Collier had been a medic on Bryan’s ship during his first two years in the United States Navy. Maybe he should have done so, but that wasn’t pertinent to the case.
He headed on out for his third stop that day.
He wanted to see where Marnie Davante lived.
Just to observe. It was a day for gathering information.
Tomorrow would be time enough to put some of it to use.
* * *
Marnie Davante stood quietly by the graveside and listened while the priest spoke about life and death, and his certainty that while they buried the mortal remains of Cara Barton, her soul went on to a better place, one where there was no pain and no fear, and where love reigned.
Marnie hoped it was true.
For a moment, she thought she saw Cara there, dressed beautifully in the red-and-black tailored suit she’d been dressed in for her viewing, enjoying the attention her funeral was receiving.
Marnie had truly loved Cara, but she knew as well that years of fighting to maintain a career had left Cara jaded and weary. She had dated many a heartthrob, but she had never married. Her parents had long ago departed their mortal coil, and she’d had no siblings. So she left behind no one with very close ties to her. But in Marnie’s mind, there had been many wonderful things about her friend. Cara had cared deeply about animals—she had raised money and awareness for humane societies and no-kill shelters. She had given what she could to children’s charities.
And Marnie had had a chance to talk about all the good in Cara lately—she’d been interviewed right and left, almost to a point of embarrassment.
Cara would have been happy.
In death, she was incredibly famous.
So much was being written about her. Every celebrity and pop culture magazine out there was doing an article on her.
Marnie was somehow the golden girl in most interviews, and it was very uncomfortable. She had remained friends with her fellow castmates from Dark Harbor, and she hoped to God that they knew she had never mentioned herself as the “success” story from the show while the others had gone on to face less-than-stellar careers.
She wasn’t sure how exactly anyone measured success. It wasn’t as if she’d suddenly been besieged with scripts for blockbusters. She’d just managed to keep working, and a lot of that had been theatrical work.
The priest was going on. He was a good man, Marnie knew. He and Cara had been friends. That was one thing people hadn’t known about her. Cara had been a regular churchgoer.
A cloud shifted in the sky.
Marnie thought that the late-afternoon sun must be playing tricks on her; she could have sworn that Cara—or someone dressed similarly, wearing one of the ridiculous giant black hats Cara had worn—had just slipped behind the priest.
Someone was sobbing; it was Roberta Alan, Marnie’s sister from the show. Well, of course. Roberta and Cara had often bickered, but they had been very close. Since Cara had lacked real family, her Dark Harbor fellows were being seen as her closest relations. To be fair, they had been something of a family for a time. Marnie had been so young herself when she’d started—just turned sixteen—she had leaned on the others. While Cara had been huge at emoting—larger than life, more than a bit of a diva—she’d always been kind and something like a very whacky but caring aunt for Marnie.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, wondering if she was still in shock. Marnie had done enough crying herself, the night at the hospital when she realized there had never been a chance for Cara, that doctors had gone through the motions, but there had been nothing they could do.
Since then, she had just been going through the motions. Moving by rote, speaking by rote...
Getting herself here today...she didn’t even recall how.
As Roberta softly sobbed, a spate of flashbulbs went off. Marnie could see them even through her closed eyelids. There was press everywhere. There had been ever since Cara died.
The priest, deep in his reflection, didn’t miss a beat.
Marnie opened her eyes again.
That was when she saw her fully. The woman dressed like Cara.
She was on the other side of the coffin, standing beside one of Hollywood’s hot young leading men and an older, well-respected actor. They didn’t seem to notice the woman.
How the hell they didn’t, Marnie didn’t begin to understand.
She looked just like Cara.
As if completely aware she was being watched, the woman turned to stare at Marnie. She winked, waved and smiled deeply—as if it were a terrific joke, as if she were hiding, as if it were normal that no one else seemed to see her.
It was Cara.
Cara Barton.
It couldn’t be. Of course, it couldn’t be. Marnie had seen her die.
She had seen the sudden surge of blood that had erupted from her friend’s throat.
She could remember staring, frowning, in absolute disbelief and confusion. Because what had happened—Cara being sliced apart by the lighted sword as if it were a real blade—was impossible. It was just a comic con, for God’s sake...
But it had been real. The blade had been real.
And she had screamed and screamed, and hunkered down by her fallen friend, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood. Everyone had been screaming, people had been running. Some—even more confused than she had been—had applauded!
Not at death, no, not the horror of death.
They had thought themselves privy to a very special show. But then the EMTs had arrived and the police and the crime scene investigators. And she had been inspected and questioned, and then inspected and questioned some more. And she had tried to remember everything there had been to remember about that day: the beautiful German shepherd by them, whining every time his nose got hit with a drip of water from the leaky ceiling. She had spoken to Zane—the old Western star—and been impressed with his charm and humility. They hadn’t met before. She’d had her picture taken with at least two dozen guys dressed up as Marvel superheroes, another dozen or so zombies and, of course, because of Dark Harbor, tons of vampires, werewolves and shape-shifters.
And, before that particular Blood-bone had appeared, she’d had her picture taken with a few other people dressed up as the character, as well.
It was highly possible, the police had told her, that one of them had been the killer.
Cara Barton was dead. She had died in Marnie’s arms.
And yet there she was, watching the proceedings, nodding with approval as the priest went on emotionally, as Roberta cried softly, as others followed suit.
The priest’s words came to an end. Marnie remembered that she’d been holding a rose; a number of people, those who had been
