Private Scandals

THREE

    “All power of fancy over reason is a degree of insanity.”
    Samuel Johnson

Chapter Twenty-three
    B ut someone had hurt Angela. Someone had killed her.
    Deanna continued to scream, high, piercing cries that burned her throat like acid. Even when her vision grayed, Deanna couldn’t take her eyes off the horror beside her. And she could smell the blood, hot and coppery and thick.
    She had to escape before Angela reached out with that delicate, dead hand and squeezed it around her throat.
    With little mewling sounds of panic, she crawled out of the chair, afraid to move too fast, afraid to take her eyes off of what had been Angela Perkins. Every move, every sound was echoed by the monitor while the camera objectively recorded, its round, dark eye staring. Something tugged her back. On a soundless gasping scream, Deanna lifted her hands to fight what she couldn’t see, and tangled her fingers in the wires of a lapel mike.
    “Oh God. Oh God.” She tore herself free, hurling the mike aside and fleeing the set in a blind panic.
    She stumbled, caught a horrified glimpse of herself in the wide wall mirror. A hot laugh bubbled in her throat. She looked insane, she thought wildly. And she bit down on her hysteria, afraid it would slide from her throat in a madchuckle. She nearly fell, tripping over her own feet as she ran down the dark corridor. Someone was breathing down her neck. She could feel it, she knew it, hot, greedy breath whispering behind her.
    Sobbing, she hurtled into her dressing room, slammed the door, threw the lock, then stood in the dark with her heart pounding like a rabbit’s.
    She fumbled for the light, then screamed again when her own reflection jumped at her. A glittery gold garland ringed the mirror. Like a noose, she thought. Like a spangled noose. Boneless with terror, she slid down against the door. Everything was spinning, spinning, and her stomach heaved in response. Clammy with nausea, she crawled to the phone. The sound of her own whimpering iced her skin as she punched the number for emergency.
    “Please, please help.” Dizzy and sick, she lay on the floor, cradling the receiver. “Her face is gone. I need help. The CBC Building, Studio B. Please hurry,” she said, and let the darkness swallow her.
     
    It was just past one A . M . when Finn arrived home. His first thoughts were for a hot shower and a warm brandy. He expected Deanna home within the hour, after whatever emergency meeting she had. She’d been vague about the details when she’d caught him between shoots, and he hadn’t had the time or the inclination to press. They’d both been in the business too long to question midnight meetings.
    He sent his driver off and started up the walk, both amused and embarrassed that the dog was setting up a din that would wake the neighbors for blocks.
    “Okay, okay, Cronkite. Try for a little dignity.” He reached for his keys as he climbed onto the porch, wondering why Deanna had forgotten to leave on the porch light. Little details like that never escaped her.
    Wedding plans were rattling her brain, he thought, pleased at the idea.
    Something crunched under his foot. He glanced down and saw the faint glitter of broken glass. His initial puzzlementturned to fury when he saw the jagged shards of the beveled glass panels beside the door.
    Then his mouth went dry. What if her meeting had been canceled? What if she’d come home? He burst through the door in thoughtless fear, shouting her name.
    Something crashed at the back of the house, and the dog’s frantic barking turned into a desperate howl. Thinking only of Deanna, Finn hit the lights before he sprinted toward the source of the crash.
    He found nothing but destruction, a mindless and brutal attack on their possessions. Lamps and tables were overturned, glassware shattered. When he reached the kitchen, his mind was cold as ice. He thought he saw a form running across the lawn. Even as he tore aside the shattered door to give chase, the dog howled again, scratching pitifully against the locked utility room door.
    He wanted to give chase. It burned in him to hunt down whoever had done this and throttle him. But the possibility that Deanna was somewhere in the house, hurt, stopped him.
    “Okay, Cronkite.” He unlocked the door and staggered back as the dog leaped joyously at him. His thick body was shivering. “Scared you, did he? Me too. Let’s find Deanna.”
    He searched every room, growing colder with every moment.