A Fatal Affair

The Allen Michaels Story

A Fatal Affair

The Allen Michaels Story

A Novella

Pamela Crane

Tabella House

Hillsborough, North Carolina

Copyright © 2013 by Pamela Crane

Tabella House

Hillsborough, NC 27722

www.tabellahouse.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information

storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations

embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are

used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is

purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

www.pamelacrane.com

Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience:

this is the ideal life.

– Mark Twain

Prologue

December 2008 Los Angeles, California

I knew she had to die, but how I’d get away with killing

her was a question I didn’t have an answer to.

Perhaps I’m painting a poor picture here. I’m not a

cold-blooded killer. In fact, I’ve never killed anyone in my

life. I cringe at killing spiders, for God’s sake. Until now.

But when my family, my life’s work, is at stake, I gotta do what I gotta do to protect it. And Susan Michaels

threatened to take that from me.

I considered my options for a successful murder.

Gunshot to the head? Eh, too messy, and with my lack of

killing know-how, ballistics would probably end up placing

me behind the trigger. Besides, I don’t even own a gun or know anyone who could sell one to me on the black

market. I have assistants with assistants, for cryin’ out

loud. I’m too high on the ladder to resort to black-market

dealings. And it’s far too much work for a busy guy like

me. Then I pondered a staged suicide… perhaps a hanging

or pill overdose. But I’ve produced too many crime shows

to know that an autopsy would eventually reveal the

truth—that murder lurked behind the scenes… which

could again somehow lead to my front door. I couldn’t risk

being found out. Besides, Susan wouldn’t be the type to take her own life, and anyone who knows her like I do

would attest to that. Self-absorption and worldliness held

her captive to this life, and her death grip on it was

unrelenting.

Which led me to the only plausible option there was.

Stabbing. The motive could be anything—a home robbery sounded easy and convincing enough. With the shitload of

jewelry Susan proudly adorned herself with, her

overpriced BMW, her Gucci everything, and her prominent

position in society, it was believable that she’d be a victim

of theft, waving her maxed out credit card like she did. Not to mention, the woman gained a following of enemies with

each rung she trampled up on her climb to the top.

After silent meditation while on the toilet, I had the

whole thing planned out… a nice quiet dinner, maybe an

after-dessert massage, one final romp in the bedroom for

old time’s sake, then a quick good-bye. Stab to the chest when she wasn’t expecting it. It’d take some effort to make

sure her body placement and the wounds didn’t betray the

killer as a trustworthy friend, but I’d have time to iron out

those details later.

Yes, I was well on my way to my very first murder… and hopefully my last. I just hoped it went without a

hitch. Murder can get pretty messy, I hear.

Chapter 1

November 2008 Los Angeles, California

A life can change in a single breath, a captured moment

of unspoken words or thoughts uttered carelessly. That chilled Marina Del Ray dusk carried such a moment where

a single glance, and an unspoken word, forever shaped my

destiny.

I was taking a piss at the time. Sunlight streamed

through the bathroom window overlooking a young couple testing the Pacific Ocean temperature with the tips of their

toes. I imagined it floated somewhere around sixty

degrees—too cold for my blood, and most other warm-

blooded creatures.

As the silence yawned in my lonely bathroom, my

thoughts somberly ambled along. My wife Susan was God knows where, as usual on weekday evenings, since we

both worked odd hours and most of the time lived

separate lives—me in the production studio, her wining

and dining clients. Somehow we managed to make it

through nearly twenty years this way. The price tag wasn’t cheap, though.

So there I was, relieving myself, when I happened to

glance down at the chrome garbage can at the base of the

black ceramic toilet. Don’t ask me what compelled me to

look there. If I wasn’t surveilling bikini-clad underagers

four stories down, I usually fixated my eyes on the floor-length mirror that consumed an entire bathroom wall—

some days admiring myself, other days cursing Time’s toll

on my fair skin. But at that preordained moment my sight

wandered to the dark abyss beside the toilet.

Something long and white. And high-tech looking. After

a quick shake, I shoved my junk back in my pants and zipped up, then bent closer to see what it was. A plus sign.

It only took a second for naivety to step aside for

comprehension. Susan, my wife, was pregnant… I was

going to be a father! ―Dad…‖ I said aloud, allowing the word to penetrate

me. ―Daddy… I like the sound of that.‖

The thought hit me like a warm, jade ocean swell—

inviting, enveloping me, welcoming me with a siren’s song.

It felt like the black-and-white-checkered floor tiles shifted

beneath me as my hands grabbed the marble sink. The earth felt the shudder of joy pulsing through me as it

swayed on its axis. I prayed I wouldn’t faint. I had wanted

to be a father, but our jobs didn’t make room for such

frivolities. Each of us worked in the film industry eighty-

plus hours a week… more when ratings dropped. Sex was a rare thing to begin with; I always suspected she had an

aversion to me and merely married me for my status—no

surprise there, since I was almost twenty years her

senior—but adding a kid to the dysfunctional mess we

called a family seemed preposterous. But still, I’d always

wanted to be the father I never had. And now this dream was finally coming true.

My hands trembled and my knuckles whitened under

my grip.

This was supposed to be good news, so why was I

freaking out? I shook away the encroaching anxiety and regained my

composure, and the earth joined me. Glancing in the

mirror, I saw the wise cerulean eyes of a beloved father.

The blond whiskers of a cheek meant for children’s kisses.

The aged hands of a man holding his infant. The plump

wrinkled lips wide with the smile that only fatherhood can bring. I was meant for this.

I allowed a vision to permeate my mind’s eye… a

picture of me nestling my namesake to my chest, my

firstborn son, my legacy. I had always considered my film

projects to be my fame, my future. Forever my name etched on the big-screen, generations of viewers seeing

those letters scroll down the screen as they applauded my notoriety—the Allen Michaels. That was all I had in this

world… my name blending in with hundreds of others on

a movie credit.

But for the first time in my life, that paled in

comparison to this. My own child carrying the Allen

Michaels distinction, passing it down to generations of future Allen—or Ellen, if she was a girl—Michaels’. A thrill

pulsed through me, shocking my entire being into a new

state of mind. Suddenly my work held little meaning. I was

going to be a daddy! We could buy his first chemistry set

together—a secret passion of mine—and write his first

screenplay together. It would be grand! Then just as quickly a pang of panic hit me, and I

swallowed a mouthful of bile threatening to soil my maid’s

handiwork.

Inhale, exhale.

Where was Susan, anyways? It was usual to come home to a sterile, empty apartment, but fear crept into my

head, taunting my thoughts with worry that Susan might

be ―taking care of it‖ without ever telling me she was

pregnant. I could imagine her all too easily doing such a

thing, keeping a secret like that. It was how our marriage

was, after all. Secrets buried under secrets. This dread wasn’t unfounded. She’d told me countless

times she didn’t want children… at least not with me. Her

argument was that children were for the nurturing types,

and barefoot and pregnant stay-at-home mom wasn’t

exactly Susan’s idea of fulfilling. She had a budding career, and God forbid anything got in the way of that.

Years ago, during one fight about it after I battled her

excuses with a winning point that we could hire a nanny, I

finally got the message. ―What is the point of having a kid

if you don’t want to spend time with it?‖—those were her

exact words. Two things had flagged my attention with that question. One, she called a child an ―it‖—clearly not a

product of love for her. And two, it was a good point.

Susan rode in the fast lane, rarely checking her blind

spot; she was the type to bark orders or carelessly send

you packing. Any loyalty ended when you became an inconvenience. I learned long ago to oblige her or else… I

never liked the ―or else‖ with Susan.

Despite this chink in her armor, a glimmer of hope rose

within me that perhaps Susan had changed her mind.

Maybe the flutter of life within her would compel her to at

least try. Maybe parenthood would become her; maybe it

could fix us, complete us somehow.

