leave. Cara’s coffin would be lowered into the ground.
Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.
Cara had always known that she would be buried here, in Hollywood’s oldest cemetery, close to so many actors, directors, writers, producers and musicians she had known and loved. She’d adored the place. Marnie had come with her once to see a showing of a black-and-white silent classic on one of the large mausoleum walls; Cara had giggled and said it was like a living cemetery. They could catch a flick—and leave roses on the graves of Rudolph Valentino, Cecille B. DeMille and so many, many more. Sometimes there were concerts in the cemetery. Johnny Ramone would surely love it.
Cara Barton was dead. Cara Barton would soon be lowered into the ground in the cemetery she had always loved so much—where she had always known she wanted to be.
Someday.
It shouldn’t have been so soon...
Marnie blinked. She could still see her.
The woman looked just like Cara. She was grave; she was sad, and then she clapped her hands and wiped her tears, delighted as the hot star of the day stepped forward, casting down a rose and saying, “She was truly an enormous talent! Such a devastating loss!”
Marnie followed Roberta Alan, Jeremy Highsmith and Grayson Adair, all casting their roses over the coffin.
She stopped dead, staring across the coffin.
Cara was there. Cara. Not someone who looked like Cara.
She looked at Marnie and smiled sadly. “Did you see? Oh, Marnie. Everyone is here. Oh, my Lord. I mean everyone who is anyone. This is so wonderful. If only...”
Marnie froze. Obviously, it had all just been too much.
Cara dying in her arms.
The blood.
The EMTs taking Cara’s body from her. She had just sat there. She could still see the blood, feel the blood, smell the blood.
And see the character—Blood-bone.
For what had seemed like an eternity, he had just stood there, staring at them all while those in the crowd went crazy clapping.
Then he had turned and disappeared into the crowd. It had taken forever, so it had seemed, for people to realize that her screams were real, that something terrible had really happened. It had been no performance.
Crazy. So damned crazy.
And every night now, Marnie had nightmares that featured Blood-bone dancing before her, wielding that sword with its array of colors...
Not just a light-up sword. A real sword.
She had made it through the day. Through the comic con being closed down. Through the questioning by the police. Through the hours of smelling her friend’s blood...until she could finally change into the police-issued scrubs.
And she was still moving. She didn’t know if she was or wasn’t in shock. She just kept going through all the right motions.
She had to be in shock. Or the events being so crazy had turned into her being crazy.
“Marnie?” Grayson Adair had turned back to her. He looked at her with sorrowful affection, like a real big brother.
She blinked. She cast down her rose, looking across the coffin to the other side of the grave.
Cara was still standing there. She gave Marnie a thumbs-up.
It was impossible. Apparently, Grayson Adair did not see Cara.
Surely that meant that Cara was not really there. But Grayson not seeing Cara was not the only reason she could not be there. Cara could not be there because Cara was dead. Her poor murdered body lay in the coffin.
Cara wasn’t there—not really. She was just there in Marnie’s worn and tormented mind. Marnie took a deep breath and pretended she wasn’t hallucinating.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
“Marnie?”
Grayson was speaking again, looking back at her and offering her an arm.
Marnie took it. But as they started out, she felt something. Something extremely strange, as if a cool fog had formed into some kind of substance on her other side.
She looked to her left. To her free arm.
It wasn’t free; Cara had come up beside her. She had slipped her arm through Marnie’s and was walking at her side.
“At least it was a sensational funeral,” Cara said. “I’m so grateful. Oh, not for being murdered, though, of course, that does mean that I’ll be famous forever. I’ve seen the headlines—Famous TV Matriarch Brutally Taken by Blood-Bone Character. And they said that I was beautiful and aging gracefully. I’ve seen everything you’ve said, too. You are just such a little doll. Frankly, you’re a little too good and innocent, and you really don’t belong in Hollywood. Where was it you came from originally? Atlanta, right? How rude of me not to really remember, but then again, I was meant to live in the dog-eat-dog and plastic part of Hollywood—I do believe that it is all about me!”
It sounded like Cara Barton; the voice was just a little bit raspy, as if it had been created from the wind or the air. The cadence was all Cara, as was the admission that yes, the world was all about her.
Even when she was dead.
Or especially because she was dead.
Someone called out and Grayson paused, turning to talk to the man. It was another reporter.
“Really. Lovely funeral. I’m sure you had a part in planning it? And if I know you, you made sure that it was more than public notice—that everyone who is anyone would be here,” Cara said approvingly.
“You’re not really here, and I can’t hear you,” Marnie whispered, and she knew that her tone was low, that her words were breathy.
For a moment, she felt that she was going to keel over. No, she couldn’t pass out. That would bring attention to her, away from Cara. And Cara wouldn’t be happy.
Cara was dead.
Yep. Dead.
And yet Cara was still standing next to her.
“Marnie?” It was Grayson speaking again. He was looking at her with dark, concerned eyes.
Grayson had always been known for his good looks. He was tall, and his hair was as dark as his eyes. He was truly concerned for her, Marnie thought.
But he was also extremely aware of the cameras going off all around them. Yes, he was aware of the press and of the possible headlines: Marnie Davante Stumbles from Cemetery in Shock, Held Up by Manly Hands of Former Costar Grayson Adair.
“I’m fine,” she said softly.
“Oh, please,
