Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2) (17 page)

"You'd also find out about her involvement in the Kearney trial.
The Toronto Star
was incredibly thorough," Andrew added bitterly.

"Which brings you to me, and the book..." Autumn swallowed hard, looking to Andrew for comfort. "Is it possible that he ingratiated his way into the blogger world just to get my book? And even if he did, why would he?"

"You did sorta name the character after Veronica."

Laurel. Veronica's middle name.

"And Veronica declaring her interest in it only solidified the connection...."

Andrew gingerly reached out towards her, his fingers grazing her arm. "Can I?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder, fighting back a new wave of tears.
Helpless.
Now that her book had fallen into the hands of someone who had a distorted morality, she was helpless to stop him from staging his own twisted version of its events. He knew every act of violence, every injury, every character doomed to meet their demise.

Andrew rested his head on hers.
Just like old times
, she thought. The first night she'd felt the connection between them, they'd ended up just like this, listening to music in a film editing suite on campus. She could recall the feel of his worn cotton tee, the scent of him, how the burden of her anxiety had simply crumbled from mountain to pebbles. She'd trusted him in spite of herself.

She glanced down at her left hand, reminding herself of what the engagement ring meant: commitment; loyalty; love. Trust, too; that she gave freely now, having long relinquished her fear of pain and betrayal. She pressed her palm to her heart, feeling the life within her.

"I love you," Andrew murmured. "Just tell me what you need, and it's yours."

"You," she breathed. "Just you."

A gentle kiss to the top of her head soothed her. "You've got me. You'll always have me."

She knew this, and with that knowledge came power. She was never alone, no matter what came her way. Autumn had choices to make. They were ugly decisions—the kind born of necessity, the desperate non-choice that defined so much of her teens.

I can't undo what's done
, she told herself.
I can't undo Sophia's fate. I can't go back in time and somehow foresee the danger. I can't un-write my book.

But there was something she could do. A way to save lives.

No one knows the book better than I do.

"It's late," Andrew told her. "But if you still want to take a walk, we can do that."

Together
. The silent addendum. The ring on her finger also promised this.

"No. No, I... I'm calmer now."

Andrew was relieved. "Tired?"

"Very," she admitted. "But it doesn't matter. I have something to do first. Where's my phone?"

"On the bed." Rising slowly, he offered a hand in pulling Autumn to her feet. "It's midnight," he added pointedly.

"And people are dying because of my book," she countered, heading for the bedroom. "I take people at their word. I was told 'day or night' and I believe in that."

"Huh? Who are you talking about?"

Hitting send on a recent contact, Autumn waited through three rings, ignoring Andrew's query in favour of the sleepy man who answered her call. "Hi, Jeremy. I'm sorry to bother you this late, but I need your help... I'm going to need another ARC directed as soon as humanly possible to Detective Morgan Barrington, NYPD..."

I can't undo the past, but I can prevent the future, psychics be damned
.

"It would seem that Veronica St. Clair has a stalker, and that stalker has a copy of
Dissected
in his possession. Tonight, he re-enacted chapter five."

Jeremy was wide awake now. Whether his compassion for a lost life had kicked in, or his sense that this would damage the book's reputation, Autumn didn't give a damn. What mattered was his promise to drive a copy of
Dissected
to the appropriate station first thing in the morning, along with his further promise to obtain a full list of everyone with a copy of the ARC for Veronica's security team.

Satisfied, Autumn ended the call. Beneath her, her legs swayed sideways, struggling to keep her upright. Her futile game of chess with her body was drawing to an inevitable close: exhaustion had just thrown her into checkmate.

Nestled in Andrew's arms, trusting in them to keep her grounded, her final conscious thoughts were of the ring on her right hand.
Come on, Louise,
she pleaded with the ether.
You want to talk? Fine. I'm ready. Talk to me.

Outside of the bedroom window, an orb of soft pink light pulsed wildly.

The Creative Writing classroom, grade eleven. Where it all began.

I stand near the window, watching as the first snowfall settles into an icing sugar blanket over the campus. I've never been a fan of snow or the cold, but there's something different about the intricate flakes tumbling from the sky. There's a dryness to them, a sense of it not being real. I open the window, press my hand against the screen until it tumbles out. My fingers stretch to catch the precipitation, pulling them inside for closer inspection.

They're not snowflakes. Their texture is more that of a dust, crumbling between my thumb and forefinger.

"Stardust," a voice behind me says.

I turn around, instinctively recoiling from her despite my own request for this meeting. My need doesn't shake the sense of dread, nor does it somehow normalize these exchanges. I'm still talking to the dead, and it still terrifies me.

"You asked for me. I'm here."

"People are dying. Because of me, a woman is dead."

Louise frowns. "You really love to put the weight of the world upon your shoulders, don't you? You're more dangerous to yourself than I thought."

Puzzled and chilled, I shut the window. "I don't understand."

"Yours is the bleeding heart that becomes a puppet in the wrong spirit's hands, if you don't learn to control the door," she explains. "You're starting to understand, aren't you?"