I tossed the urine-stained pregnancy test on my dresser and headed for the adjoining kitchen and living room. It

took a moment to find my cell phone on the black granite

kitchen counter—damn designer’s dismal taste, everything

in trendy shiny black, a constant reminder of the

morbidity of my marriage—and punched in Susan’s cell. It

rang a few times before going to voicemail. I didn’t bother leaving a message. Considering I found

the test on top of the garbage, I rested easy with the hope

that she must have just recently taken it and wouldn’t

have time to do anything about it on such short notice.

She’d eventually make her way home for a late dinner, and tonight I planned to serve up something extra special.

Fatherhood was something to celebrate.

Chapter 2

―Allen, I’m getting a shower,‖ I heard Susan grittily call

from the front door behind the thump of her Prada tote

hitting the floor.

―Hey, baby,‖ I chimed.

Silence. No ―honey, I’m home,‖ or hello kiss. I knew we were no

Ricky Ricardo and Lucy, but I deserved more than the

standard frigid greeting today of all days. Her apathy made

me wonder if she hadn’t planned on telling me about the

pregnancy. I decided to let her play it her way—a mental game of hide-and-seek, with me always being the seeker,

it seemed… for now.

―Honey, I made a late dinner for us, but I’ll keep it

warm until you’re done. I wanted to talk to you.‖

I heard her tappy footsteps falter, then resume.

―Talk about what?‖ she said, her voice growing closer. She peeked around the kitchen wall, her natural brunette

waves pulled back into a tight bun that made her look like

a schoolmarm. I never did care for it prudishly up like

that.

―Oh, I don’t know. Your day, my day, the weather, whatever. I haven’t seen you in days and I thought it

might be nice to enjoy an evening together.‖

I caught the exasperated eye roll that she lacked the

courtesy to hide. ―My day was long, as I’m sure yours was

too, and the weather was sunny and warm as usual in

southern California. Is that all? I really want to unravel my brain and not talk tonight, Allen.‖ She flipped through

a pile of mail on the countertop. ―And I already ate.‖

With that she disappeared behind the wall and headed

for the bedroom. So she hadn’t planned on telling me. Big

news like this and not a mention. I wasn’t going to let it

go, though. I’d been a doormat long enough. I stormed after her in hot pursuit, my socked feet heavy but silent.

―Susan, what’s your problem?‖

―I don’t have a problem. You’re just acting… weird.‖

―Weird how? By wanting to spend time with my wife? I didn’t realize that was so weird.‖

―For us, yes. I really just want to be left alone tonight.‖ ―You want to be left alone every night. Why don’t you

want to spend time with me? I’m trying to make this work,

and you keep brushing me off. Now what the hell is going

on with you? Is it hormones or something?‖

Oops. Bad choice of words. The moment they parted my lips I knew I had said the worst possible thing you can

say to a woman—especially a pregnant woman brimming

with, well, hormones.

As her eyes narrowed into vibrant green slits, I

imagined she was envisioning every possible way to

torture and kill me. ―Hormones? What are you getting at?‖ I pled the fifth. I had already said enough. I shook my

head and cast an aside glance, my telltale sign that I was

hiding something.

Then her eyes widened with knowledge and her chin

tilted up as she examined me. Scrutinizing. Assessing. Then confirming. I knew that she knew that I knew… but

my lips were sealed. I needed her to say it first.

―Okay, Allen, let’s talk,‖ she blurted, each word

dripping with sarcasm. I followed the click of her heels to

the dining room where I had laid out our celebratory

feast—which didn’t feel so celebratory anymore. Susan dropped into a chrome and pleather chair, and I sat catty-

corner her. But by the clench of her jaw, I could see she

wasn’t planning on doing much talking.

The silence yawned. The ball was in my court. I

proceeded with caution. ―Susan, I just want to connect with you, to be a family.

Is that so much to ask?‖

―Yeah, Allen, as a matter-of-fact it is. I know you live in

some make-believe world where we’re happy and fulfilled,

but you need to wake up. I’m not happy, and I’m not

fulfilled. And I’m tired of trying.‖ ―Trying? When have you ever tried? I know things can

get complacent and a couple can lose that spark, but I’m

asking you to try now.‖

―Look, there’s no point arguing about this. I know you

want to revive us, but we’re dead. You need to face that.‖

Whoa, whoa, whoa… where was this conversation

headed? This wasn’t at all the direction I was expecting it

to go. Was she breaking up with me? ―What? Where is this coming from? And what about the

baby?‖

Susan popped out of her chair like it was on fire.

―Where did you hear that?‖ she screeched. Her pale

cheeks began to speckle with red blotches as I watched

her anger boil. For the first time in two decades of marriage, I was

actually afraid of Susan—five-foot-four, 115-lb Susan. ―I

saw the positive test in the garbage,‖ I whimpered as my

cowardice surfaced. ―I know we can make this work,

honey. Please, talk to me about this.‖ A grin lifted the corners of her mouth. ―You wanna talk

about it? Then let’s just get everything out in the open.‖

She stormed away from the table and returned a moment

later holding something, a folder. ―I don’t want this baby

with you. In fact, I don’t want anything to do with you.

Here.‖ A yellow folder dropped on the table with a thud. It

seemed too thick to be something insignificant. My fingers

quivered in their reach for its contents.

―What is this?‖ I asked.

―Open it.‖ I looked up at her, hoping to find a hint of compassion

in her icy glare but saw none. Never had I felt such dread,

but her stance dared me to open the file. I had asked for

this, hadn’t I? I had cornered her, forced her hand.

The edge of the flap slid under my fingertip and easily

opened. I pulled at the papers tucked inside and my heart stopped. This was really happening. My worst nightmare

was coming true. The end was near, and I had no idea

how to stop this train wreck.

Chapter 3

Separation Agreement. The bold words flung themselves

off the front page of the papers and jabbed at my heart.

Susan was leaving me.

―What is this?‖ I could barely form a coherent thought,

much less a valid question. There was no doubt what it was. Why was I asking for clarification? It would only hurt

more to hear the words accompanying the pages.

―I want a divorce, Allen. I don’t want to be with you

anymore. I want out. I think you’ll find my terms to be

fair, considering I’ve given you my youth and suffered twenty years with you.‖

My eyes skimmed through the writing, curious what

―fair‖ meant to Susan. Eventually I found the demands—

nestled amid chunks of legal jargon meant to throw me off

her succubus scent. If I conceded I was headed for broke.

―Are you serious with this? You’ll leave me penniless, Susan!‖

―It’s what I deserve, Allen.‖

―I don’t understand, Susan. We’re expecting a child

together! We could be starting a new chapter in our life.‖

―Our story is over, Allen,‖ she pleaded. ―I gave you everything you have—your career, your

home… and this is how you repay me? You want to rape

me with this…this ridiculous request.‖

―Whatever, Allen. I worked for my career, but I gave my

best years to you. I should get compensated for that. And

this baby is mine to choose what I want to do with it. You can keep the condo. I want what’s mine and nothing more,

nothing less.‖ What she considered hers was another matter, but

right now I didn’t want to argue about that.

―So this is it? There’s nothing I can do to change your

mind?‖

―No, nothing. I’ve wanted out for a long time, but I

needed the right opportunity to leave. That opportunity is

now.‖ ―Now—when we’re having a baby?‖ ―Correction, Allen: when I’m having a baby.‖

My heartbreak surfaced, releasing a flow of tears that

wouldn’t stop. I shielded my face with my hands, hoping

to block the sobs from escaping, but they racked my lungs

with full force. No comfort came. Susan simply watched me break.

―I’m sorry to do this to you, but there’s no point playing

house anymore. We were never meant to be, and that’s

just how it is. I’ll be packing my things and leaving

tonight.‖

I heard her retreat, the unrepentant steps of a woman set on her path. There was no fixing this, but I’d be

damned if I didn’t try.

**

The vacancy of Susan’s walk-in closet was a nauseating

reminder of her departure. The black sliding panel

scorned me, laughed at me with its wide, toothless smirk.

