Even if he and his brothers wanted to believe that they were strong and capable of managing the tragedy, they had loved their out-there, talented and ever so slightly crazy parents. It was natural that the grief might be intense.

Then...

They had moved back in.

It had been quite the night when each one of the brothers had tried to pretend that he wasn’t seeing the ghosts of his parents. But Maeve had heckled and teased—she was really quite as good at being a ghost as she had been at acting. She had quickly learned how to make the fire snap, how to press a glass just hard enough so that it appeared to move across the table and how to touch them...with a gentle stroke on the cheek, the way she had touched them in life.

Brodie—the youngest—had been the first to snap. Maeve had counted on that; Bryan was certain. Eventually Brodie had leaped out of his seat and screamed, “Can’t you see them?”

Bryan had looked at Bruce, and in that moment, they had realized that their parents, while not alive, were still with them.

Hamish was worried; he didn’t know why he and his wife were still there, and he was sorry—a father needed to let his sons lead their own lives. But they were young. Maybe he and Maeve were still there because they were needed. The boys might still need help; they could be there to guide them as they grew older and became men.

Maeve informed them all that she knew the very solid reason they had remained on the earthly plane—were they all daft? To guide their sons, yes. But she and Hamish had been taken too soon. They were kind, decent people—and young and beautiful!

They had basically been robbed of life.

Now they’d been granted the chance to help their boys, though, of course, they hadn’t really been at all sure that the boys could see them until Brodie—bless him—had cried out the obvious.

Maeve and Hamish were home.

At first it was wonderful. It was still wonderful. Other than still wondering now and then if he was sharing a terrible hallucination with his brothers.

If it weren’t for the other dead people his mother and father always wanted to help. The dead they brought home, too.

Because his parents’ reappearance had opened some kind of door, and now he could see the dead. And Bruce and Brodie could see them, as well.

“You do remember Dark Harbor, right? The run ended...oh, five or six years ago. You three were grown-up, but I remember that even you said they managed to make it pretty darned scary and that the plots were good.”

“Kudos to the writers,” Bryan said. He slammed down hard on his hunk of a log.

She came up before him, suddenly very serious.

“Bryan, please. A friend of mine was viciously attacked. And I’m worried sick about a young actress who I thought was wonderful—and who was very dear to Cara. My friend was murdered, Bryan. Do you understand me? Murdered—cruelly and with malice. And now, she sincerely believes that the other members of her cast are in trouble.”

“And why is that?”

“Because of the way the killer came to the table. Cara was always ready to jump up and get out front, and that’s what she did, and she was worried that, well, maybe someone else was the intended target.”

“Someone else.”

“There were five main cast members, Bryan. I know you remember the show. You would have had to have slept through seven years to have missed it. Cara Barton was the matriarch, but Scarlet Zeta was the most popular member of the cast—and she was next to Cara when she was killed.”

“Scarlet Zeta?”

“Marnie. The actress’s name is Marnie Davante. Her role was that of Scarlet Zeta.”

Bryan did actually know. He’d seen the show. He’d actually enjoyed it. He wasn’t usually that big on the paranormal—especially now, living a life in which his dead parents haunted him and brought home their dead friends now and then.

But Dark Harbor had been good.

And he knew who Cara Barton was—or had been. He grudgingly remembered that she had come to the funeral when his parents had died; she had been kind.

And he knew who the actress Marnie Davante was—true, only someone who had been on Mars for the past decade or so would not. She had been great on the show—sexy and endearing, an American sweetheart who might well have sent a few adolescent boys into their first solo sexual experiences. But on many talk shows she’d also come off as an amazing human being. She loved animals, gave to all kinds of children’s charities and appeared to be a really decent human being.

“What is Marnie Davante now, about twenty-seven, twenty-eight?” he asked.

Maeve sighed. “Twenty-nine, but what difference does it make?”

“I’m trying to find out about her. She has a good reputation among coworkers, right?”

“Yes.”

“They’re all in danger, so you say. Why are you most worried about Marnie Davante?”

“Because,” Maeve said, “I told you, the Blood-bone-costumed guy was coming for Marnie first. Cara wanted the extra attention and pushed her way forward. Maybe the killer got mixed-up. Maybe it was supposed to have been Marnie.”

“I’m assuming the police are already looking into it.”

“Ah, but will they look far enough? Bryan, someone who cares, who is willing to give the murder his full attention, needs to be out there.”

Bryan looked up at the sky.

When he’d gone to help in the missing child case, he’d been asked for his assistance.

Getting in on a high-profile murder case where police certainly had to be touchy, and might not want an outsider’s help, wasn’t a pleasant contemplation.

“Well?” Maeve demanded.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he heard his father’s voice.

Yep. The ghost of Hamish McFadden was there as well, standing behind his wife. His father was a dignified man, and someone who might have been a performer, but who had also lived his life always trying to do the right thing.

“Might as well say yes, son. I believe the young lady will need you. Not to mention your mother will haunt the hell out of you, day and night, until you do. You know that what I’m saying is true.”

Bryan looked up. His father had been an exceptional actor; he’d won an Emmy and a Tony. He was a tall solid man with ink-dark hair that he’d passed on to all three sons, along with his formidable height and shoulder breadth.

Somehow, his father and his mother had kept their careers and been good, loving parents, as well. They’d chosen work to stay as close to their sons as often as they could.

Yeah, they’d been damned decent.

“Please!” Maeve wheedled.

“She’ll torment you to tears, son,” Hamish reminded him.

“This girl doesn’t even know she wants help,” Bryan protested. “And there are police out there, and...” He sighed. “Miss Davante has no idea she needs my help.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Maeve said.

“And why not?”

“Cara will let her know.”

“Cara is dead.”

Maeve smiled. “Yes, she is. But she’s still hanging around, too. Because, of course, she is worried about Marnie, so...not to worry! She will let her know.”

He paused and looked at his mother curiously, frowning. “And just how do you know all this?”

“Oh, I talked to Cara, of course.”

“How?”

“Well, your father and I saw the news, even if you didn’t. I was horrified, of course, and then I saw Cara was trying to get through on the computer.”

“You can use a computer?” he asked his mother, incredulous—and somewhat disgusted with himself.

“She does—I don’t,” his father said. “Your mom has always been the family communicator.”

“A new ghost managed to contact an old ghost?” he asked.

“It’s difficult to explain, but it’s like we Skyped,” his mother said.

“But how—Never mind. Never mind. I’m not sure I even want to know. So, Cara has shown herself to this young lady, this Marnie Davante?”

“If she hasn’t, she will,” Maeve said.

“I really hope so. And I hope, Mom, I can even get near her.”

“Of course—you’re our son. You can go just about anywhere, using the name,” Maeve assured him.

“I believe she is right on that,” his father said.

Bryan set down his ax and headed for the cabin.

“Where are you going?” Maeve asked him.

He turned to look at her wearily. “I’m going to go check out flights to LA. God knows you haunt me enough that I spend more time with the dead than the living.”

He saw the look of relief and pleasure on his mother’s face.

And his father’s approving nod.

Oh, hell.

Hollywood.

Well, he did have a bit of time on his hands. He’d spent enough time fishing and splitting logs and wondering if he and his brothers should form an agency.

Or if he should go ahead and look into the position that had been offered.

If he should join the FBI.

With the unit known unofficially as the Krewe of Hunters.

But his mother and father had come to him, and he wasn’t committed to any path as yet.

He was going to LA.

* * *

Marnie had definitely spent too much of her life in Hollywood.

It was impossible to grasp the fact that what happened was reality.

