Leave Yesterday Behind Read online

  He frowned. “You barely knew Alec or Ricardo. That never stopped you before, Jessica.”

  She smiled seductively as she played with his lapel. “You know so much about me. I don’t know a thing about you.”

  “Would it make a difference?” he asked, a sad look haunting his eyes.

  She let Jessica consider his question. “Sometimes,” she answered. “I’m awfully fond of money. I won’t hide that fact, Simon. Power. Knowledge. Position. I like a man with all those things.”

  “I can take care of you,” he said earnestly. “I want to. I can do it better than anyone because I love you more than all the others ever did. Let me love you.” He put a hand behind her neck and pulled her close.

  Warning bells blasted in her head. The survival instinct of fight or flight kicked in, pouring adrenaline into her bloodstream as if she’d just snorted cocaine. She willed herself to keep improvising. She’d done something like this a thousand times before in acting class. On the set. She could do this.

  He lowered his head, and she automatically shut her eyes.

  Don’t think. Just do.

  He smelled of spearmint gum and Old Spice. She didn’t know they still made that. Her dad had worn the cheap aftershave for years. The scent threw her for a moment. Then his lips touched hers. They were dry. She tightened her mouth as he clamped his arms around her.

  Where the hell was a cop in New York when you needed one?

  And then he pulled away. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath till she gulped at the air.

  “No. No. This isn’t right,” he said to himself, as if she wasn’t there. “It’s not supposed to be this way. I need to feel your love. I need to feel you.”

  Callie popped off, “It’s not like we can do the dirty right here on the street.” Immediately, she knew it was a mistake. She could tell by the shock on his face that she’d blown it. She’d had him believing for a few minutes that she was Jessica. Then big-mouth Callie Chennault blurted out from nowhere and ruined everything.

  She licked her lips and stepped smoothly back into Jessica. “We could go somewhere more private, Simon. I love a bed with satin sheets.”

  A hard look crossed his bland features. The non-descript little fan turned angry. Very, very angry.

  She knew all about angry. She’d run more times than she knew when this same light came into her father’s eyes.

  Callie took off without thinking, automatically letting things slide from her shoulders to hit the pavement behind her, hoping they would trip him up.

  “Bitch!” he roared above the rain.

  She ran no more than fifteen yards when he caught her. His hand locked on her upper arm as he swung her around and smacked her hard. Her cheekbone exploded in pain. Before she could call out, he’d punched her hard in the gut, knocking the wind from her.

  He was dragging her. She was aware enough to feel her hip bumping along the pavement. Her eye had begun to swell, but she saw they’d entered an alleyway. They went a few yards into it before he lifted her, slamming her into the wall.

  Panic flooded her as he pressed against her, holding her wrists as he forced his tongue inside her mouth.

  She gagged and began to struggle, but her claustrophobia kicked in. She couldn’t breathe. The dark, tight space enveloped her. She thought she might pass out.

  The stinging was almost incidental. An afterthought in the back of her mind. Something was terribly wrong, but a break in her synapses wouldn’t let her brain process the information.

  Suddenly, her legs went rubbery. She slid down the wall. Simon moved away from her, and the cool of the night hit her. Her butt hit the concrete, and her vision started to blur as a burning sensation began along her side.

  “You’re like all the rest. You’re not really Jessica. You just pretend to be Jessica. You aren’t perfect at all.”

  She recognized the contempt in his voice as he walked away, his hand swinging by his side, the knife dripping. She was confused. It was blood. Her blood. It hit her. He’d stabbed her. More than once.

  She reached a hand up and touched herself. Blood flowed. Sticky. Messy. She needed help. Callie had never been more helpless—alone, in the dark, the thunder rumbling angrily as the rain continued to come down now in sheets. She could hear the rats scrambling through the garbage behind her.

  She couldn’t die. She wouldn’t die. She had too much left to do.

  Things began to fade to black. Not good. She needed to move where she would be seen. Could she stand?

  She tried and almost passed out. Okay, standing’s out. But she could crawl. She pushed herself to the alley’s entrance and then collapsed on the sidewalk. She was so tired. So cold. The warmth of Sun Burst pose no longer flowed through her. Every breath hurt, and she had to force herself to do it. Breathe. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

  She could hear Rodney Yee from her yoga DVDs encouraging her in his quiet tone. Breathe in. Breathe out. Follow the movement of your breath.

  But it hurt like hell, Rodney. Bet he never tried to practice yoga while bleeding profusely. She couldn’t inhale deeply. Instead, the air came in shallow spurts, like a panting dog in the sweltering heat of a Louisiana summer.

  She quit struggling. She knew it didn’t matter anymore. She wouldn’t make it. And it pissed her off to think that every obituary would shout that “Jessica Had Died.” Not Callie Chennault. Every picture accompanying every article would be of Jessica. Not her. She’d lost her identity in a character so long ago that no one knew the real her anymore.