A question burned within me, its answer the only chance I

had of saving my marriage. I needed to see her, to ask her

one simple thing that could change everything. I couldn’t give up, and I had a plan. Foolproof? Probably not, but I

was a fool still in love, so it was fitting.

It didn’t take much sleuthing to discover where she

moved to, for she wasn’t as discreet as she should have

been. But it was to my advantage. With stirring reminiscence, I recalled our first date and hoped tonight’s

surprise would jog her memory—and perhaps her heart as

well.

Holding a dozen red roses and a paper bag, I knocked

on her door, anticipation just as alive as it was twenty

years ago—perhaps more so, since the odds I stood against seemed much more insurmountable this time

around. I knew she was home, but would she answer? I

hid the flowers in case she peered through the peephole,

hoping to present myself as business-like as possible. The

door opened.

―Uh, Allen, what are you doing here? And how did you

find out where I live?‖ she said, leaving only a crack’s

worth of space between us. ―I wanted to give you something.‖ I swung the roses

around my torso and held them out toward her.

―Thanks. But I don’t want your gifts.‖

―Wait. I have more… if you let me in. And I won’t take

no for an answer… even if I have to stand here all night.‖

Susan knew by now that I was as stubborn as they come, so there was no bluff there.

Yet she stood sentry guarding the sliver of the opening.

―It’s about the separation agreement,‖ I lied.

Despite her grumble, the open door permitted entrance.

I scanned her tasteful, yet not my taste, apartment—she sure moved fast. Black and white still lifes adorned

the walls, turquoise vases gave a touch of vibrancy to

several chrome and black end tables, and her signature

black leather and metal style permeated the rest of the

space. Susan’s cold, modern interior decorating

preferences certainly followed her here. At last she accepted the flowers and headed to the

kitchen for a vase.

I set off toward the dining room table and laid out the

contents of my bag. Lo mein for her, cashew chicken for

me. I even brought plates and chopsticks under the incorrect assumption that she wouldn’t have had time to

buy housewares. A bottle of Spottswoode Estate Cabernet

Sauvignon followed, along with two wine glasses. The final

touch was a single candle, my hand trembling as I

eventually lit it, and my prep was complete. It was just

like our first date, only this time I planned something extra special to mark the occasion of our reuniting. I

placed a wrapped package on the table under the

flickering candle.

After some coercion, I finally persuaded Susan to sit

down and eat… or whatever it’s called when one shuffles food around the plate to give the appearance of eating.

Unlike our first date, there was a void in the flirting and

banter and conversation. But I didn’t count it a loss,

because I still had one surprise tucked up my sleeve, a

surefire way to her heart.

Susan pretended not to notice the professionally

wrapped package with its silver bow blossoming over the

edges of the box, but I sensed her curiosity. Gifts always touched her in ways I never could—both figuratively and

literally.

―So are you going to tell me what this is all about?‖

Susan had a way of getting to the heart of matters.

―There’s no agenda, Susan. I just wanted to make sure

you’re okay.‖ ―I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to check up on me. Did

you sign the separation agreement yet, by the way? Isn’t

that why you came?‖

Ouch. I hadn’t expected her to bring it up so quickly,

but then again, I clung to the faith that the conversation would take a different turn once I turned on my full

charm.

―I’m having my attorney look it over, but it’ll be taken

care of. So…‖ I hesitated. Did I really want the answer to

the question that had been bugging me since she left? I

needed to know. ―Did you decide what you’re going to do about the baby?‖

Mental fingers crossed that her heart hadn’t quite yet

turned to stone.

―I don’t know yet. But it’s nothing you need to worry

about. It won’t be your responsibility; it’s mine.‖ ―But I want the responsibility, Susan.‖

―If this is where your visit is headed, please just leave.

I’m not going to deal with this right now.‖ Her voice rose

an octave, and I knew I’d pushed a button. I still didn’t

have an answer from her, but any chance of her keeping

the baby was a window of hope for us… Even if it was a closed window, eventually I could pry it open. Single

motherhood was no picnic. Eventually she’d need me,

want me.

―Okay, okay, let’s just enjoy the rest of the evening,‖ I

conceded. ―How’s work?‖ ―Let me stop you there, Allen. You came here for

something. What do you want? I don’t want to spend the

rest of the night playing games.‖

I reached for the package, toying with the bow as I watched her eyes possess it. There was the woman I

married. ―This is my way of saying I’m sorry for everything.

I want to make amends.‖

―You know I don’t want to get back together, right?‖ ―Yes, I understand that, but I still wanted to give you

something to remember me by.‖ I handed her the package,

which she almost too quickly accepted.

The silver paper tore off in one fluid motion, and inside

a black velvet box peeked out. She popped open the lid

and gasped. ―A Rolex? Allen, this is too much, but thank you! I love

it.‖

―I had the date and time set for you, and I guessed on

the wrist size. I hope it fits. Here, let me help you put it

on.‖ I slid the watch from the box and clasped it around her wrist, savoring the feel of her skin. My hand lingered

on hers, resistant to the chilling isolation of being without

her touch. A moment later she pulled away, admiring the

gift, oohing and aahing over the diamonds encrusted in

the metal.

―Really, Allen, this is… I don’t know what to say.‖ ―Say you’ll give me another chance,‖ I offered.

―How about I just say thank you and that I hope we can

still be friends? Will that be enough of a start?‖

It wasn’t where I hoped the night would go, but it was something—a start, she had said.

―Okay, I’ll take that. Would you care to crack open the wine and join me for a drink?‖ I knew the price tag of the

wine would be another dealmaker.

Susan shook her head, her eyebrows arched in

disbelief. ―Uh, you know I’m pregnant. I can’t drink

alcohol.‖ Now, of all moments, I felt embarrassed, and I’m sure

my flushing cheeks gave me away. ―I am so sorry. I totally

forgot about that whole no drinking thing…‖

I thought I overheard a sarcastic mutter about me

being a natural at the father thing, but I chose to ignore it.

―I’ll go pick up some sparkling grape juice.‖ I rose from the chair, but Susan followed.

―How about another night? I’m really exhausted and

need to get to bed.‖

Another night? It sounded promising, so I agreed.

I kissed her cheek on my way out the door, hoping

she’d turn her lips toward mine as I leaned forward, but

the gift didn’t even earn me that. But I didn’t mind too much. I’d have another opportunity. I would bide my time

and carefully plan my wooing now that things were in

motion.

Chapter 4

I glanced at my Rolex, wondering if Susan was wearing

hers too. I’d know in about… five minutes. Jazz poured

from the speakers in my rented blue Civic and I hummed

along with the melody of ―Georgia on my Mind‖ with my

eyes fixed across the street at her apartment building. Before Ray Charles ended, a red blouse caught my eye.

It was her, yet different. Her hair was down, the waves

toying with her shoulders. And the smile on her face was

reminiscent of joy I hadn’t seen for over a decade. By God, she glowed. Pregnancy suited her.

Or was it something else? I couldn’t help but notice that she walked with

purpose, and then I saw why. The reason behind the

whorish makeup, the tight pencil skirt, the hooker heels,

the coy smile…

A younger me embraced her right there on the sidewalk, kissed her passionately the way only intimate

lovers can, then cupped her hand. He was me twenty

years ago—fresh-faced but rich. I could tell by the Armani

he wore and the BMW he gingerly helped Susan step into.

Most likely a producer like myself, since Susan wouldn’t

have settled for less and our jobs didn’t allow much time outside of the movie industry circle.

So this was the guy Susan planned to share my money,

my assets, my life with. I took a mental snapshot of his

face. Sooner or later I’d find out who he was and make him

pay.

As she disappeared behind the tint of the glass, a

spasm smacked the wind out of me, and I felt myself gasping for breath I couldn’t catch. My right hand grabbed

my chest, as if somehow I could revive myself, but my

heart was already torn out. My lips contorted in agony,

and darkness waxed its way over my conscious.

I was… having… a… heart… attack.