Someone was going to yell, “Cut!” Then the director was going to step forward and tell them what a great job they had all done; they had gotten the scene in one take.

And then Cara Barton would get up. She would straighten her shoulders and look at Marnie and say, “Of course! I’m a pro. I really was great, wasn’t I?”

And Marnie would laugh. Cara had been ambitious; she had even been obnoxious at times. But from the get-go, she had been good to Marnie, and they had been true friends.

And now Marnie had held someone she loved as she had died.

Even then, even as reality reared its ugly head, she expected everything would happen as it did in the movies or on television. The detectives would look like Josh Hartnett or maybe Ice T, and within an hour, they’d know who had killed Cara Barton.

That hadn’t happened. It had taken them way more than an hour just to sequester Marnie and her fellow surviving cast members, and to begin to round up all the Blood-bones who filled the convention hall.

The day had been a nightmare, endless. Filled with scores of police. With sirens, with medical personnel, with a medical examiner, with crime scene techs.

In the end, though, there were two detectives assigned to the case. One was an older man who, to be honest, in Marnie’s mind, would have been perfect for the movies.

For being a homicide detective, his voice was bizarrely soft and gentle. He was tall and thin, clean-shaven, and possessed a full head of silver-gray hair. His eyes were a powdery blue, as soft and gentle as his voice. His name was Grant Vining.

His partner was his total opposite. She was young, and when she spoke, it was apparent that she was not to be taken lightly. She was a tiny blonde with brown eyes and a powerful voice that apparently made up for her size—she had no problem being heard over any amount of chatter or noise. She seemed to do the corralling and instructing while Detective Vining did more of the intimate interviews. Her name was Detective Sophie Manning. She wasn’t mean—she was just blunt. She started a bit harshly with Marnie. But then Marnie had been holding Cara Barton as she had died.

Good cop, bad cop? Did cops really play it all out that way? Marnie didn’t know.

In the midst of it all, Detective Manning turned to her and said, “We’ve got your statement. I’m going to take you to the station. We’re going to need your clothing. Yes, I know you’re thinking this is horrible and the blood on you belonged to your friend. But the killer might have cut himself. His—or her—blood could be on you, too.”

“The killer was wearing black gloves,” Marnie told the detective.

“Yes, still, we need what you’re wearing. It will be returned.”

Marnie looked around. A group had gathered by Malcolm Dangerfield’s booth; the actor was just beyond the crime scene tape surrounding the Dark Harbor booth.

Close and yet oh, so far away! Marnie thought. To his credit, he appeared to be stunned and horrified.

Malcolm Dangerfield wasn’t paying attention to any of his fans. He was staring at Marnie and the police as if he were in shock. Someone spoke to him. He didn’t seem to notice. His publicist waved the person away.

Detective Grant Vining was speaking to Jeremy Highsmith, asking him about the numbers on the table. Jeremy shrugged and told him he imagined that it had to do with five of them being there—five chairs. What could the numbers mean other than that? Had they been there all day? Yes, they’d been at the table when they’d arrived, just as their nameplates had been there. It was all set up by the comic con people. Did they change anything around?

Jeremy looked at everyone else. No one seemed to have an answer.

“Who knows?” he replied, his voice sounding broken. “We just...sat. We’re all friends. We wouldn’t have cared where we sat. When we get together...we talk.” He swallowed and then said, “It makes these things bearable. For me, at least.”

“I think we more or less sat where our names were,” Roberta Alan said. “I have personally never seen numbers before, and we’re all friends. We don’t care where we sit, and I just honestly don’t remember if we sat by number. Oh, maybe Marnie and Cara switched around... I’m not sure. It’s honestly like I said—I don’t remember. It never mattered to us. We even sometimes play musical chairs. That way, we all got to talk to each other. Oh, yeah, and after these things, at least one of the nights, we’d head out for a meal together.”

“She loved those dinners we’d have,” Jeremy said. When he spoke, he looked old. He wasn’t a spring chicken, but he usually appeared like a very handsome and distinguished older gentleman with his thick iron gray hair and straight and elegant posture.

Now, he just looked old.

“Tonight,” Marnie said softly. “We were all supposed to be together tonight.”

“We really were her family!” Jeremy said.

There was a little more conversation, none of it really helpful toward finding out why a Blood-bone-costumed killer would have singled them out.

“God knows, maybe it was random!” Sophie Manning murmured to Grant Vining.

“No, no. It wasn’t random. Trust me,” Vining said.

Finally, Marnie found herself being led out by Detective Manning. She went to the police station, she turned over her clothing and she was given a strange rough outfit to wear—it made her feel as if she had been arrested herself.

Detective Manning wasn’t so bad; she asked Marnie if there was someone she should call.

Marnie’s parents were going to hear about what happened, but they were off on a dream trip to Australia and New Zealand. She would just text them that she was fine, and she was going to be home and trying to sleep, and she would talk to them in the morning.

She had friends, of course.

But no one that she wanted to talk to at that moment.

Her cousin Bridget lived in the other half of her duplex. She would hear about this soon, but Bridget was down in San Diego for the weekend, visiting one of her friends from college who was there for a writers’ retreat. There was no way she could have gotten home yet.

“I just want to go home,” she told Manning.

“All right, of course. But you know, I can take you to a hospital if you wish. You might not want to be alone. You might be suffering a form of shock.”

“I just want to go home.”

“Of course.”

The detective didn’t call for a patrol officer. She brought Marnie home herself. She checked out the duplex off Barham Boulevard where Marnie lived and declared it safe.

“Do you have an alarm system?” Manning asked.

“No, but I do have a camera that watches my living room, and it’s connected to my phone, so in a way...it’s kind of an alarm system.”

“No, it’s not,” Manning told her. “It’s bizarre. Just your living room?”

“I played with the idea of getting a dog.”

“I see. Well, a dog would have been good. When I leave, just make sure that you lock yourself in.”

Marnie looked at her, startled. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be in danger.

She’d only known that Cara was dead.

That Cara had stared up at her while the light had gone out of her eyes.

She shook off the notion of fear. Really. She just wanted to be alone. She did have good locks on her windows and on the front and back doors. She had bought the duplex; she shared it with Bridget. She had made sure they had windows and doors that were up to code—thinking more about earthquakes than home invaders—but whatever the thought, her place was solid.

“I’m good. Really. Quality locks on the windows. My doors would need a battering ram if someone wished to break them down, and I have three bolts on each.”

“All right, then. We’ll be in touch. Oh, my card—” Manning paused, digging around in her suit pocket “—and my partner’s card.” She shrugged. “People tend to like him more. If he’s easier to call and you do need help or you think of anything, call him, or call me.”

“You will find out who did this?” Marnie whispered. She winced. Oh, Lord. It sounded like such a Hollywood line.

Manning smiled. “We’re good, Miss Davante. My partner and I are good together. We’re going to do our best. But...if there’s anything, call us. There’s one thing that Grant Vining taught me right off the bat—if you can get help from somewhere that will solve a murder—take it. So...”

“I wish I had something to tell you. I wish I had something to say,” Marnie assured her.

“Lock up.”

Manning left, and Marnie did so. She headed to the bathroom and turned on the hot water.

She must have stayed beneath the showerhead for an hour.

When she came out of the bathroom, she got in bed and turned on the television. She didn’t seem able to find a channel that did anything but talk about the murder of Cara Barton that day.

Finally she found the Three Stooges.

And still...

She stared up at the ceiling. So exhausted...

And so unable to sleep. Eventually, she closed her eyes. She could still faintly hear Moe, Larry and Curly as they taunted and teased one another.

