What Remains of Me Read online

  “It’s my mom’s.”

  Kelly laughed. Len wasn’t so bad. With Vee having run off somewhere, Jimmy still in rehab, and Bellamy spending close to 100 percent of her time with Steve Stevens, Kelly had been easing her loneliness with Len, whom she’d run into a week ago when she was eating a burger at Tommy’s. “I know you, don’t I?” said this skinny guy, still with the same pencilly mustache, the same rattlesnake belt buckle he’d been wearing the day she’d gone to Bellamy’s house for the first time. He’d been her first kiss, her first everything, and he barely remembered her. That was okay. She’d never learned his last name.

  Len had offered her a ride back to Jimmy’s, where she had been staying alone these days. It had been so hot out lately, the air thick and pressing like bad breath. Kelly couldn’t stop sweating whenever she went outside, and so they’d gone into Jimmy’s bedroom, which was the only room in the house with air-conditioning. They’d shared a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and then Len spent the night.

  The rest was history, though it wasn’t a boyfriend thing. The day of the screen test had done strange things to Kelly’s head. She didn’t want a boyfriend anymore. She was too angry for a boyfriend.

  “So do you want to come as my date or what?” Kelly said, after snorting another line.

  “To some movie wrap party?” He chuckled, showing long horsey teeth. “No way. Those things are bouge.”

  “Bellamy’s going to be there,” Kelly said. “And Steve Stevens.”

  “Steve who?”

  “Some actor.” Len didn’t know who anybody was. She liked that. “Do you have any weed?”

  THREE HOURS LATER, LEN AND KELLY WERE DRIVING THROUGH JOHN McFadden’s open gate, parking the Trans Am behind Rollses and Bentleys and Jags, both of them tumbling out, smoke all around them. Kelly pressed up against him. His Black Sabbath T-shirt was wet with sweat. “I hate John McFadden,” she whispered in Len’s ear, licking his neck as she did it. “He killed my sister.”

  “He what? Wait. You don’t have a sister.”

  She put her hands on his face, tried to make it stand still. “You are very cute,” she said, words slurring. “But you are too dumb to live.”

  SHE WANDERED THROUGH THE HOUSE—LUXURIOUS, AIR-CONDITIONED rooms moving in and out of focus. More high than I thought I was. A familiar-looking actor walked by—an older man in a velvet suit. He looked Kelly up and down, but not in a complimentary way. She was aware of her denim shorts, the orange Hang Ten T-shirt she’d pulled out of Jimmy’s closet, the sweat in her hair. Probably should have dressed for this thing.

  She hoped she didn’t stand out too much—she had purposely worn this outfit so she could run quickly, but she hadn’t thought much about how it looked. The goal was to break things. That had always been the goal. If she couldn’t sue John McFadden or get him arrested, Kelly was going to break every expensive thing in his house and run away before he saw who did it. Len would drive the getaway car. If she could find him. Where had he gone? She passed a group of mile-high models in vintage miniskirts, go-go boots sparkling on their long legs. Kelly couldn’t figure out whether they were cast members or paid entertainment, but they had that look to them, like they were startled by their own beauty. In Kelly’s state of mind, they looked otherworldly, spectacular.

  At the other end of the room, she saw Bellamy, in a red silk dress that played up her black hair. She reminded Kelly of a princess. Snow White? No. Rose Red. A tall, blond guy stood next to her—Steve Stevens, probably. Kelly watched her for a while, the way she laughed, her head thrown back, as though the conversation was something delicious, something to be savored. How could she look so happy in John McFadden’s house? How could she act as though she didn’t care what he had done to Catherine? She raised a hand and waved. But Bellamy looked right through her. Did she not see her? Kelly started to head toward her when she felt a hand on her arm, grabbing. She figured it was Len, but when she turned around she saw Vee’s face, dirty and wild-eyed. “Oh my God, Vee—”

  “Ssssh.” He put a finger over his lips. He kept his head down. She followed him through more rooms, past more beautiful people, everything shimmering around the edges, the two of them ghosts.