  Even if someone passed by on foot, they wouldn’t stop for a bloody, limp Callie. She was a stranger, not the sophisticated beauty on the cover of In Style or Entertainment Weekly, the cool blond with the fiery lips and temperamental attitude.

  No, she would die alone on a New York sidewalk. A no one.

  Callie took one last, painful breath and gave up.

  Chapter 3

  Nick stretched and rubbed his eyes. He’d been at it all night, but he was through now.

  She was dead.

  He hated killing someone, particularly a pretty blond, but he had no choice. To get where he wanted, she had to be eliminated.

  He’d planned it from the start. It still didn’t make him happy, though. Death never did. Especially this late in the game. He could hear the fans protesting now.

  He pushed out of his seat. His eye caught his image in the mirror.

  He looked like hell. All thirty-five years and then some.

  The combination of death and no sleep caused the look. It was a far cry from his glory days when the money rolled in easily for what was in truth very little effort. He had natural talent; the right people always paid for it. He’d enjoyed being a player.

  What he did now didn’t always come easily. And each murder had to top the last one.

  But he’d gotten good. Very good. Almost too good. Sometimes it scared him how the ideas flowed. How could one man be so cruel, inventing that many sadistic ways to off unsuspecting fools?

  He stumbled down the hallway and through his bedroom, not remembering the last time he’d slept in the unmade bed. He entered the bathroom off the master suite and turned on the shower faucet. A hot shower would wash away his evil doings. It would separate him from the sin.

  Nick stood and let the spray hit him for a long time as he tried to force the images of death from his mind. This murder had been harder on him than any before. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she’d been so well loved. She had a lot of years ahead of her before he cut her life short.

  Yet he’d do it again in a heartbeat. The rush was too great.

  He stepped from the shower and toweled off. Once he shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his thick, dark hair, he felt almost human again. Murder usually put him into a funk. It was
over now, though. Behind him. He would start a new chapter and put it behind him.

  He always did.

  Chapter 4

  Callie dreamed she was having the mother of all hangovers. Her head cracked into pieces. Her mouth parched. Her stomach roiling queasily. And it was hard to breathe.

  Hard to breathe? No hangover ever hurt this much.

  She opened her eyes to end the dream and get on with her day. She couldn’t remember learning her lines yet. Didn’t she have a lot of pages for today’s show?

  It was really weird. Her eyes wouldn’t open. She’d had dreams like this before, where she really wanted to wake up, but her body wasn’t ready to. Once she’d been having sex with the latest People Sexiest Man of the Year, but he’d turned into her high school calculus teacher right before she climaxed. Talk about a double nightmare. She’d screamed in the dream that she would wake up, but Mr. Finney calmly explained to her that shouting in class meant a double detention—especially if you were having sex with a married teacher while you did it.

  That had been enough to arouse her from the horrifying vision. But this? This was . . . different. No movie ran in her head, so she figured the dream had to be over. The credits should’ve come up by now. Sleepy time was over.

  And she should be able to open her eyes. And wake up.

  “I think she’s trying to come around, Doctor.”

  Doctor? She hadn’t dreamed anything about being sick, so why was a doctor making an appearance? And she was never sick in real life. She was a nut about taking her vitamins and getting a flu shot and drinking plenty of fluids, year-round, especially after working. She refused to believe she could be sick. This was just more of the crazy, unending nightmare.

  Hell, she’d wait it out. Nothing could ever be worse than thinking about having sex with Mr. Finney.

  Unless . . .

  A flash of a scene came and went, quick as lightning brightening a darkened room. It was there and then gone, faster than she could figure out what she witnessed. But it gave her a very uneasy feeling.

  Simon . . .

  Where did that name come from? The only Simon she knew was from Alvin and the Chipmunks, and she only thought about them at Christmas when she heard them chirping on the radio for a plane that looped the loop.

  The flash came again. This time longer. A face appeared. A very ordinary face. She sucked in a quick breath. Why was such a normal face scaring the bejesus out of her?

  And why couldn’t she get a solid breath? She hurt everywhere. She needed to figure out why. She struggled to open her eyes again. This time she succeeded getting one to cooperate.

  Definitely a hospital room. Dim. Door open. That’s where most of the light spilled in from. A rotund nurse in faded blue scrubs stood next to her bed. A white-coated man with a dark, bushy mustache frowning at a clipboard was parked right next to the nurse.

  “My eye feels like it’s super-glued shut,” she croaked.

  The pair frowned at her, surprise written on both their faces. Oh, this wasn’t good. It was like she was Frankenstein coming to life for the first time. No, they seemed more astonished than that. Maybe Frankenstein talking in full sentences? Yeah, that captured the mood in the antiseptic-smelling room. She’d always hated that smell. Ever since Mama died.

  “I heard her voice. She’s finally coming around, huh?”

  Callie turned her head slightly, to exploding pain. She took a quick breath in, and it hurt like someone had stabbed her.

  Stabbed her. Simon! Oh, God. Was she dead?

  “No,” the doctor said, turning away toward the man who’d spoken. “She’s just awakened. I need to examine her.”