Her phone rang; it was her mother. Naturally, her mom was hysterical. Her parents had known Cara Barton. They had visited the set. But not only that, it could have been Marnie who had been killed.

It hadn’t been.

The only way to get her mother to calm down was to remind her that sometimes in life, Cara Barton had been a wee bit...obnoxious. She might have offended someone.

It took her twenty minutes to convince her mother not to cut short her dream vacation. She was okay. Not hurt at all. She wasn’t alone in the city.

So Marnie had a nice long conversation, calming down her mother.

Then she had to talk to her dad.

When she hung up, she found herself talking to the air.

“I’m sorry, Cara, I hope I didn’t sound uncaring. I had to get my mom to be okay.”

Sleep...

Watch Moe, Larry and Curly, and be grateful for the channels that kept old classics alive.

Yes, sleep.

She drifted. And as she did so, she thought that she felt a gentle touch on her face and heard a soft whisper beneath the canned laughter on the TV.

“Darling, I know you. I know you didn’t mean anything evil at all. Not to worry. I’m here. I’m with you. Get some rest, sweet Marnie. You really were a friend.”

It was nice; it was kind. As if Cara were trying to help Marnie accept what had happened.

Marnie couldn’t forget that day.

I’m not a bad person, am I? Cara had asked her.

And that had made Marnie smile. Nope. Not bad. Ambitious, trying to get by and just loving it when you did get the limelight!

“You were never a bad person!” Marnie murmured aloud, half-asleep.

And she could feel those gentle fingers touch her hair in what she assumed were her dreams.

“Such a good friend, Marnie. And now... I’m so afraid for you!”

Marnie frowned, jerked from sleep. She leaped from her bed, running through the duplex, turning on lights.

Maybe not the smartest thing to do if there was a prowler in the house!

But there wasn’t.

A check through the window by her front door showed no one at all in the yard.

She looked through the peephole. No one was there.

It was probably about five in the morning.

And she was afraid of darkness and afraid of sleep.

Maybe she’d stay in the living room.

Eventually, she fell asleep on the couch.

As she drifted off, she could almost swear that she smelled the slightly sweet scent of Cara Barton’s perfume.

* * *

He didn’t go in; he looked at the house in the dark, and he marveled at how he had enjoyed the day. Never—in a thousand years—could he have imagined what this would feel like.

Perfect. Everything perfect.

Using Blood-bone—pure genius.

The police were clueless, asking, questioning...and getting nothing.

There was nothing to get. And they just might understand why when the time came.

But for now...

It was delicious. It was the movies, all over again. Marnie was inside her home—the beautiful young heroine—terrified. Waiting...

For the killer to strike.

It was...

Euphoria!

2

There had been something about Marnie Davante in her role as Madam Zeta that had been magical. The show had been cast well. It was one of those in which the chemistry between the players was just right on, and because of it, the show was incredibly watchable, and it was still doing very well in syndication.

Bryan had downloaded a number of episodes to watch on his phone during the cross-continental flight. After a few, he felt he knew Scarlet Zeta—except, of course, who he had come to know wasn’t a real person—he had come to know a character.

His first stop was with the major crimes detectives who were handling the case. The detective he’d finally managed to speak with over the phone before his arrival—Sophie Manning—was still confused as to why he was coming out from Virginia.

That was all right. In a way, he was still confused himself.

He was asked to wait by the desk sergeant, and soon a small woman with a purposeful gait came toward him. She assessed him quickly, apparently noting that he’d probably hold his own in a fight since she gave him a sort of approving nod. While she was a tiny thing, Bryan figured she’d had some training herself, and while she might not be able to throw much weight around, she’d be damned good throwing around what she did have.

“Mr. McFadden?” she asked, offering him a hand. She had a good grip.

“Bryan McFadden, yes. And you’re Detective Manning.”

“I am. If you’ll come with me, my partner is upstairs in one of our conference rooms.”

Upstairs, he met Grant Vining; once again, he was impressed. Vining didn’t appear to be at all intimidated, nor did he seem to resent Bryan’s presence there. If anything, he was curious—something that he voiced almost immediately.

“You’re out here from Virginia?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Virginia is my home. At the moment.”

“Military brat?”

“Military myself for a few years—a few years back. My parents, no. They were actors.”

“I see,” Vining said. Then he scratched his graying head. “No, no, frankly, I don’t see at all. You’re a private eye?”

“Yes, recently licensed.”

“And you’ve been hired by someone out here? You’re acting for someone? I can assure you, we really are a competent operation. Hollywood is our jurisdiction, which might seem cushy. But in many ways, that makes our work harder—under a spotlight, we have to be better.”

Manning—the respectful junior in the duo—stood quietly, watching the exchange.

“I have absolutely no doubt that you’re exceptionally fine detectives and that this is a crack unit,” Bryan said.

“But then—”

“I’m acting for the deceased,” he said quietly.

“For—for Cara Barton?” Vining asked.

Bryan nodded. “I was actually born out here. My parents were Hamish and Maeve McFadden. If you’re a fan of AMC or any of the TV channels that keep old movies afloat, you might have seen them. They were, however, working in theater the last decade or so of their lives.”

“And?”

“Cara Barton is—was—a dear friend of my mother’s,” Bryan explained.

“The chandelier!” Manning suddenly exclaimed.

Vining and Bryan both looked at her. She flushed but went on enthusiastically. “I know who your parents were now! Your mother—wow! She was stunning. And your dad, too. I actually told my mom when I was little that I was going to grow up and marry him, and, of course, she told me that he was already married, and then later, she told me that he was...”

“Dead,” Bryan finished for her.

She flushed again. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“So...this is in your mom’s memory then, kind of. Or do you have a client?” Vining asked.

“That would be me. I am my own client on this.”

Vining studied him for a long moment and then nodded. “All right, fine. Let us bring you up to speed—and remind you that we are the police here. If you make any pertinent discoveries—that is to say, any discoveries at all—they will be shared with us immediately.”

“Absolutely,” Bryan promised.

“We have had all kinds of meetings, bringing in every precinct in the county and sending information out far beyond. We’ve shared what we have with the FBI, the state police and the US Marshals Service. What we have is very little, but I will see that you receive copies of the files. On the one hand, it is an extremely bizarre case—a woman was killed by a person wearing a comic costume and wielding a sword. Apparently, such light-up swords have become extremely popular toys and costume items, making it a daunting task for police and security on hand at the convention at the time of the murder. Such a sword—a real one, with a killing blade—was not found. And while precisely thirty-six persons wearing a Blood-bone costume were stopped and questioned by the same officers, not one was found with a speck of blood upon them or their weapon. In other words, someone wore this costume with a sword that appeared as harmless as the hundreds—perhaps thousands—on sale at the convention. No blood other than the victim’s was found anywhere near the victim or on those around her. No fingerprints were found other than those belonging to the cast and crew. We are, at this moment, relying on good old investigative work, searching through the victim’s past acquaintances and anyone who might have had a grudge against her. Oh, on that—well, people don’t like to speak ill of the dead, do they? Getting the truth out of cast and crew isn’t easy. Also, remember, anyone pertinent to the investigation has already been grilled by police. They will not look upon you kindly.”

“I don’t intend to grill anyone,” Bryan said.

“Ah, well, then...” Vining just stared at him.

“My most sincere thanks,” Bryan said. “I appreciate you allowing me to work in your jurisdiction, and I’m grateful that you’re willing to share information.”

“We did investigate you, of course,” Vining told him.

“I’d expect no less. I will be in touch.” He hesitated. “As far as the comic con goes, are there markers at the table that suggest who sits where?”

“Yes, there were numbers on the table. Along with their nameplates,” Vining said.