**

My cries were silenced as his fist exploded across my

jawbone. I felt the impact splinter along my chin, cracking through to the marrow. Bone on bone impact, the momentary click of my jaw, then a blinding flash of pain as spots tangoed across my vision. Gerald’s ring caught my skin and sliced across it like a knife through a tomato, tearing another hole into my face that Mom’s makeup wouldn’t cover. As I slumped to the orange linoleum floor, I prayed silently that Gerald was done, that this was his last

drunken blow for tonight. I closed my eyes, shutting out the spinning kitchen with

my stepdad—now two of him—looming over me. I shrunk further onto the floor tiles. I knew no savior would come. My mother wouldn’t risk it, not after the first dozen times she should have been hospitalized for protecting me and my sister. My saving grace was that he expended his remaining energy on that last punch and needed to recharge with another beer… which gave me enough time to slip into my room unnoticed until he passed out.

As I lay on my bed gazing through angry tears at my bare walls—Gerald had taken my Peter, Paul and Mary

posters—I decided it was time to stand up for myself. I would plot my revenge, and the hell that smothered my life would end.

**

I awoke, disoriented and unsure of what decade I was

in, in a driver’s seat with an imprint of an H on my forehead. As I glanced away from my rearview mirror and

noticed a familiar apartment building, the pieces of the

puzzle meandered together. Honda. I was still in the

Civic… in the twenty-first century. Based on the

dashboard clock, it seemed I had only passed out for a couple hours, unless days had passed without my

knowledge. Certainly someone would have had the

decency, even in L.A., to call an ambulance if a man had

been unconscious in a car for days, so I made an educated

guess it had only been hours.

I couldn’t remember why I had rented a car or why I

was at Susan’s apartment, but as I allowed the internal

wheels to turn, the realization dealt me a blow worse than any strike Gerald had dished out. She was leaving me…

for another man. And taking everything I worked for with

her.

Or not.

I simply couldn’t let her get away with this. Just like I

showed Gerald who was boss way back then, I would get the final say with Susan. It was time to make a statement.

Chapter 5

Two weeks later…

I stood over her sleeping form, wishing for the days back

when I was lying next to her. Watching her chest rise and

fall, I savored the sound of her breathing whistling through her nose, the melody of which kept me awake for

hours back when we were together. I wondered if her lover

had the privilege of listening to her feminine snore yet. The

image of him sharing a bed with my wife took form as I

visualized him next to her now… My jaw tightened with fury, my fists clenched in rage.

The bastard would pay for stealing her from me, and

Susan would never make the same mistake again.

With subconscious movement my hand slipped over

her mouth, holding a rag soaked in Internet-purchased

chloroform that would submit her to deeper slumber. Her eyes popped open and as fear settled in, her arms flung

wildly at me, but with strained muscles I maintained my

grip and leaned out of fist’s reach until her body went limp

and subdued. Despite my age, I was at a positional

advantage that compensated her fight-or-flight vigor. I waited until I was sure she was out, then lifted her

arm to watch it heavily fall back to the bed. Yet her skin

felt oddly cool… With sudden alarm prompted by her dead

weight and unnaturally low body temperature, I placed my

ear against her chest and heard a faint heartbeat. Thank

God I hadn’t killed her. I cautiously lifted her up and carried her to the door,

eyeing the hallway for an all clear before making my exit.

With no one in sight, I slipped out into the shadow of early

morning darkness, my plan in motion. Abduction had

been easier than I expected.

**

―What the hell…? Hello? Is anybody there?‖ she groggily

pleaded through dry, cracked lips. A dull ache circled her

wrists, and she realized she had been bound, but when she attempted to wiggle herself free, the rope burned her

skin, sharpening the ache.

As her pupils widened to greet the dim light, Susan

recognized the four-poster bed with its Native American-

inspired bedspread, cheery turquoise and maroon

zigzagging across the woven fabric. The totem pole lamp on the dresser—a memorabilia of their trip to Nevada.

Susan realized she was in Allen’s Tujunga, California,

cottage.

Nestled in the Angeles National Forest, the one-

bedroom bungalow had been a favorite vacation spot when they needed escape from the concrete jungle of L.A. It

offered serenity, abundance of nature, and… isolation.

Not a soul could be found for miles, with the exception

of an occasional hiker who wandered this far off the

marked trails. When basking in the heat of romance, the

seclusion was a desired feature, but not so much when she was being held captive at the hands of a lunatic,

facing potential torture and death, with no ears to hear

her cries for help.

She struggled against the ropes and duct tape claiming

its victim, but its grip was impregnable. Her eyes skirted for something she could use to cut through her bonds, but

her legs and arms were stuck at angles that made

movement near impossible.

A sense of claustrophobia overtook her, and she began

flailing and crying out with fright. But the more she

resisted, the more the ropes burned her flesh and the tape tore at her fine hairs… and the more panic set in.

Stop! she willed herself. Take a deep breath and calm down.

She slowed her breathing, sucked in a lungful of air,

and exhaled deliberately, closing her eyes to the world. A

minute later she felt calm descend, and she opened her eyes to examine her surroundings… and possible options

for freedom. With the kitchen and its collection of cutting

knives out of reach, there didn’t seem to be much hope of

escape.

Breaking free wouldn’t be a realistic option in her

condition, but perhaps she could appeal to Allen… trick

him into letting her go. He was obviously still in love with her, so she just needed to find the words to convince him

to cut the cords, then she could figure out a decent

getaway plan from that point. For now she needed to

figure out what he wanted to hear, and what he would

believe.

―Allen?‖ she called out. Footsteps echoed in another room, and as they grew

louder, she felt the floor tremble under each step. Her chin

lifted to the figure of Allen looming above her, glaring

down at her with eyes set on evil intent. The blue iris a

shade darker, his smirk lifting with a sinister crook. ―Ah, you’ve woken up, I see.‖

―Allen, please,‖ Susan begged.

―I apologize for my… unannounced visit to your

bedroom. But I suppose that’s the definition of abduction,

isn’t it?‖ He laughed a mirthless cackle. As his head flung

back, it was clear his right mind left him long ago. ―Please, Allen, let me go. Why are you doing this?‖

―Need you ask? You made a fool of me, you whore. I

know about your… new lover. Well, fool me once, shame

on me. Fool me twice, shame on you. Now it’s time to pay

your penance.‖ ―Look, he means nothing to me, I promise. If you let me

go we can talk about it, figure out how to fix our marriage.

Please give me another chance. Allen, I love you and I

want to get through this.‖

He paused, as if weighing the truth in her words,

considering the sincerity behind them. But as he turned his back on her to leave, Susan knew he found her plea

lacking.

―You are saying that to manipulate me. I know the

truth by your actions, Susan. It’s over for you.‖

He took a step toward the door, and Susan knew this was her last chance for survival. If he left, there was no

guarantee he would return before she’d starve to death,

and God only knew what else he had planned for her.

Removing fingernails one by one? Cutting her to pieces?

Raping her? The scenarios rooted in her mind’s eye, each

one worse than the next. Working in the entertainment

industry had its disadvantages when it offered the

imagination an ample supply of homicide options.

She simply couldn’t let him go… not yet. There was only one ace left that she had.

―But what about our baby?‖ she meekly asked. ―If you

kill me, you kill your only child. Please think about that.‖

Allen stopped mid-stride. ―Our baby? How do I even know it’s mine? I’m guessing

not, so it means nothing to me. Let it die along with you, Susan.‖

And with that he strode out of the bedroom, closing the

door behind him and sealing her fate within.

Chapter 6

The front door to my apartment shook beneath a

pounding fist… the fourth knock in half as many minutes.

Two men wearing off-the-rack suits, with LAPD badges

clipped at the hip, had been standing on the other side of

my peephole for nearly two minutes. Detectives. A tremor of panic shot up my spine, sending me

stumbling into the end table and knocking a metal

sculpture to the floor where it rattled against the

hardwood. My damn clumsiness cost me my chance at

blowing them off. My gaze wandered to the bathroom; I considered the

plausibility of a window-jumping escape without killing

myself. Realistically, I had about a 1 percent chance of

surviving such a fall… not enough to take the risk.