"I need help to stop the killer."

Louise edges forward now and I can see her feet are bare. Behind her, a shimmer of light hovers near the exit. No larger than a basketball, it pulses, blinking in pink.

"She's already crossed," Louise tells me. "Not all violent ends create a restless soul. Despite her death, she had no unfinished business compelling enough to remain. All she is now, is stardust. Remains cast aside as a descent begins."

"Whose descent?"

"You know already."

Glancing at the fading orb, she cradles it in her palm and blows gently upon it. It drifts slowly in my direction, its hue dimming rapidly to an off-white.

"The first lesson is to listen to the quiet ones. They're safest, but they have something to say. All of us do."

The orb has shrunk to the size of a softball, slow-blinking at me. I reach out tentatively, my finger grazing its airy surface. I close my eyes, willing it to speak to me, offering to hear its message. The orb hovers, as if pausing to scrutinize me. I can feel it looking through me.

'I trusted,' I hear a soft female voice say. 'It was a lie.'

"I don't understand..."

The room begins to spin and I grab wildly at the window ledge, only to find it's gone. It's all gone: the familiar brick and mortar of my scholastic days is crumbling away, soaring through the night sky and ignited. Falling stars tumbling to the weary bosom of earth.

I slam face-first into a white door and realize I'm in some sort of hallway. An apartment building? The door reads 2B and I try the knob, unsure of what I expect. I know I didn't expect it to turn and open for me.

I enter slowly, keeping a wall to my back as I study my surroundings. Exposed brick on a far wall. A black leather sectional sofa faces a plasma TV. The glass of what was once a coffee table is fragmented on a blue and grey area rug, sparkling like the diamond on my hand. A shattered glass lamp from Ikea, the polished stones it once contained now scattered like pennies in a well.

To my right, a kitchen. Open concept, it features an island that divides it from the dining room proper. Simple marble countertop, standard fridge in aluminum finish. Marring its pristine surface is a splash of blood at head-level—for me, anyway. A shattered bowl in a pool of deep crimson on the floor suggests a life once mundane quickly became a life ended.

"Who did this?" I whisper.

There is no reply, only the peculiar clock on the mantel. Seemingly a large crystal of raw sapphire, its hands shift to the hour and a bird merges, tweeting its song. The melody is familiar, but I can't place it.

A creaking jars me from my study of the timepiece. Spinning around, I spy a shadow in the farthest corner of the apartment. It begins to move, to approach. I understand that somehow, it sees me. It knows what I know.

"Get me out of here!" I plead softly.

"Get yourself out," Louise replies, standing beside me now.

The shadow edges closer and within it, the glint of a blade. A knife. Can you die in a dream? As I press myself against the wall, I wonder if I'm about to find out.

"Help me!"

"Help yourself. You have to learn." Glancing at the approaching figure, she stands before me. Shielding me from harm. "Find an anchor in your mind. Something you can go back to. Focus on it and feel the door shut."

Something to go home to... Someone...

'I'm your constant,' Andrew whispers in my ear.

A constant. Never changing. Always there. I think of him now, think of the minutiae of his features. I think of the feel of his arms around me and I close my eyes. Pull me back inside, I urge him.

The figure is five feet away. It has no face, only eyes. Eyes of coal that bore through me, that cut to my core and know I am weak flesh, ripe for the taking. It's now or never.

"GET OUT!" Louise screams.

In my mind, I see the door to the tunnels beneath Casteel, sturdy metal and silver knob. I see my prison, the one I've escaped. With all of my might, I heave it shut...

Autumn awoke with a gasp, her hand moving to touch her face, her eyes, her chest.
Inventory
.
Am I still here?
Behind her, Andrew stirred, the arm across her waist tightening.

"What's wrong?" he murmured.

"Nothing," she replied softly. "Bad dream about Veronica." It was half-true: the easiest of lies.

His reply came in soft kisses as he curled protectively around her frame. Autumn allowed herself to relax into his touch, closing her eyes against the early morning sunlight trickling between the curtains.
A constant
. She understood Louise's warning now. She would heed it. But at least she'd found a way to shut the door, if only temporarily.

Her mind drifted to the voice in her dream: "
I trusted
." Who did Sophia Bradley trust? Had she known her killer? How had she been deceived? Her writer's mind could conjure up at least a dozen scenarios where even a cautious woman might allow a killer into her home.

On the nightstand beside her, the phone rang. Groaning, she reached for her cell and cursed the call display. She'd been so hopeful that Jeremy would help her avoid this.

"Hello?"

"Autumn Brody?"

She knew the voice immediately. "This is her."

"This is Detective Barrington from the NYPD. We spoke on Wednesday regarding an incident involving Veronica St. Clair."

Rolling onto her back, she waved off Andrew's quizzical expression. "I remember. I take it you received the information I sent over with Jeremy."