“Were they in order?” Bryan asked.

“In order?” Vining frowned. “What order would that be? We believed the numbers to have been set out by the organizers. Along with the nameplates.”

“Were such numbers available on other tables?” Bryan asked.

“They were between a descendant of a famous German shepherd and Malcolm Dangerfield,” Vining said. “Just one dog. And in Malcolm’s case—just one man. Oh, yes, and his publicity manager and reporters and God alone might know who else during the day. Dangerfield is what might be a called an ‘It boy’ this year. You think that the numbers mean something?” he asked.

Bryan shook his head. “I’ve seen the news. That’s about it. I don’t think anything as of yet. And even if someone had been offended by Miss Barton, this was one drastic method of showing displeasure.”

“Yes,” Vining said. “You have contact info for the comic con organizer and his secretary for operations there. I can’t tell you how many people are involved. There are some closed-circuit cameras around the convention floor. But not enough to cover the entire area. I’m willing to bet, however, that there are tons of cell phone videos of the event out there, videos we have yet to see here, though we did pick up many. If you find any...”

“If I find more video, I’ll let you know.”

“Precisely,” Vining said.

Sophie Manning cleared her throat.

“The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. The medical examiner released the body, and... I guess everyone wanted it to happen. She was just killed on Friday. We’re frankly surprised that the ME did release the body so quickly, but he has extensive notes—”

“I know,” Bryan said.

“You’ve been to see Dr. Collier already?” Vining asked a little sharply.

“No. I just know of him,” Bryan said. “And he is top-notch.”

“There will be a reception following, but I can’t help you get access.”

“That’s fine. I’ll manage,” Bryan assured him. “And thank you again.”

“You just keep in touch,” Vining said firmly.

“It’s a promise,” Bryan assured him.

Before he’d actually reached the street, Bryan had received a digital folder. Vining clearly meant to keep his word.

A glance at his email showed him that he’d received the autopsy notes, as well. He could have told Vining that Dr. Edward Collier had been a medic on Bryan’s ship during his first two years in the United States Navy. Maybe he should have done so, but that wasn’t pertinent to the case.

He headed on out for his third stop that day.

He wanted to see where Marnie Davante lived.

Just to observe. It was a day for gathering information.

Tomorrow would be time enough to put some of it to use.

* * *

Marnie Davante stood quietly by the graveside and listened while the priest spoke about life and death, and his certainty that while they buried the mortal remains of Cara Barton, her soul went on to a better place, one where there was no pain and no fear, and where love reigned.

Marnie hoped it was true.

For a moment, she thought she saw Cara there, dressed beautifully in the red-and-black tailored suit she’d been dressed in for her viewing, enjoying the attention her funeral was receiving.

Marnie had truly loved Cara, but she knew as well that years of fighting to maintain a career had left Cara jaded and weary. She had dated many a heartthrob, but she had never married. Her parents had long ago departed their mortal coil, and she’d had no siblings. So she left behind no one with very close ties to her. But in Marnie’s mind, there had been many wonderful things about her friend. Cara had cared deeply about animals—she had raised money and awareness for humane societies and no-kill shelters. She had given what she could to children’s charities.

And Marnie had had a chance to talk about all the good in Cara lately—she’d been interviewed right and left, almost to a point of embarrassment.

Cara would have been happy.

In death, she was incredibly famous.

So much was being written about her. Every celebrity and pop culture magazine out there was doing an article on her.

Marnie was somehow the golden girl in most interviews, and it was very uncomfortable. She had remained friends with her fellow castmates from Dark Harbor, and she hoped to God that they knew she had never mentioned herself as the “success” story from the show while the others had gone on to face less-than-stellar careers.

She wasn’t sure how exactly anyone measured success. It wasn’t as if she’d suddenly been besieged with scripts for blockbusters. She’d just managed to keep working, and a lot of that had been theatrical work.

The priest was going on. He was a good man, Marnie knew. He and Cara had been friends. That was one thing people hadn’t known about her. Cara had been a regular churchgoer.

A cloud shifted in the sky.

Marnie thought that the late-afternoon sun must be playing tricks on her; she could have sworn that Cara—or someone dressed similarly, wearing one of the ridiculous giant black hats Cara had worn—had just slipped behind the priest.

Someone was sobbing; it was Roberta Alan, Marnie’s sister from the show. Well, of course. Roberta and Cara had often bickered, but they had been very close. Since Cara had lacked real family, her Dark Harbor fellows were being seen as her closest relations. To be fair, they had been something of a family for a time. Marnie had been so young herself when she’d started—just turned sixteen—she had leaned on the others. While Cara had been huge at emoting—larger than life, more than a bit of a diva—she’d always been kind and something like a very whacky but caring aunt for Marnie.

For a moment, she closed her eyes, wondering if she was still in shock. Marnie had done enough crying herself, the night at the hospital when she realized there had never been a chance for Cara, that doctors had gone through the motions, but there had been nothing they could do.

Since then, she had just been going through the motions. Moving by rote, speaking by rote...

Getting herself here today...she didn’t even recall how.

As Roberta softly sobbed, a spate of flashbulbs went off. Marnie could see them even through her closed eyelids. There was press everywhere. There had been ever since Cara died.

The priest, deep in his reflection, didn’t miss a beat.

Marnie opened her eyes again.

That was when she saw her fully. The woman dressed like Cara.

She was on the other side of the coffin, standing beside one of Hollywood’s hot young leading men and an older, well-respected actor. They didn’t seem to notice the woman.

How the hell they didn’t, Marnie didn’t begin to understand.

She looked just like Cara.

As if completely aware she was being watched, the woman turned to stare at Marnie. She winked, waved and smiled deeply—as if it were a terrific joke, as if she were hiding, as if it were normal that no one else seemed to see her.

It was Cara.

Cara Barton.

It couldn’t be. Of course, it couldn’t be. Marnie had seen her die.

She had seen the sudden surge of blood that had erupted from her friend’s throat.

She could remember staring, frowning, in absolute disbelief and confusion. Because what had happened—Cara being sliced apart by the lighted sword as if it were a real blade—was impossible. It was just a comic con, for God’s sake...

But it had been real. The blade had been real.

And she had screamed and screamed, and hunkered down by her fallen friend, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood. Everyone had been screaming, people had been running. Some—even more confused than she had been—had applauded!

Not at death, no, not the horror of death.

They had thought themselves privy to a very special show. But then the EMTs had arrived and the police and the crime scene investigators. And she had been inspected and questioned, and then inspected and questioned some more. And she had tried to remember everything there had been to remember about that day: the beautiful German shepherd by them, whining every time his nose got hit with a drip of water from the leaky ceiling. She had spoken to Zane—the old Western star—and been impressed with his charm and humility. They hadn’t met before. She’d had her picture taken with at least two dozen guys dressed up as Marvel superheroes, another dozen or so zombies and, of course, because of Dark Harbor, tons of vampires, werewolves and shape-shifters.

And, before that particular Blood-bone had appeared, she’d had her picture taken with a few other people dressed up as the character, as well.

It was highly possible, the police had told her, that one of them had been the killer.

Cara Barton was dead. She had died in Marnie’s arms.

And yet there she was, watching the proceedings, nodding with approval as the priest went on emotionally, as Roberta cried softly, as others followed suit.

The priest’s words came to an end. Marnie remembered that she’d been holding a rose; a number of people, those who had been closest to Cara in life, were stepping forward, dropping their roses onto the coffin. It was almost time to leave. Cara’s coffin would be lowered into the ground.

Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.