Unless the alternative was jail.

―Mr. Michaels, please open up. This is the LAPD. We know you’re in there. We have a couple questions for you,‖

the voice on the other side of the door boomed.

I wondered if they would just come out with it saying

they had a warrant for my arrest or if this was a trick to

get me to open the door to handcuffs. Either way, I had to make a decision—fast—before they breached the door.

But there was one thing I hadn’t thought of until now.

They couldn’t arrest me for something I didn’t do—

murder. Susan was alive and well, as far as I knew.

So I mustered the confidence to answer the door.

―Hello, may I help you?‖ I asked with feigned perplexity. ―Mr. Michaels?‖ a brown-haired detective prompted.

I nodded wordlessly, protecting myself with my silence.

They mentioned their names, but I was too preoccupied

with planning my statement to catch what they said.

―We’re from the Los Angeles Police Department, and

we’d like to ask you a few questions about your wife, Susan Michaels.‖

―What about her?‖

―She recently went missing. Do you know anything

about this?‖

Luckily I had perfected my acting during the tenure of my movie-making career. My eyebrows rose in mock

horror. ―Missing? What do you mean?‖

―A co-worker noticed Susan didn’t show up for work for

two days, saying it’s unlike her to play hooky. Since it’s

been more than forty-eight hours, this co-worker filed a

missing persons report and we’re following up on it. Have you seen Susan or spoke to her?‖

―No, I’m afraid I haven’t.‖ I hoped my lack of

information wouldn’t give rise to suspicion, but I didn’t

know how much explanation was too much. The last thing

I wanted to give them was a motive. ―I mean, we talked a couple days ago when I stopped by her place to drop off

some mail, and she seemed fine. Mentioned that she was

taking a trip to see her family on the east coast. I told her

to tell them hi for me. Other than that, I don’t really know

anything.‖

It was amazing how the lies came so naturally… and so authentically delivered.

―So we understand that you two are separated.

Amicably?‖

―Yes, we made a mutual decision to end things and

move on. We both work in Hollywood, you know, so it’s a strain on the relationship. People are better off single in

this industry.‖

The blond detective nodded and stretched out a pitying

―mmm hmm‖ as if he understood. He’d never understand;

most of the media doesn’t. They think those of us living

under the marquee lights can’t hold together a serious relationship because we’re too self-obsessed, but the

reality is that 70 percent of all marriages are self-

obsessed, so they should point the fingers at themselves

for the divorce statistics. We’re not the only dysfunctional

ones. ―And you say you saw her two days ago—the day she

went missing?‖

I gave myself a mental slap for picking two days ago. I

couldn’t retract my statement now or else I’d look

suspicious, but I had an idea…

―Yes, that’s correct. Though, now that I think about it,

she seemed kind of distracted, like she was waiting for

someone. She mentioned that she was supposed to meet up with someone for dinner, though I don’t know who.

And based on how she was dressed up, I’m guessing it

was a date somewhere fancy. You may want to see if

anyone at her apartment knows anything about that…‖

And the seed was planted for the perfect frame.

―She mention who?‖ ―Would you want to know who your ex was dating?‖ I

retorted. Blondie frowned at me. ―Sorry, but no, I didn’t

ask, she didn’t tell. That’s all I know. Is there anything

else I can do?‖ I offered.

Brown Hair sighed. ―Just let us know if you hear from her, and tell her to contact her office next time she decides

to take off. We appreciate your time.‖

As I shut the door behind them, I felt my heart lurch

and my stomach roil. I ran to the bathroom and vomited

this morning’s coffee into the toilet. I needed to get out of

L.A. before they started digging. If they discovered my Tujunga residence and decided to pay a visit, I was

screwed. But at least I had created enough of a possible

diversion to throw them off my track temporarily. And

perhaps I’d find out who Susan was banging.

This gave me a few weeks to get away and lay low until the smoke cleared and they wrote her off as a newly single

woman caught up in wanderlust. Besides, without a body,

there was no crime.

**

My index fingertip rested on Westfield, New York—a

tiny spot of a town barely visible on the map spread out

before me, nestled between Lake Erie and Lake

Chautauqua.

Shadows taunted me from the corners of my bedroom, challenging me to dispel them with more than the bedside

lamp that cast a humble glow. I was finally growing

accustomed to the loneliness of nighttime, although

irrational fears occasionally overtook me, plaguing me

with visions of dark-haired, gangly little girls creeping

along the walls. Horror movies were a thing of the past for

me now, unless I didn’t mind sleeping with infomercials

marketing their wares all night to override my overactive

imagination. Westfield it was—my new home, my new haven. Earlier

that evening I had browsed online for possible job

opportunities out east—as far from L.A. as I could get

without a passport—and upon seeing an online posting for

a temporary teaching position at Jamestown Community

College, I knew Fate had laid out her perfect plan. The college needed a creative writing professor for a

second-semester workshop, and I was a creative writer. A

quick Google search showcased Westfield’s humble origins

and array of quaint accommodations—lakeside bed and

breakfasts, or an in-town stay in one of the many manors-turned-hotels for the more cultural folk who sought ―city‖

life.

With my flight plan secured, freedom waited just

around the corner. My only problem was what to do about

Susan. My intention had never been to kill her, only to

punish her for her betrayal. But I couldn’t take her with me, and I damn sure wasn’t going to free her to run

straight into the arms of her new lover. She would

certainly die if left for several weeks without food or water.

Then again, that was her problem, not mine.

Chapter 7

It had been days—though her distorted accounting of

time couldn’t guess how many exactly—since she had

finished the last meager bottle of water Allen had left for

her, and the loaf of Italian bread he had tossed her way

had been consumed down to the last crumb. It had taken some creativity on her part to figure out how to eat and

drink without the use of hands, but survival instinct had a

way of motivating. Susan’s head throbbed, her stomach

rumbled, her throat cracked, and her lips bled.

If he didn’t return again soon, Susan Michaels was going to die right here on the bedroom floor.

She had remembered that Allen kept hidden a satellite

phone in the dresser drawer just out of reach. One call

was all she needed. It was her only chance to live.

In a last-ditch effort to survive, she dug her fingernails

into the sticky tape binding her. After working on it for days, she had almost shredded it, and the rope grew

precariously thin. But the amount of strength needed to

complete the job escaped her. Only the fear of death

resurged her efforts.

With one final tug, Susan leaned forward, using all her weight to pull free. A moment later she felt a snap and

lurched forward face-first on the floor. Her arms flew out

beside her, yet not quickly enough to block her chin’s

impact with the hardwood.

She pushed herself upright and tore loose the

remaining restraints on her ankles. Once free, she warily rose to her feet and stumbled to the dresser. Rooting

through the bureau drawers, she found the phone. After

pocketing it, she ambled to the kitchen, throwing open

cupboard doors and the refrigerator in search of food.

Nothing. The entire kitchen was totally bare, except for

stacks of useless ceramic plates, bowls, and stemware, dusted over from time’s neglect.

She turned on the faucet and held her mouth open

underneath it, catching cold water all over her face,

tongue, and down her throat… savoring its refreshment. When her stomach felt full, she slipped into the living

room and fell into the cushions of a chocolate brown

leather chair. She powered on the phone—thankfully it

still had a sliver of battery life left—and dialed Brett’s cell

phone number. After two rings he answered.

―Brett Copper here.‖ ―Oh, Brett, thank God you answered! It’s Susan.‖

―Hey, baby. I’ve been wondering what’s going on with

you. Why haven’t you called me? I was worried about

you.‖

―You won’t believe this, but Allen abducted me and is trying to kill me. I need you to come get me.‖

―What? Susan, are you serious?‖

―Yes, Brett, I’m serious. Do you think I’d be lying about

something like this?‖

―Where are you?‖

―I’m in his cabin in Tujunga. I don’t know the address, but if you contact the police, I’m sure they can find it and

rescue me. Please hurry, in case he comes back.‖

―Are you okay? Did he hurt you?‖ The dread behind his

questions calmed Susan, reassuring her that everything

would be alright, that Brett would save her. ―Only starved and dehydrated me near to death, but I’ll

be okay once I see you. Just get here.‖

―I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll see what I can do, baby. Just

hold tight.‖ ―I can’t hold tight, Brett. He might come back and kill

me while you’re playing house! Can you get me or not?‖ A pause.

