Born To Die

“most likely to be famous” her senior year? Hadn’t she taken off, shaking the dust of that small town from her shoes as quickly as possible? And hadn’t, in the beginning, her star shined brightly, rising with promise and a few plum roles? A recurring role in a soap opera before she was twenty! Hadn’t she worked with the Toms — Cruise and Hanks — and Gwyneth and Meryl and. . and even Brad Friggin’ Pitt? Okay, so they were small parts, but still, they were legit! And she’d been a double for Julia Roberts! Then there was the vampire series What’s Blood Got to Do With It on cable. She’d paid her dues, by God. But, she realized, those flashes of fame had been a while back, and lately she’d been relegated to corpses on CSI, a few commercials, and voice-overs for low-budget animated films.

If she didn’t land the part of Estelle in this new series, she could kiss her B-listed career good-bye and open her arms to a reality show for has-beens. She shuddered at the thought.

Hollywood, she thought miserably, the land of worn-out casting couches and broken dreams.

She winced against another jab of pain that nearly buckled her knees. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, then half crawled, half stumbled, to her small galley kitchen, where she dragged open her refrigerator door, saw the sparse contents inside, and felt depressed all over again. After retrieving the half-full bottle of Pepto, she unscrewed the cap and took a swallow of the pink ooze. Quivering, she replaced the top, put the remainder of the bottle back on the shelf, then sat on the floor, her legs extended, as she took in long, deep breaths.

God, she felt bad.

Maybe she should call her doctor, at least leave a message with his answering service. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet and wondered, again, where was Lana?

Well, certainly not on the counter, where three days’ worth of coffee cups, dirty glasses, and Lean Cuisine trays littered the chipped tile.

Her stomach still aching, she made her way to the bathroom, told herself she couldn’t let this town beat her down.

Hadn’t she suffered through bulimia?

Hadn’t she done whatever it took?

And even if she wasn’t classically beautiful, she’d been told her face had “character” and “intelligence.” Her auburn hair was still vibrant; the skin around her green eyes and full lips without too many telltale lines.

With a glance in the mirror over the sink, she cringed as she wedged herself into the tiny bathroom. Despite the pep talk to herself, the years were beginning to show, if only a little. She used a ton of products to keep her complexion flawless, and she wasn’t into Botox. Yet. Though she wasn’t ruling it out. Then again, she wouldn’t rule anything out that might force Father Time back a step or two.

But he was a persistent son of a bitch, she thought and pushed the flesh on the sides of her jaw backward in an attempt to see if she really needed to be “tightened up.”

Not yet, thank God. She didn’t have the money for any kind of “work.” And she wasn’t ready to write some kind of trumped-up tell-all book, which her agent had mentioned. She wasn’t even thirty-five yet, for God’s sake, at least not for a few more days; she wasn’t ready to spill her guts just yet. And truth to tell, she didn’t have that much to write about; her life had been pretty dull compared to a lot of her peers.

Noticing the whites of her eyes were a little bloodshot, she removed her contacts, then found the bottle of Visine she kept in the medicine cabinet. After unscrewing the bottle cap, she tilted her head back, blinked in the drops, and resealed the bottle. She closed the mirrored front of the cabinet and caught a glimpse of a shadow behind her.

What?

Her heart clutched and she jerked around. The room was empty; the door behind her open to the living room and the sliding door to her patio.

Her flesh prickled.

“Lana? Is that you?” she called as she stepped into the living area again, the edges of the room blurry from her myopia and the drops that hadn’t quite settled. “Kitty?” Where was the damned cat, a calico she’d named after her favorite movie icon? “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she sang again but decided the cat, who often played a game of hide-and-seek, was lurking in the shadows somewhere, ready to pounce. More than once Lana had leapt from behind the framed pictures set upon the bookcase, scattering the photos, breaking the glass, and, plumping up to twice her size, had startled Shelly. Scaring her was the cat’s favorite pastime. “Here, kitty, kitty. .”

True to her independent temperament, Lana didn’t appear.

Shelly stood barefoot in the living room. There was something about the apartment, a stillness that suggested no one, not even the cat, was inside.

Which didn’t make sense.

Shelly had left Lana sleeping on the back of the couch when she’d gone out earlier. She was certain of it and remembered the cat desultorily flicking her tail as she lay curled in the soft cushions.

So why did it feel as if the rooms were empty, devoid of life? She heard dry leaves skittering across the patio, bits of brown and rust dancing eerily.

For the love of God, what was wrong with her? It was just the wind, nothing more than dead leaves, for crying out loud. Still, the hairs on the back of her arm lifted.

“Get over yourself.”

Another sharp cramp to her midsection. “Ooh.” She doubled over, the pain intense. This time she didn’t wait. She crab-walked to her purse and fumbled for her cell phone.

The damned thing wasn’t in its usual pocket. “Come on, come on!” This was no time for the phone to be missing. Fingers shaking, she fished through the interior of the purse, then as the pain increased, dumped the contents onto the tile floor. Keys, eyeglass case, wallet, receipts, coins, pack of cigarettes, tampon holder, and her tiny canister of pepper spray went skittering across the tile.

No phone.

What?

She’d had her cell at the bar. She remembered turning it to vibrate, and. . hadn’t she shoved it back into her purse? Or had she left it at Lizards, on the top of the sleek counter that was fashioned to look like snakeskin?

“Oh, God,” she whispered, sweat breaking out on her forehead, her pulse jumping. She didn’t have a landline; there was no way to call for help except for—

Sccrrraape!

The dry, rasping sound seemed to echo through her head.

What the hell was that?

The cat?

“Lana?” she said nervously, then noticed the sliding door was open, just the tiniest of cracks.

Hadn’t it been shut?

Absolutely. She remembered sliding it closed, though, of course it didn’t latch, because that stupid building super, Merlin, hadn’t gotten around to fixing it.

Oh, Jesus! Her scalp prickled and her heart began to knock, though she told herself she was being paranoid. No one was in the apartment, lurking inside, lying in wait for her.

You’ve been auditioning for too many victims in those cheap horror flicks.

Still…

Ears straining, heart thudding, she glanced toward her bedroom door, open just a crack. She had taken two steps in the direction of the open door when, from the corner of her eye, she saw movement, a dark figure at the edge of the slider, on the other side of the glass.

An intruder! Oh, no!

She opened her mouth to scream.

Then stopped when she recognized the guy from the bar. In his hand was her cell phone. Palm over her pounding heart, she declared, “You scared me half to death!” as she pushed the door open. “How’d you get my —?”

But she knew before he said, “You left it on the bar.”

“So, how did you find me?”

Again the slow, crooked grin. “Your address is in the contact information. Under