Cara had always known that she would be buried here, in Hollywood’s oldest cemetery, close to so many actors, directors, writers, producers and musicians she had known and loved. She’d adored the place. Marnie had come with her once to see a showing of a black-and-white silent classic on one of the large mausoleum walls; Cara had giggled and said it was like a living cemetery. They could catch a flick—and leave roses on the graves of Rudolph Valentino, Cecille B. DeMille and so many, many more. Sometimes there were concerts in the cemetery. Johnny Ramone would surely love it.

Cara Barton was dead. Cara Barton would soon be lowered into the ground in the cemetery she had always loved so much—where she had always known she wanted to be.

Someday.

It shouldn’t have been so soon...

Marnie blinked. She could still see her.

The woman looked just like Cara. She was grave; she was sad, and then she clapped her hands and wiped her tears, delighted as the hot star of the day stepped forward, casting down a rose and saying, “She was truly an enormous talent! Such a devastating loss!”

Marnie followed Roberta Alan, Jeremy Highsmith and Grayson Adair, all casting their roses over the coffin.

She stopped dead, staring across the coffin.

Cara was there. Cara. Not someone who looked like Cara.

She looked at Marnie and smiled sadly. “Did you see? Oh, Marnie. Everyone is here. Oh, my Lord. I mean everyone who is anyone. This is so wonderful. If only...”

Marnie froze. Obviously, it had all just been too much.

Cara dying in her arms.

The blood.

The EMTs taking Cara’s body from her. She had just sat there. She could still see the blood, feel the blood, smell the blood.

And see the character—Blood-bone.

For what had seemed like an eternity, he had just stood there, staring at them all while those in the crowd went crazy clapping.

Then he had turned and disappeared into the crowd. It had taken forever, so it had seemed, for people to realize that her screams were real, that something terrible had really happened. It had been no performance.

Crazy. So damned crazy.

And every night now, Marnie had nightmares that featured Blood-bone dancing before her, wielding that sword with its array of colors...

Not just a light-up sword. A real sword.

She had made it through the day. Through the comic con being closed down. Through the questioning by the police. Through the hours of smelling her friend’s blood...until she could finally change into the police-issued scrubs.

And she was still moving. She didn’t know if she was or wasn’t in shock. She just kept going through all the right motions.

She had to be in shock. Or the events being so crazy had turned into her being crazy.

“Marnie?” Grayson Adair had turned back to her. He looked at her with sorrowful affection, like a real big brother.

She blinked. She cast down her rose, looking across the coffin to the other side of the grave.

Cara was still standing there. She gave Marnie a thumbs-up.

It was impossible. Apparently, Grayson Adair did not see Cara.

Surely that meant that Cara was not really there. But Grayson not seeing Cara was not the only reason she could not be there. Cara could not be there because Cara was dead. Her poor murdered body lay in the coffin.

Cara wasn’t there—not really. She was just there in Marnie’s worn and tormented mind. Marnie took a deep breath and pretended she wasn’t hallucinating.

It wasn’t going to be easy.

“Marnie?”

Grayson was speaking again, looking back at her and offering her an arm.

Marnie took it. But as they started out, she felt something. Something extremely strange, as if a cool fog had formed into some kind of substance on her other side.

She looked to her left. To her free arm.

It wasn’t free; Cara had come up beside her. She had slipped her arm through Marnie’s and was walking at her side.

“At least it was a sensational funeral,” Cara said. “I’m so grateful. Oh, not for being murdered, though, of course, that does mean that I’ll be famous forever. I’ve seen the headlines—Famous TV Matriarch Brutally Taken by Blood-Bone Character. And they said that I was beautiful and aging gracefully. I’ve seen everything you’ve said, too. You are just such a little doll. Frankly, you’re a little too good and innocent, and you really don’t belong in Hollywood. Where was it you came from originally? Atlanta, right? How rude of me not to really remember, but then again, I was meant to live in the dog-eat-dog and plastic part of Hollywood—I do believe that it is all about me!”

It sounded like Cara Barton; the voice was just a little bit raspy, as if it had been created from the wind or the air. The cadence was all Cara, as was the admission that yes, the world was all about her.

Even when she was dead.

Or especially because she was dead.

Someone called out and Grayson paused, turning to talk to the man. It was another reporter.

“Really. Lovely funeral. I’m sure you had a part in planning it? And if I know you, you made sure that it was more than public notice—that everyone who is anyone would be here,” Cara said approvingly.

“You’re not really here, and I can’t hear you,” Marnie whispered, and she knew that her tone was low, that her words were breathy.

For a moment, she felt that she was going to keel over. No, she couldn’t pass out. That would bring attention to her, away from Cara. And Cara wouldn’t be happy.

Cara was dead.

Yep. Dead.

And yet Cara was still standing next to her.

“Marnie?” It was Grayson speaking again. He was looking at her with dark, concerned eyes.

Grayson had always been known for his good looks. He was tall, and his hair was as dark as his eyes. He was truly concerned for her, Marnie thought.

But he was also extremely aware of the cameras going off all around them. Yes, he was aware of the press and of the possible headlines: Marnie Davante Stumbles from Cemetery in Shock, Held Up by Manly Hands of Former Costar Grayson Adair.

“I’m fine,” she said softly.

“Oh, please, you’re not supposed to be fine!” Cara’s ghost protested. “I’m dead! I was murdered. You’re not fine.”

“No, I’m stone-cold crazy!” Marnie said.

“What?” Grayson asked, twisting around to look at her, a frown creasing his handsome features. “There’s that hot gossip blogger coming toward us. Are you all right? Really?”

“Yes, you’re fine now,” Cara said. “Be sure to tell them how wonderful I was, how much you loved me. I do bask in all this!”

The blogger came forward and brashly shook hands with them both. He apologized for disturbing them then; he was afraid he wouldn’t get near them once they had reached Rodeo, the trendy new restaurant where they’d be having the reception.

Marnie told him how much she had loved Cara; she told him what a wonderful actress she had been in a scene, in an ensemble. She vowed they would hound the police until the killer was found. They would never stop.

“Wonderful,” Cara said.

“Excuse me,” Marnie said, escaping from Grayson’s hold and turning to head back to the grave site. The funeral workers—who had been about to lower the finely carved coffin into the ground—stepped back, obviously surprised and a little annoyed that their time was being taken. They did, however, respectfully move away, allowing her personal and intimate time with her dearly departed loved one.

Marnie stood there for a moment, breathing. And then she spoke softly and firmly. “You are dead, Cara. I cannot see you, I cannot hear you. God help me, I am so, so sorry. I will miss you. Honestly. But you are dead!”

“That isn’t going to help.”

Marnie was so startled by the sound of the deep, masculine voice—so near to her—that she nearly fell over the coffin.

Luckily, she caught herself and looked over it instead.

He was tall—taller even than Grayson Adair. And, if possible, his hair was darker. His eyes, however, weren’t dark, they were green or gold or a startling combination of both, and they sat in a ruggedly masculine face that could well have been the next to grace every pop culture magazine out there. He was well built—he was quite simply both rugged and Hollywood drop-dead gorgeous.

And she was just staring at him.

“Wow,” the specter of Cara murmured, standing close behind Marnie once again. “Did he grow up fine. That’s one of the McFadden boys. Of course, you must understand, the parents were to die for—what an expression. Terrible.”

“You’re not there,” Marnie whispered desperately.

“It’s not going to help,” the man said gently.

Stunned, Marnie realized the truth. Whoever he was—McFadden boy, whatever—he was aware of what was going on.

“You—you—you see her. You hear her, too?” Marnie said.

He nodded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Bryan McFadden. I’m...I’m here to help you.”