A heartbreaking, eternal pause.

―Look, I said I’ll see what I can do, Susan.‖

At his words, the slight hesitancy she detected, her

mind snapped. Rage filled her—rage for the starvation,

dehydration, and torment Allen had put her through… and yet Brett wasn’t coming to her rescue, was he? She

had left her husband for Brett, and all he could offer was a

halfhearted rescue attempt? ―See what you can do? You better be kidding me, Brett.

I’m about to be killed, and you will see what you can do?

You better get down here and save me—now. Remember,

I’m carrying your baby…‖

Which she hoped had survived the last couple of days of malnourishment. That baby was her only hold on Brett

Copper.

―I will, I promise. But honey, I got a bunch of family

stuff going on. I can’t just up and leave. There will be

questions… and if I get caught… I don’t even want to

think about it.‖ ―Excuse me? You’re afraid of getting caught by your

wife when I could be murdered? Brett, if you don’t rescue

me now, I swear to God I’ll make you wish I was killed,

because I’ll be coming to you.‖

Brett’s voice lowered to a hoarse hasty whisper as he

said, ―I promise to do what I can when I can. I’ll call the police now and at least have someone go out there to get

you home. I’ll free up tonight to see you.‖

―You know what—forget it. I’ll take care of myself.‖

―Susan, c’mon…‖ he pleaded softly.

―No! I see how much you really care. I don’t want to ever see you again, Brett. And by the way, tell your wife I

said hello. Oh, wait. I think I’ll tell her myself,‖ Susan

yelled into the receiver and punched the end call button,

wishing immediately afterward that she could take the

words back.

Any hope Susan had of her knight swooping in to save the day broke along with the floodgates to her tears. The

phone fell from her grasp. Brett wasn’t coming.

But Allen apparently already had.

**

I slipped my arm around her face and neck, muffling

her screams as I tightened my grip around her mouth. Her

fingers pried at my hands and her feet kicked frantically,

but even twenty years my junior, she was no match for

me, not with her weakened state and the armchair distancing her limbs from making contact.

―You didn’t expect me to leave town without saying

good-bye, did you?‖ I seethed.

I had eavesdropped long enough to catch the other

man’s name—Brett—and to hear that the baby wasn’t

mine. I had figured as much, but to hear the truth of it…

well, it was too much.

―So it sounds like your savior isn’t coming. You shouldn’t trust people, Susan. You taught me that.‖

Her stifled reply only dared me to squeeze tighter.

―If only you wouldn’t have made that call… Now you’ve

forced my hand. I had planned to stop by and make sure

you survived my impromptu departure, but now I don’t

feel quite so generous. I think I’m going to kill you instead.‖

With that, I tensely pulled a handkerchief from my

windbreaker pocket—life taught me to always be prepared

for anything, especially when facing a pro fighter like

Susan—and slipped it between my hand and her mouth. Moments later her body relaxed, then went limp, and she

was out. I was beginning to like the multipurpose use of

chloroform.

After re-securing her arms and legs, this time using

enough rope and duct tape to tie up an elephant, I

stormed out the front door to get some air. I needed to think.

Kill her, Allen. She’s a loose end that leads to you, a

voice urged me. Are you really capable of killing another human being,

though?

I didn’t know if I could. What choice do you have? She will turn you in. Think jail

time, brother… Think of how it will destroy your life…

A shiver shot through me at the thought of whose bitch

I could become, and what they did to weaklings like me in

prison. Money couldn’t buy me out of being raped, could it?

Watching the life slip from her eyes, hearing her last dying breath—all at your own hands? Her blood forever saturating your past? Think of how this will destroy your

soul…

Yet I had taken it this far. My soul was as far gone as Susan’s innocence. I couldn’t let the cheating whore live,

forever tied up, but I couldn’t free her to run to the cops

about it either. What choices did I really have?

My eyes glazed over as I took in the awesome scenery I

could no longer appreciate. The aged Douglas firs standing

tall amongst modest chaparral shrubs dotting the

landscape with subdued greens; the hibernating California

walnut trees bare from winter’s descent; rocks climbing the terrain, leaving their jagged imprint on the earth—all

of its breathtaking glory would be forever stained in

crimson. How could I go on with the burden of murder on

my soul?

But how could I go on without it?

Chapter 8

The thump of a man’s heavy footsteps jarred Susan from

her dream state, and the nightmare of being raped and cut

into pieces fled, only to resurface in her awakened

imaginings.

At first she hoped the approaching figure was a cop Brett may have mercifully sent to look for her. But when

no one spoke, the form eerily looming there, she sensed

something dark… a gruesome evil, this time stronger than

ever before, and it caused her to retch the bile that

remained in her stomach. There was no more time.

Someone was here… this time to kill her.

She couldn’t quite make out who the someone was, as

the hazy silhouette was hidden behind a mask of

blackened night and her tears. With only the moon

dispelling splinters of light into the room, Susan wondered what lifeless monster took over Allen’s body that he could

snuff out her life so easily.

She searched for his eyes, hoping that some connection

could make him change his mind and see her as a person

he once loved, but his face hung back in the shadows. Then she noticed something peculiar. Her arms and

legs were free, with only trace shreds of duct tape and

sticky residue clinging to the hairs on her arms and legs.

Was Allen toying with her? Had he freed her, only to play a

game of cat-and-mouse? He’d know she’d be too weak to

run, so she expended the last of her energy to beg for her life.

―Allen, please don’t do this,‖ yet her words bore no

emotion. She was all tapped out. ―If you let me live, I

promise not to say anything to anyone. We can go on as if

nothing happened.‖

Yet he said nothing. ―I know what I did was horrible, and I’m sorry, but

please don’t do this. Don’t live with the wrong choice for

the rest of your life. What if they catch you? If you spare

me, it can end now. Please, Allen… I’m begging you…‖ And

that was all she could say as she slumped back, too tired to fight.

As her lifeless appeal joined in the din of fear and doom

that surrounded her, an arm reached down to her. Susan

leaned forward hopefully to grasp the outstretched hand,

then looked up into his eyes… and her eyes widened just

as the pierce of a knife punctured her flesh. Her stomach felt warm and wet, and with her free hand

she clutched the oozing wound and groaned in pain. She

felt the muscle tearing, searing her nerve endings. Then

another stab penetrated her, this time catching her on the

wrist as it jutted into her watch, cracking the Rolex’s face and snapping the band free. She heard the watch skid

under the bed, a momentary distraction that left her

vulnerable as her attacker severed her tiny wrist bone

with another plunge of the knife.

With a final killing blow, he thrust the blade forward,

but this time she didn’t feel it slide into her tissue. She only felt the lightheaded presence of death grip her, and

knowing what she now knew, she welcomed its embrace.

**

―Can I help you with that, sir?‖ a stewardess offered as

I struggled to fit my luggage into the overhead

compartment. The damn things were never quite tall

enough.

―No thanks, ma’am. I think I got it,‖ I said with a tight

grin as I gave one final successful push. The bag slid into place and I shut the door and took my seat against the

window.

Hardly anyone occupied the plane at this hour, which I

was thankful for. The last thing I wanted was to spend the

red-eye next to some chatty businessman who didn’t know when to shut up. A momentary visual of John Candy in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles prompted a smile. I

understood exactly how Steve Martin must have felt. But

on this night of all nights, I especially needed quiet.