"I have. Mr. Dixon was helpful, but this novel is your creation. I suspect that together, we might be able to determine who else could be targeted. Would you mind meeting with me this morning?"

"Anything to help Veronica. I'll need an hour."

"I'll come to you, Ms. Brody. One hour, the lobby of your hotel."

Hanging up, Autumn massaged her temples. A wicked migraine was brewing and she sensed that her chat with the eager investigator would only aggravate it. Andrew looked as exhausted as she felt, his features caught between a scowl and pain.

"Meeting with the cops?"

"Mmhmm. You stay here and sleep; I'll just be downstairs." Kissing his forehead, she slid out from beneath the covers and rose to her feet.

"Thank you," came his muffled reply from beneath the duvet.

Autumn allowed the rainfall shower to cascade over her face, washing away the helpless woman of yesterday. If she had learned anything from her mistakes last year, not involving the authorities sooner was the biggest. Maybe she didn't trust them, but it didn't mean that playing solo detective was wise.

The more people who understood what this creep was capable of, the safer they all would be. That was what mattered.

* * *

Detective Barrington was so nonchalant as she shook Autumn's hand, the teen questioned how seriously she was taking the case.

Gesturing to the hotel restaurant, she suggested they grab lunch while they talked. Dressed in black slacks and a v-neck cotton top, one could easily mistake her for an uptown resident, having a casual meal with a relative or friend. Her order for a virgin Cosmo only added to Autumn's discomfort.

It was only when the waitress slipped away to fetch their drinks that the real Detective Barrington emerged.

"In light of your interview yesterday, you may find yourself dealing with increased attention today. I'd prefer our discussions be as discreet as possible—for your sake as much as the investigation's."

"Oh. Okay then."

Running a hand through her wavy hair, Barrington continued. "If you're right about your theory, and I believe you are, I'd like the perpetrator to be uncertain as to how much headway we've made. Let the mouse believe it's the cat chasing its prey. It's hard to do in the world of Broadway, where the colour of someone's panties is newsworthy, but we'll do what we can."

"That makes sense." Autumn paused as the drinks arrived, waiting for their server to depart. "Were you able to review the book at all?"

"Just chapter five, which Mr. Dixon was kind enough to point out for us. I have a team running through it from start to finish, but I'd rather get to the key events with you." Sipping her Cosmo, she smiled. "I play a good game with the boys of the station, but even I have my more feminine vices."

Autumn smiled, sipping her lemonade. "It must be hard at times. No matter how far we've come, sexism is alive and well."

"Ain't that the goddamn truth," Barrington agreed. "My first day on the force, at least three guys laughed about me being
Morgan Barrington
. Assumed it was a guy's name, of course. It's fine: I kicked their asses on our annual drills. Might have punched one of them below the belt by mistake."

Sliding a picture across the table, Morgan continued. "This may be hard to look at, but in light of your own experiences, I suspect you're strong enough to manage. From what you know of your novel, would this crime scene fit your chapter five scenario?"

Autumn gasped, her stomach fluttering as she examined the photo. The marble countertops... the fridge... the blood...
I was here. In my dream, I was here
. Even the shattered bowl was as she'd seen it. Nodding in shock, she slid it back towards the detective.

"It's a perfect match," she managed to reply.
Keep it together
.

Barrington tucked the photo back inside her case folder. "I'm sorry you had to see it. It was a lot of blood."

"I've always been queasy around blood," Autumn offered by way of explanation.

In her mind, she wondered if Sophia's living room featured a black leather sectional sofa and an exposed brick wall. In her heart, she knew that it absolutely did.

"As you can imagine, we're anticipating that Ms. Bradley has come to serious harm, likely worse. Judging by the attack on Mr. Parsons, this person sees certain people around Veronica as threats."

"He thinks he loves Veronica," Autumn concluded soberly.

"Whether we understand it or not, if you ask our suspect, it's real love." Barrington pulled her omnipresent notebook from her pants pocket and withdrew a pen. "What I need to understand now is: what happens next in
Dissected
? Who are the victims? How are they connected to the character of Laurel?"

Autumn began running through the storyline, victim by victim, taking care to make connections between Laurel and those attacked. In her book, the targets were all either academic competition for Laurel or people who had wronged her at some point. At one point, Laurel's dorm mate was attacked; another classmate was killed; an instructor who harassed Laurel for refusing his sexual advances found himself dead on an examination table. Everything escalated to an impossible situation, one where Laurel was forced to choose between herself and another innocent woman.

"Not a pretty story," Barrington mused.

"Life isn't pretty," Autumn countered soberly. "But in fighting for her survival, she finds the strength to reclaim herself from her abusive relationship, as well as fending off the killer. She carves her own path, one where she severs the ties that bind her to toxic people."

Morgan settled back in her chair, draining her drink and flipping her notebook shut. "I like women who know how to survive. To fight and rise above. I relate more to them than the Kardashians and the debutantes. Dream big, work hard, hopefully make it. The story of Broadway."

Autumn sensed a story behind her words. "Was policing always your dream?"