McFadden.

“No.” Marnie shook her head vehemently. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m having hallucinations and you’re...having the same hallucinations. And you know it... Oh! It’s a sham. You’re from a paper. You’re trying to make me look crazy... I have to go.”

Marnie turned, ready to hurry back to Grayson Adair and the rest of her old cast and crew.

“Miss Davante,” he said.

She bit her lower lip and paused, not turning back but listening. On the one hand, she wanted to run.

Then again...

It was too...too...

Real.

And if he could help her?

She stayed there, wanting to run, afraid that if she did so she’d lose any chance of fighting off whatever was happening.

He didn’t speak again right away. They were too close to the cemetery workers.

He came up behind her. Not too close. He didn’t touch her. But close enough. She was aware of him in a way that she seldom felt, as if he were almost inside her skin, as if his fingers did touch her just as the warmth of his words reached her. He whispered softly, his tone still deep and rich and strangely ringing with truth, “She’s here, Marnie. You are not going crazy. She is right next to you. Trust me, I’ve been through this—too many times now. And here is the thing—she won’t go away. Not until we discover exactly why she’s still with us. Maybe it’s to see that her murder is solved. And maybe it’s to prevent something terrible.”

“She’s already dead. So, prevent something such as?” Marnie demanded harshly, giving herself a fierce mental shake. She stared at him. He might be incredibly gorgeous, but he had to be stone-cold crazy, as well. “Such as?”

“Such as another murder,” he said bluntly. “As in—possibly—yours!”

3

Maybe it wasn’t fair for Bryan to judge the funeral as a carnival with all kinds of acts being performed beneath a big tent. His mother had always assured him that there were many people living in Los Angeles—even those who were deeply enmeshed in the film industry, and despite its reputation for shallowness and ruthless ambition—who were decent and wonderful people. It was true. To be honest, he knew many people who were “Hollywood” all the way and who were fine, decent, caring and more.

Still, the worst of the business seemed to come out when news cameras were rolling.

And everyone, to paraphrase the artist Andy Warhol, wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.

There was no way out of it; in this city, most bartenders, servers and so on were also actors and actresses. Bankers and lawyers handled accounts for directors, producers, screenwriters, actors and costumers, puppeteers—and more.

It seemed as though everyone wound up being involved. But Greater Los Angeles was huge; its population had soared to over ten million people. Many were teachers, electricians, nurses, all the usual—you name it. And yet it all boiled down to the movies in the end. Teachers had actors’ children in their classes. Doctors patched up production assistants and prop managers and all manner of crew amid their other patients.

And while Hollywood might offer up a world of make-believe, it could also be—as his mom had always claimed—a nice place where many people wanted what everyone wanted: a family filled with love and happiness.

Before returning to the theater, Maeve and Hamish McFadden had been part of the Hollywood crowd.

In retrospect, since they had died together onstage, coming back to the theater in the DC area had perhaps not been a good decision. And yet, in those years before the accident, life for the McFadden family had been great.

Bryan had learned that death shouldn’t put a person on a pedestal. Still, when he looked back, they had been really good parents. They had put the needs of their sons above their own. They had left Hollywood.

But they had been a big part of it at one time, which made it possible for Bryan to be where he was now—rubbing shoulders with A-listers at a funeral reception that had become the hottest ticket in town.

It was obvious that Marnie Davante had thought she’d shake him when they reached the reception; there had been all kinds of gawkers and strangers who had managed to get close to the funeral. After all, Cara Barton had been buried at a cemetery often crawling with tourists. But the reception required an ID, to confirm the name on the guest list. Otherwise the masses would have readily joined in the reception that followed such a high-profile funeral.

However, as a McFadden, he’d managed to charm his way onto the list.

He saw Marnie standing with a group of people, Malcolm Dangerfield among them. Hollywood was often fickle—the hottest new star one year could be yesterday’s has-been by the next. At the moment, Malcolm Dangerfield was on the hot list. He would be, Bryan knew, considered to be more of a personality than an actor. He was basically always himself on-screen. But as himself, he was charismatic and it worked. On the other hand, while Jeremy Highsmith had only been cast in supporting roles since Dark Harbor had been canceled, each of those roles had been entirely different. Jeremy Highsmith was—Bryan knew his parents would judge—a true actor. A fine actor. Not a personality.

In their own way, his parents had been snobs. But to be fair, they had both loved their craft. They didn’t have to be performing themselves—they loved a good performance by another actor, singer, musician or even stand-up comic.

Marnie was barely holding it together, Bryan was pretty sure. But she managed to nod and speak now and then as she stood in the group with Malcolm Dangerfield, a producer, some young director and the rest of her castmates: Roberta Alan, Jeremy Highsmith and Grayson Adair. She was five foot nine in stocking feet, and taller here in low heels. She was regal. Despite the way she looked at him, with suspicion and irritation, Bryan couldn’t help but feel a tug of sympathy. She had an aura about her he couldn’t quite place. She was regal, and yet she appeared quick to smile at something said by a friend. Then the sadness would descend over her eyes again.

There was definitely something about her. He couldn’t help but feel the attraction that certainly drew many, many people to her. She was fascinating, charismatic and sensual with each sleek movement.

The perfect actress.

Photographers—authorized ones who were on the guest list—were seizing pictures constantly. It was hard to imagine how anyone could actually mourn in all the hubbub, and yet he remembered his parents’ funeral.

Much like this.

And it had been hard to mourn. Hard to be the eldest of their children; hard to hold it all together and grieve with the carnival atmosphere going on.

“Bringing back memories, eh?”

He didn’t turn; he knew that Cara Barton was standing next to him.

He lowered his head. She knew that he acknowledged her—saw her and heard her.

“So lovely. I mean, it may be terrible, but I am truly grateful to see I did have this many fans—okay, even if some are people using such an occasion for a publicity advantage. A grand funeral, I do say. I do so wish that I could have a sip of that champagne...” She paused, and Bryan knew that she was waiting for his response. While he stood a bit off in the corner of the restaurant, he wasn’t going to allow himself to appear to be speaking to the air.

Cara Barton apparently realized that he wasn’t going to answer her right then. He’d been at the cemetery early, and he had spoken to her. She might have figured out a ghostly way to contact his mother, but maybe she hadn’t really believed that she could get through to the living. She had been thrilled he could see her. She had been trying to torment the cemetery workers and the funeral director, and all she’d managed to do was to get one man to say that the cemetery, even in broad daylight, was incredibly creepy. She’d been ecstatic that Bryan could see her, hear her, because she had something important to say: she’d been murdered. She was afraid for the others.

She wanted the truth.

So right now, she didn’t really expect Bryan to reply.

But she kept talking.

“I remember sitting there that day...the day that I was killed,” she said. “I guess it’s good I don’t remember the pain. I do remember bits and pieces of my life shooting before my eyes...out of order, things when I was a child, things when I was older. And I remember thinking it was horrible, so unfair—that comic con really was, for me, where I’d come to die. And I remember Marnie, of course, holding me, shocked, horrified...such a sweet girl. Better than this world we’re in,” she added softly. “But I just don’t understand. Why in God’s name would anyone want to kill me? I mean, he probably was after Marnie. She was the one who had the most obsessed fans. You know she didn’t really want to have a reboot of Dark Harbor? A comeback, you know. She just loves the theater. She wants to direct. Children. Horrible little snot-nosed beasts, in my opinion, but...the thing is, there was no reason for anyone to kill me!”

He turned briefly, making a pretense of studying a painting above the bar.

“We’ll talk later,” he said.

Right now, he was trying to watch anyone who spent too much time with the four remaining actors from Dark Harbor.