Although my thoughts haunted me, I wanted to reflect… perhaps deflect was a better word. The white

noise of the whirring air vents created a solemn

atmosphere where I could rest my brain and hopefully

purge the last twenty-four hours from my memory. I couldn’t bear to harbor the images of Susan anymore… I

wanted a fresh start, and Westfield would give me that.

As the stewardess prompted the meager passengers to

turn off all electronic devices, I resolved to shut off my

relentless worries, focus on the future, and find a new,

revised happily ever after. Now that things were falling into place—my acceptance

for the teaching position, a class full of eager students

awaiting me, my room and board secured in Westfield—

my anticipation climbed. Maybe I would meet a nice girl, fall in love, and start a real family. Perhaps one of my

students would be that rising star in my life. The potential for true love was out there; I just needed to move forward

and find her, leaving Susan in the dark, unspoken past.

Chapter 9

March 2009

Haley Montgomery. The name tore through my heart as I

envisioned her not more than three hours ago walking

away from me in the airport terminal, never to look back. We were supposed to have a future together, but like

Susan, Haley betrayed me for another. I couldn’t let her go

like I did Susan.

No, Haley was worth fighting for. I would come up with

some sort of plan to win her back, I assured myself. Patience was a virtue, and I sure needed to earn some

virtue.

As the plane taxied down the runway, nearing the gate,

my stomach roiled at the sight of my former homeland—

Los Angeles. The skyscrapers clouded in smog, the

congested traffic clogging L.A.’s cavity, but most of all, the dreaded history that lingered here—it all gave me the

creeps now, a mere few weeks after leaving. Perhaps it was

folly that drove me to return as the prodigal son to my

father Showbiz, but I couldn’t leave it behind. I needed it

as much as it needed me. The aircraft glided from the tarmac up to the gate, and

soon a flood of passengers departed, bidding the pilot

farewell as each one passed. I thanked him and headed

down the hallway, dragging my carry-on behind me.

When I entered the airport hubbub, I was surprised to

see two uniformed officers standing aside. What surprised me more, however, was their approach.

―Allen Michaels?‖ one asked as he swung his arm out

against my chest to stop my gait.

I was tempted to say no, but I didn’t.

―Yes, sir, that’s me.‖

―We need to speak with you about the murder of Susan Michaels. If you’ll allow us to escort you downtown to the

police station, we can sort things out.‖

My jaw dropped. ―Murder? What are you talking

about?‖

―We found her body, and we need to talk to you about it. Please come with us, Mr. Michaels.‖

―Wait a minute. Her body? What the hell are you talking about? She’s dead?‖

―Sir, you are not under arrest. We simply need you to

come with us so we can answer your questions and get

any information from you that may help us find the perpetrator.‖

Suddenly I felt woozy, and the earth rotated to the left a

little too fast, then swiveled back to the right. A familiar

frightening pang jolted my heart, like a fist clenching the

muscle—was I about to have another heart attack?

―Are you okay?‖ a voice asked me, but I was too disoriented to see whose lips were moving.

I shut my eyes before I could pass out, sucked in a

deep breath, and exhaled.

I regurgitated the facts: Susan was dead. They thought

I had something to do with it. They were here to take me in for questioning. And I had no idea what I would tell

them. That I drugged, abducted, and bound her but freed

her in the end? That the last thing I saw was her

unconscious body very much alive, free of the bindings,

laying on the floor of my Tujunga home? Would they even

believe that? I was screwed.

Deny, deny, deny.

Denial was the only thing that came to mind, but could

it save me?

Not from everything.

Chapter 10

July 2009

My cell was a 13x7 rectangle of cold white stone, the

walls riddled with testimonies of its previous inhabitants.

Some graffiti, mostly art—which I found surprising, given the types of people who dwelled here over the years.

Criminals. Thugs. Degenerates.

This particular domicile was creatively sketched to give

the occupant the illusion of being in an apartment.

Nightstands with lamps, end tables with flowers. The penciled bay window opened to a vista of distant mountain

ranges, drenched by a comically large sun.

The view through the panes was split down the middle

by the bole and boughs of an oak tree growing directly

outside this portal to nature, so close that none of the

foliage was visible from this perspective. At the topmost junction, where wood decided to part ways and create

their own paths in life, determining their own individual

futures, was perched a screech owl, his gaze pinched and

unpleasant.

Maybe the artist’s decision to place him there, with the sun closely approaching the noon hour overhead and

clearly out of his natural element, raised his ire. I can

relate, Mr. Owl.

The window was escorted on each side by solitary

portraits. A man on the left, woman on the right,

reminiscent of the old black-and-whites one might see of their grandparents. Above the metal plate, welded to the

wall, which served as a desk, a bookcase was roughly

sketched. Many books, but no titles adorned their

bindings. Perhaps the sketcher could not bring any titles

to mind, or—as I like to think—he purposefully left the

spine blank for the future tenants to fill in with their own imaginations.

Many hours I spent sitting at that desk on its metal,

tractable stool next to a graphite fichus, chewed pencil in

hand, writing with an abbreviated version of its larger cousin—a less refined shiv-approved form of what you use

to keep score at miniature golf. Until the pencil was worn

down to a useless stub.

My only reprieve from boredom disappeared with that

last strip of lead. Entertainment now consisted of a

pictorial television sitting atop the dresser at the foot of my bed displaying a boxing match. Two men standing in

the ring, eternally touching gloves to begin a fight that

would never be.

My bed was a concrete slab, running the width of the

back wall. It had taken a few days before I realized there was supposed to be a mattress in the cell. An oversight by

the wardens. Though, the addition of the plastic-coated,

worn padding granted little comfort to the

accommodations.

The lengthwise wall of the cell was where the artist

decided to place our living room, adorned with a full-sized couch that I lusted for. He even felt inspired to include a

framed painting above the couch—four faces, intertwined,

each sharing half of its face with its neighbor. An

interesting concept in both symmetry and negativity.

Unfortunately, this entire homely scene was sullied by our illustrator’s decision to include a naked woman sitting

on this couch. Arms stretched to either side across the

backrest, knees spread wide to the point where they

almost touched the armrests.

When tastefully depicted, nudity can be a beautiful

concept in art, but the graphic detail in this portrait was clearly not artistic expression, rather that of lewdness and

unfulfilled testosterone.

As much as I hated to deface this man’s work, I also

could not stare into this woman’s depths for my entire

tenure here. Upon scouring the room, I found the other half of my pencil stub where a chunk of pink eraser

remained. For a moment I wondered if it may have been

the same utensil used to grace me with my new living

quarters.

The eraser apparently lost all function after years of

neglect. It only smeared the image, so after half an hour

spent freeing the graphite from its wooden tomb and

fashioning a tip by scraping it against the sharp edge on

the underside of my hardened stool, I was finally able to edit my living room companion to something slightly less

offensive. Well, that was actually the second thing I did

after honing my only outlet to the tedium of this place.

The first thing I did was write sideways, right at my

waking eye level, ―Good morning, Daddy. I love you.‖ It

was a dream that still haunted me—my elusive family. The one I had hoped for with Susan, then with Haley.

So back to my ―cellmate,‖ so to speak. I began by

attempting to illustrate a bathing suit to cover her, but the

process quickly dulled my pencil, and my scribbling

across the rough surface did little to mask the deeply engrained renderings. It was then that I discovered that

with the application of a little water, the filaments would

combine, making a crude form of ink. Ink that could delve

into crevices of the stone that even the most persistent

sketcher could not reach. Applying this technique, I was

eventually able to outfit her with a new, black two-piece, completely obliterating all traces of her former lack of

attire.

Satisfied with my work, I turned to the task of cleaning

my ―paintbrush,‖ a thoroughly blackened thumb. After

basically rubbing through the center of the already ridiculously thin, prison-issue disc of soap, I forfeited to

the makeshift paint still deep within the recesses of my

thumbprint.