  “And I need to find out who left her for dead,” rumbled the deep voice.

  She’d learned from her previous mistake. This time she kept her head still and only cut her eyes in the direction the voice came from. He was a mix of an older looking Monk wearing a rumpled trench coat that maybe Lenny from Law & Order repeats had owned at one point. Gray at the temples. Circles under his eyes. World-weary air about him.

  “I want . . . to talk. To him,” she rasped.

  Everyone turned and looked at her as if she were crazy. Maybe she was. Maybe she had died and gone to hell and this scene would be played over and over again. Oh, and ‘It’s a Small World’ would be constantly sung in the background. Yep, definitely her idea of hell.

  “Let me speak with her first,” the doctor said in a clipped, professional tone. “I want to see if she’s coherent enough for you to question her. She may remember very little of the trauma at this point.”

  “And she is right here, Mr. Medical Man,” Callie spat out. It hurt her to speak up, but she wanted their attention. She needed some answers. “Talk to me. Not about me.”

  The nurse rolled her little pig eyes. Callie could see The National Enquirer’s headline tomorrow: SOAP STAR A PRIMA DONA TILL THE END. Old Nancy Nurse here would be their source, spouting off about how demanding Callie Chennault was, right up until she expired.

  Well, who cared? She wiggled her toes. She was definitely alive. Not paralyzed. Ready to find the son of a bitch who did this to her—whatever this was.

  The physician cleared his throat. “I am Dr. Maxwell, Miss Chennault.”

  “You pronounce it Shuh-No. It’s French Cajun.” Funny how a little detail like that mattered to her at the moment.

  “All right. Miss Chennault.”

  She managed a half-smile of approval at his pronunciation.

  “You were brought in last night by ambulance a little before ten.” He glanced at his watch. “Almost twenty-four hours ago to the minute.”

  Okay. So she’d lost a day. She nodded and was hit with another flash of hurt all over.

  “A young man found you and called 9-1-1. He almost stumbled over you lying on the sidewalk. It was very dark and rainy. Do you remember that?”

  She thought a moment. “Yeah. I remember the rain. Enough weather recap, Doc. What’s wrong with me?” She bit her lip. The pain was really, really bad now. And growing.

  “You’d been stabbed. Repeatedly. You lost quite a bit of blood. You’re not a common type, Miss Chennault. AB-negative. Just about used up our supply on hand.”

  Well, when she felt better, she would march on down and be a one-woman blood drive. Callie wished she had the energy to say all that, but she thought better of conserving her energy and kept her mouth shut.

  “You went into surgery. Came through easily. You’re in very good health, you know.”

  “Yoga,” she whispered.

  “Mmm.” The doctor frowned and glanced at her chart again. “You had a concussion, as well. Skull cracked. One eye swollen shut, probably from a heavy blow. Overall, though, you’ll be fit as a fiddle in several months.”

  “Months?” What would the show do without her? And what would she do sitting on her ass for months with nothing to do? That thought frightened her more than the litany of injuries he’d described.

  “Rest is imperative. But with lots of it and a thorough rehabilitation program, you’ll be able to function in a normal manner. You’re a very lucky woman, Miss Chennault.”

  She smiled weakly. At least she thought it was a smile. It was hard to tell with her eye all screwed up. It made her whole face feel off-balance.

  The doctor turned to the detective. At least she assumed he was a detective. Those were the ones who always investigated homicides and attempted murders on TV. Jessica had almost married a homicide detective years ago, but the actor hadn’t renewed his contract after an extended salary negotiation. Instead, he’d been pushed off a cliff by the serial killer he was hunting. Jessica almost married the killer, too, but she wound up killing him before he got her. It had been one of her favorite storylines. The bad-assness of it rocked.

 
; “She seems to have her wits about her. I think you could speak with her for a few minutes. But don’t press her. She may not remember many details or even the incident itself.”

  “But it could come back to her?”

  Dr. Maxwell shrugged. “It’s a crapshoot, Detective. We’ll see.” He signaled the nurse to follow him, and they exited the room, closing the door behind them.

  The policeman moved closer. Callie caught a whiff of pipe tobacco clinging to him. The subtle smell comforted her. “There’s another plainclothesman right outside the door. Gotta take your safety seriously. After all, you’re a national treasure.”

  He smiled, and his words let her know he, unlike Dr. Maxwell, knew exactly who she was.

  “So what did the headlines say this morning? ‘Jessica gets her just desserts?’”

  “Nah.” He pulled up a chair and sat. She was grateful she didn’t have to strain to look up at him anymore. “My little girl started watching you when you came on. What, ten years ago? Must’ve been ‘cause she’s nineteen now, and she was just nine when she started watching the stories. I argued with my wife that she was too young, but my kid thought you hung the moon. Wanted to grow up beautiful and smart and not take shit off nobody, just like Jessica. My kid knows everything now, at nineteen. I guess we all do at that age.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m Paul Waggoner, Callie. Can I call you Callie?”

  She gave a bare nod. Anything else hurt too much.