Golden boy Malcolm Dangerfield seemed very interested in Marnie and her friends. But then again, the photographers where milling around them that day. It was the center of the action.

He also noted another man.

“That’s Vince Carlton,” Cara said. “He’s the one who wants to revamp Dark Harbor. I was so thrilled. I mean, that would have been a whole new life for all of us! On the top again. Okay, so not all shows make it. But we would have had a pilot and at least a season, I’m sure of it. Vince is a nice guy. But, of course, I’m dead now. So...”

Vince Carlton appeared to be in his early forties. He was known for having produced a number of successful fantasy and sci-fi projects. He appeared sympathetic and respectful as he spoke with the group.

And Malcolm Dangerfield, who had determinedly remained with them throughout the afternoon. Maybe that was natural; he had been standing close to Cara when she was killed.

He had watched her be cut down in cold blood.

“What does a comic creature like Blood-bone have to do with a show like Dark Harbor?” Bryan wondered softly aloud.

“Nothing—nothing that I know of, anyway. And the thing is, Blood-bone is like Darth Vader—that kind of a costume. Just about anyone could be in it. Well, it works best with a certain height and size, but...it could be anyone.”

There had to be some kind of a relationship. Either that or the killer had chosen the costume because there would be so many people dressed up the same, making a getaway easy.

Which it had apparently been, according to Detective Vining. Dozens of Blood-bones had been stopped and searched and questioned. And each had been the wrong Blood-bone.

“Anonymous,” he murmured.

“What?” Cara asked.

Bryan pulled a set of earbuds out of his pocket and inserted them into his ears. While he found it incredibly rude that people seemed to be talking on the phone everywhere and through any occasion these days, the cell-phone-earbuds craze was a good thing—for a man who talked to the dead.

“Anonymous,” he repeated softly. “Such a costume means that it could be anyone inside. Do you remember anything about the killer, a scent, the way he moved, the size of his hands...anything that felt familiar?”

“I’ve racked my brain,” Cara replied, “but I can’t imagine who it was in that costume.”

“So not necessarily someone you knew. If there was a specific target, the murder could have been perpetrated by the person who wanted them dead, or because of the costume, a killer could have even been hired.”

Cara gasped. “You mean the bastard who did this to me might not have even had the balls to do it him—or her—self?”

“I’m thinking aloud, Cara. Give me a break. I just got out here.”

“You got out here yesterday.”

“Doing my best,” he said.

She harrumphed.

Loudly.

Bryan noted that Marnie had heard the sound. And she turned. At her side, Roberta Alan turned to see what Marnie was looking at, and both of them stared at him.

Maybe it was time.

He pocketed his earbuds and walked up to the group, extending a hand to introduce himself.

Marnie looked at his hand as if he had offered up a snake.

But Roberta Alan took it, staring at him curiously, a smile on her lips. “Well, hello, gorgeous!” she said, her voice and tone an excellent mimic of that used by Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl.

He grinned. He could play the game.

“Hello, gorgeous, yourself,” he told her. “My name is Bryan McFadden. My parents—”

“Oh!” Roberta exclaimed. “I know—yes, you’re so like your father. And your mother, really, and they both were truly gorgeous. Well, your dad, of course, was very manly. You’re manly, too, naturally, and I...I’m just making a fool out of myself here. Mr. McFadden, may I introduce you to my costars? Grayson Adair, our brother. Jeremy Highsmith, good old dad. And Marnie Davante—”

“Scarlet Zeta, Madam Zeta,” he said.

Marnie forced a stiff smile. “How do you do, Mr. McFadden?”

“Nice to meet you, son. I knew your parents. I was so sorry when they...died,” Jeremy Highsmith told him, wincing a little.

“Thank you, sir.”

“And they say that Hollywood is murder. Well, in this case... Oh, hell, I can’t get out of this one.”

Malcolm Dangerfield suddenly cut between Jeremy and Marnie, offering his hand. “Malcolm Dangerfield,” he said. “Are you looking for work out here? Acting?”

“No. I’m not an actor. I’m actually a private investigator,” Bryan replied curtly.

“Hey, let me tell you—bodyguards are in high demand right now. You know, after what I witnessed, I’d take on another. Call me if you’re interested in anything like that.”

“Actually, I’m out here to work the case of Cara Barton’s murder,” Bryan said.

Marnie stared at him, startled.

And wary.

Very wary. She obviously didn’t trust him. At the moment, he was sure, she didn’t trust herself. Why should she trust a man claiming that he could see a dead woman, too?

“Well, nice to meet you,” Malcolm said.

“You sure you’re not trying to get into the movies?” Jeremy asked him. “Names and nepotism have been known to open doors. Are you...looking for a role?”

“I assure you—I’m not looking for a role,” Bryan told him.

They all continued to stare at him suspiciously. Except for Roberta. She remained curious and intrigued. “You’re here because your family knew Cara, I imagine. But...the cops are trying everything. They’re looking at every angle,” Roberta told him.

Jeremy Highsmith cleared his throat. “Every angle. They’ve told all of us to keep special care, to keep our doors locked and to watch out for strangers. Oh, yeah. They’ve suggested we all avoid comic cons for the time being, and any place that a man or woman could dress up in a costume that would make them totally anonymous. Just in case Cara isn’t the only target.”

“They do say that it could have just been random,” Malcolm said. “That the guy—or woman, but the dude was pretty big, so I think it was a man—was just out to kill. Someone, anyone, a guest or a celebrity.”

“You know, like it might have been some kind of an exhibitionist,” Roberta supplied.

“Marnie was going along with the show,” Jeremy said. “And Cara—Cara was never to be outdone. She hopped up and got right into it.”

“Miss Davante,” a male voice said softly, interrupting them.

They all swiveled around to see who had spoken.

Bryan had seen the man before—in the cell phone footage of the killing that had gone viral around the world. Most of the news stations had shown the footage with some respect. Many social media sites had posted it in all its graphic detail—until the pure horror of it had been caught and taken down by whatever powers that be, those with some common decency.

The man had been standing at the booth when it had happened. He’d been speaking with Marnie, or so it appeared. A fan?

“Miss Davante, David Neal. I was there... I just wanted to say I’m so sorry. I... We...we have an appointment tomorrow. I wasn’t sure... Anyway, I wish you luck with your future,” he said. He backed away awkwardly, looking at all of them. “I’m truly sorry—all of you. She was a great talent. She was...a talent. Yes. I’m sorry. Miss Davante, I hope that... I hope that you won’t hold this against me when...when you’re looking to hire again.”

He nodded uncomfortably to all of them and then moved on.

“Rude,” Malcolm said. “We’re at a funeral, and he’s worried about a job.”

“He was just apologizing,” Marnie said in the man’s defense.

“As he should have been,” Roberta murmured.

“We’re here for you,” Jeremy said. “We’re all here for each other. Oh, look, there’s Vince Carlton. I’m sure he’s hurting, too. He’d been in talks with Cara for a while,” he said to Bryan. “I’m going to say hello again. Excuse me.”

“And excuse me,” Marnie said. She stared straight at Bryan, and he knew that he was the reason she wanted to be excused.

But he couldn’t stop her. And he wasn’t sure that he should, not at that moment.

“Miss Davante,” he said, lowering his head as she stepped by.

“So,” Roberta said as Marnie walked away, “may I get you a drink? I suppose you used your family connection to get in here today. Because though we had help from a few others, we were Cara’s family, and we pretty much put the guest list together. Naughty, naughty, Mr. McFadden—you weren’t on it! Then again, neither was that young man, David Neal. You have a connection. How did he manage it, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Bryan told her. “But it would be interesting to find out.”