I then decided to try my hand at my own attempt at art,

using a single concrete block as my canvas, the mortar as

my frame. I quickly discovered that my poor hand for drawing was not improved by the corrugated surface. All

you have is time in this place, so I continued with my

feeble attempt. A crescent moon in a star-splattered sky,

reflecting off a lake below. The lake lined by tall grasses

and reeds. A cobblestone path led up to a small farmhouse, where

the front porch runs the entire length of the house. Only

one light illuminated the guts of the house, in the upstairs

room, casting a glow on a section of porch roof directly

below it.

A lone silhouette stood in the window frame, a

darkened shape staring out into the night. Lonely. Afraid.

But hopeful that one day the sun would again shine on that frail figure with the freedom of truth.

Chapter 11

October 2009

Brett Copper sat in the living room of his five-bedroom,

five-bath Los Angeles mansion flipping through the

channels on his modest 80-inch LCD television mounted inside his wall. A 200-gallon saltwater aquarium gurgled

behind him as clownfish, bicolor angelfish, a porcupine

puffer, and yellow seahorse swam blissfully ignorant of

their containment.

His wife had taken off for her weekly shopping spree, so he had hours to kill. He considered calling Candy, his

latest twenty-two-year-old starlet-wannabe prey, for a

booty call, until something familiar flashed across the

screen on a local news channel. A name. Susan Michaels.

It had been a while since he last heard that name grace

the television. His index finger remained steady as his channel surfing

ended there.

As far as he knew, Allen had been arrested months ago

and was as good as convicted, making Brett a free man.

He reveled in his ingenuity at framing Allen for Susan’s murder—the bloodstains left on the floor of Allen’s

Tujunga cottage, the weapon wiped of fingerprints and

tossed in Allen’s apartment garbage dumpster, and the

motive clearly being Susan’s affair and unfair divorce

demands.

Nothing tied Brett to it, and he felt invincible… a feeling not all that uncommon for someone of his position and

wealth.

Images of Allen Michaels in handcuffs bowing his head

in shame had caused Brett to chuckle out loud at the big-

screen when the news had initially covered Allen’s

incarceration. As the reporter stood with the Los Angeles Police Department looming behind her, Brett hoped it was

finally over—and his ass covered.

As KTLA covered the latest information on the Susan

Michaels murder and trial, Brett leaned forward with keen

interest, his rear slightly lifting off of his white microfiber couch. He almost wanted to celebrate this moment with a

beer in hand, but it could wait until after the broadcast.

He didn’t want to miss a thing.

―Recent evidence on the Susan Michaels case has

exonerated her husband, producer Allen Michaels, from

being a suspect in her stabbing,‖ the anchorwoman said. ―A wristwatch at the scene of the crime that belonged to

the victim revealed the time of death, an oversight that

nearly caused a wrongful conviction. Michaels’ alibi

showed him to be in Westfield, New York, during the

murder, further proving his innocence. Furthermore, DNA tests revealed that Ms. Michaels was pregnant. Forensics

analysts are currently investigating who the father is,

which could lead to the killer. Authorities are looking into

all possible suspects as they search phone records and e-

mails, along with other leads provided.‖

Brett dropped like dead weight back into the cushions. If they researched phone records, it would eventually lead

them to his door. Months of illicit calls, and then there

was that very last call—right before her death. He was as

good as caught if they got a hold of his DNA and

discovered he was the father. And even if they couldn’t convict him, he was certain his wife would ruin him…

What could he do?

Susan had won.

Even in death the bitch had taken him down after all,

just like she threatened during their last phone call. And if

Allen had any idea that Susan had been seeing him, he could create a whirlwind of gossip that would devastate

his reputation. Again, he would be linked to her death.

No, he hadn’t been convicted yet, but it was only a

matter of time.

Perhaps a trip was in order. Brett turned off the television and sat in stunned,

horrified silence.

A knock at the door startled him out of his anxious

haze.

He tentatively rose and walked to the door,

apprehensively opening it.

―Yes?‖ he said warily.

―Are you Brett Copper?‖ a man asked gruffly.

―Yes. And you are?‖ ―I’m with the Los Angeles Police Department. You have

the right to remain silent…‖

As the officer continued blandly stating Brett’s Miranda

rights, turning Brett around to snap cuffs on his wrists,

Brett chuckled. It wasn’t a mirthful laugh, but one of mere

incredulity. He should have known that the news was always

several steps behind… and apparently so was he.

Chapter 12

December 2009

For the first time in months I stepped foot in my condo,

an eerie reminder of my former life—before the trial, before

Haley Montgomery, before Susan’s betrayal. A time when life was simpler, purer… far from perfect, but at least

endurable.

―Any publicity is good publicity‖—that’s what my lawyer

had told me to lift my spirits after the murder charges

were dropped and Brett Copper was found guilty for Susan’s murder.

What a joke.

Publicity couldn’t earn me anything of value. And since

my jaunt in prison, my values drastically changed. While

serving time for the abduction—a mere slap on the wrist,

my attorney said—it dawned on me that no one cared about me. Not one visitor, not one pity letter. I was utterly

friendless.

Until literary agents—my new ―best friends‖—started

showing up talking book rights, movie rights… the whole

shebang. Although I’d lost my credibility and position in society once the damning details of my role in Susan’s

abduction came out, eventually my attorney’s words

offered some hope. The hefty advance for the book deal I’d

just signed would at least keep me from becoming

homeless. Somewhat of a fresh start, I suppose. But not

what I really wanted. Once upon a time I had money, fame. But no

companions.

With weighty steps I ambled to the middle of my living

room, the gravity of my loneliness spiraling around me.

I needed air.

Balance. Purpose.

I could no longer resume my old existence.

But then a flicker… an idea. Hope, maybe. I had truly

enjoyed teaching eager pupils. They seemed to appreciate me, dare I say even like me.

Mentoring. Was it my calling? As they say, if you can’t do… teach. And I had been blacklisted from doing, so

what was left for me?

The day I found Westfield, New York—or perhaps

Westfield found me—resurrected in my memory. Was a

new small town in my future? Was that the answer to my desperation? It sounded like just what I needed… a fresh

start. Nice people in a nice town, with no sinister agenda,

no disturbing baggage. A place that treasured honesty and

kindness, where I could be the man I wanted to be. Maybe

even meet a genuine woman who could appreciate me for

me, not for what I could offer. As I stood there, eyes engaging the hung television,

modern art, and overpriced décor, I loathed the old me

who once esteemed this Hollywood materialism.

No more.

It was time to begin anew. All I needed was a place to call home, to settle down and write my heart’s story, to

finally build relationships.

Friends and family.

I sighed.

As this hypnotic inspiration penetrated my soul,

something inside me knew I would at last find what I had been looking for all along.

A Final Word…

I had never planned on writing Allen’s story. There was a

time when I didn’t think it was worth telling. But when

The Admirer’s Secret fans demanded to know what had

happened to Allen Michaels’ ex-wife, I realized that we

invest in every character, just like every life is precious.

Much like The Admirer’s Secret, the events depicted are

loosely based on true experiences, but the story doesn’t

end here. This is only the beginning—a mere bite of the

full entrée. Relish the rest of the characters’ tale in the full

novel, The Admirer’s Secret.

In a freak collision when she was twelve, Mia Germaine

faced death and the loss of her father. A heart transplant

from a young murder victim saved her life, but not without

a price. Twenty years later, chilling nightmares about an

unresolved homicide begin to plague Mia. Compelled by

these lost memories, she forms a complicated connection

to the victim—the girl killed the night of Mia’s accident—

due to a scientific phenomenon called ―organ memory.‖

Now suffocating beneath the weight of avenging a dead girl

and catching a serial killer on the loose dubbed the

―Triangle Terror,‖ Mia must dodge her own demons while

unimaginable truths torment her—along with a killer set

on making her his next victim.

As Mia tries to determine if her dreams are clues or

disturbing phantasms, uninvited specters lead her further

into danger’s path, costing her the one person who can

save her from herself. More than a page-turning thriller, A

Secondhand Life weaves a tale of second chances and

reclaimed dreams as this taut, refreshing tale ensnares

and penetrates you.

www.pamelacrane.com