Heather Graham - Fade To Black

And she was just staring at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

McFadden.

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

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

“Miss Davante,” he said.

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

Then again...

It was too...too...

Real.

And if he could help her?

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

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

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

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

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

3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The perfect actress.

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

Much like this.

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

“Bringing back memories, eh?”

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

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

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