* * *

There was someone in her house. But that wasn’t unexpected.

Marnie had driven herself to the service, though she could have gone to the funeral and the reception in the cast limo.

She had chosen not to, explaining that she might not want to stay long at the reception, and she’d really like to have her own car available.

She pulled up to her duplex. Her home was in a perfect location—close to Universal Studios, a hop on the I-5 to either Hollywood or to places up north. She wasn’t far from Burbank and the airport there.

Also, she had just loved the home when she had first seen it. The yard was surrounded by a white picket fence. There were three gates—one at the walkway from the sidewalk, and one on each side for her and Bridget to bring their cars into their parking spaces. Really, for the location, her duplex had been an amazing deal.

The charm of the duplex was, in a way, odd. There were dozens of skyscrapers nearby, but her place looked like it might have come out of Home and Garden for the rural crowd. But it was that kind of a neighborhood—houses for the median-income crowd along with businesses and skyscrapers. She’d loved where she lived since she’d bought it, at the height of Dark Harbor’s popularity.

She kept the place whitewashed with green trim. It had been built right when Art Nouveau had been giving way to Art Deco. There were window boxes and arches and all kinds of charming little details in the architecture.

Using her remote control, she opened her driveway gate and pulled her little Honda into place.

As she exited the car, Bridget came flying out from her front door.

“Marnie! You’re back so early. Are you all right? I knew I should have gone with you. Oh, they weren’t rude or mean or anything, were they?”

“No, I’m fine, really,” Marnie said, and she really hoped that she was a good actress, good enough to pull off that kind of a lie to her cousin. “I just... I just needed to leave. To come home.”

“I’ll make tea. My side? Your side?”

“My side. I know it’s just getting toward evening, but I’m thinking about to going to bed really early.”

“Right after tea,” Bridget said. “Oh, and food. You’ll need food.”

“I just left a reception,” Marnie argued. “There was food.”

“And I know you. You didn’t eat any of it.”

Marnie hadn’t eaten. Neither had she had anything to drink.

Nope, not a drop of alcohol, and still she had seen and heard a dead woman.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m really not hungry,” Marnie said. “Honestly.”

“Yeah, but you have to eat something. This is terrible, tragic—but you have to go on living. If you’re going to get that children’s theater up and running on schedule, you’re going to have to start functioning again. That real estate agent, Seth Smith, called. I told him that you were a bit preoccupied right now, and he’s being understanding, but doing up a budget and taking care of all the details will take time—you have to start moving. He told me he has other offers. Of course, that could be a come-on, but...”

“I’ll go see the accountant tomorrow,” Marnie promised. She smiled at Bridget. Neither of them had siblings, but their dads were brothers and had become the proud parents of baby girls the same year. Marnie and Bridget were as close as siblings—maybe closer. They had never had to fight over anything since they’d grown up in different homes.

They weren’t, however, much alike in appearance. Bridget had very wild red hair and soft amber eyes in contrast to Marnie’s blue-green eyes and dark chestnut hair color.

At the moment, however, Bridget was sporting some swatches in aqua and pink—very in the now. So far, Marnie had chosen to retain her own hair color. Her future was still uncertain; she made a lot of her current income from commercials she’d garnered here or there, and she was afraid of doing anything a bit off—even if hair did fix easily—when needing that money was still a major part of life.

For Bridget, of course, it was different. She didn’t act—in fact, she hated acting. She also hated crowds, which was one of the reasons Marnie had talked her out of attending the funeral. Bridget was a writer; she had a great job as full-time writer for several shows on the new Sci-tastic cable channel, an outlet that specialized in sci-fi and fantasy themes.

Bridget followed her cousin into her side of the duplex and headed straight for the kitchen. Marnie loved her kitchen. It was painted yellow, with herbs and flowers growing in the huge tiled bay window that overlooked the yard.

Marnie walked into the living room and crashed onto one of her rich chocolate leather sofas.

“How was the reception?” Bridget asked. “I can imagine it was a zoo. Everyone who hadn’t had a second for Cara Barton in life probably was there—I mean, what self-respecting actor would miss out on an opportunity for exposure like that? There was a ton of press there, right?”

“Yep.”

“A zoo, I’m sure. Hey, did the police get anywhere yet?”

“No. I think they were at the funeral, but they all kept their distance. They were watching, I’m certain. I actually saw Detective Manning and her partner, Detective Vining, at the wake yesterday. They were...”

“Watching?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Well, someone killed Cara.”

“Yes, but those closest to her obviously didn’t do it. I mean, we were all there.”

“Water is on. Look, you have some little meat pies in the freezer. I’ll pop a few of those into the microwave. It’s not gourmet and maybe not even really too healthful, but it’s something.”

“Sure,” Marnie said, picking up one of the pillows on the sofa and holding it. She closed her eyes. Life was a nightmare. It was good to have Bridget in here, chattering away.

Someone had killed Cara. Why?

And why was she imagining that she saw Cara?

“Hey! Someone is here,” Bridget called from the kitchen. “And... Whoa. Be still, my heart! This guy gives new meaning to tall, dark and handsome. Are you hiring a hero type for the theater? Or did you get some kind of an offer? Did your agent send this guy? I mean... Wow. Wicked-wow!”

Marnie didn’t have to look out the window to see to know that Bryan McFadden had come to her house.

She groaned out loud, looking around her living room.

No. There was no dead woman there. Maybe it was him. Maybe he was somehow causing her to have some kind of a delusion.

“Don’t let him in!” Marnie said.

“Don’t let him in? Are you kidding? Who is he?”

“Bryan McFadden.”

“And who is Bryan McFadden?”

“He’s no one. His parents were actors. He thinks he’s some kind of a cop or something. Just make him go away.”

“Oh, Lord, I have done some things for you in my life, but make him go away? I’m not married, you know. I’m not engaged. I’m not even dating. And you want me to make this guy go away?”

“Yes. Do it, please.”

“McFadden, McFadden... Oh, he looks like that old matinee star Hamish McFadden. Is he—”

“Yes. Make him go away. Please... Oh. Never mind!”

She’d make him go away herself.

Marnie leaped to her feet and flew to the front door, opening it.

He was a solid six foot four, and in the dark suit he’d chosen for the funeral, he was definitely impressive in his size and stature. He had a way of looking at her so directly that it was unnerving.

He was attractive; that was certain. Very. In a land of attractive people, he had something else, as well. Maybe it was that very steady way he had of looking at a person. Rock-solid. More. She felt as if Bridget could create one of her sci-fi ray guns based on his gaze: a green ray of light that drew her to him while she wanted to run away—or at least slam the door on him.

Yes, his very stature was imposing.

He probably knew it. Maybe he even used it to bully people.

She didn’t let him speak.

“Mr. McFadden, I left the funeral reception to avoid you. I don’t appreciate you coming to my house to hound me. You may be working with the police, but if you harass me, I will get a restraining order against you.”

“You’re going to need me, Miss Davante,” he told her. He produced a card. “My cell number is there. Call me when you’ve figured out the fact that you can’t do this alone.”

“Oh, hello there!”

Bridget had come to stand behind her and was looking at him over Marnie’s shoulder.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly, lowering his head slightly to see her. “Bridget Davante, I presume. A pleasure to meet you. I watched Deadly Venom and Bloody Claws the other night. Very tongue-in-cheek. Absolutely ridiculous, but the writing was wonderful.”

“Thanks! I was head on that project,” Bridget said. “Would you like some tea?”

“Mr. McFadden was just leaving,” Marnie snapped.

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