  “Do you want to break things with me?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Come with me.” He took Kelly’s hand and led her through the sunroom, through some other room with a tiger’s head on the wall and a group of men with cigars, laughing, to the same place where they’d run lines together two weeks ago—the Moroccan room. He ushered her in quickly, locked the door behind her. She turned around. “Vee,” she started to say again. But he shushed her. They weren’t alone.

  John McFadden stood in the corner with his back to them, rehearsing a speech. “All of you are more than family to me,” he said to the curtains. “We share a bond that’s thicker than blood—and that bond is creation. It is art. Thank you very much. Now enjoy the party!”

  Vee clapped, loudly. For the first time, Kelly got a good look at him—dirt-caked jeans, greasy hair. There was a stale smell to him too, as though he hadn’t showered in weeks. Where had he been staying? What had he been doing? And there was his father, in his black expensive suit, practicing what to say in front of a bunch of actors. His own father, who hadn’t even bothered to look for him. “Bravo,” Vee said.

  McFadden whirled around. “Where the hell have you been?” He looked at Kelly. “What’s she doing here?”

  “You don’t get to ask me those questions,” Vee said. “I’m here because I need answers and you’re going to give them to me.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. My God, you reek.”

  “How could you do that to her? She . . . she was a living, breathing person.”

  “Who?”

  “Cat,” he said. “You took her away from me. From everyone. Why?”

  McFadden exhaled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vincent. Now I want you to go upstairs and shower and put on some clean clothes . . .”

  Vee pulled something out of his jean jacket pocket—a gun. Same gun they’d taken to the desert all those weeks ago. He aimed it at his father. McFadden froze. Kelly’s mouth went dry. “No,” she said, as calmly as she could. “No, Vee. Don’t.”

  Vee said, “You’re not the man I thought you were.” He held the gun straight out in front of him, his hands shaking. “You’re not a man at all.”

  McFadden’s face was perfectly still, his whole body motionless. Kelly’s gaze went from Vee to his father, and for a moment, time stopped, the two of them locked like this—Vee with all the power, McFadden waiting to see what he did with it.

  Until finally, McFadden shifted. His shoulders relaxed. “Listen, you little drug-addicted piece of shit,” he said. “You put that gun down or I’m calling the police and having you thrown in jail for the rest of your life.”

  Vee’s eyes went soft, scared.

  “I’ll do it. You know I will.”

  “You . . . You took Cat.”

  “You’re a big disappointment to me, Vincent,” McFadden said. “It’s no wonder your mother wants nothing to do with you.”

  The gun shook in Vee’s hands. “That isn’t true.”

  “Ever wonder why we never hear from her anymore? Not even on Christmas?”

  “Because . . . because she hates you.”

  “Guess again.”

  Vee winced, as though someone had slapped him.

  “You’re mean,” Kelly whispered.

  McFadden didn’t even look at her. “Put that gun down and go to your room,” he said to his son. “I don’t want you around my guests.”

  Vee’s arms dropped. He started to cry. McFadden turned around again and began reciting his speech to the ruby curtain, as though Vee and Kelly weren’t in the room with him at all. “I’m sorry,” Vee whispered. He put the gun down on the desk and looked at Kelly. “I’m sorry.”

  “I would like to welcome you, my true family,” McFadden said as Vee crumpled up
and wept. And within Kelly, something snapped. “The work you have all put in makes me feel like a proud parent . . .”

  Kelly picked up the gun. She held it out in front of her, fingers on the trigger, power coursing up through her arms, into her heart. “John McFadden,” she said.

  He turned around.

  “Are you sorry about Catherine?”

  “Oh Jesus. You too?”

  Kelly fired at him, twice in the chest.

  “Oh my God,” said Vee. “Oh my God, Kelly.” His arm went around her back, the weight of his hand on her shoulder.

  McFadden fell to the ground, gazing up at her. What have I done, Kelly thought. His mouth was still moving, trying to form words. “Thicker than blood,” he said, and she realized he was still rehearsing his speech. Kelly raised the gun and shot him between the eyes.

  CHAPTER 35

  JUNE 2, 2010

  It still felt strange to Kelly, sitting next to her mother, but she was getting used to it. Mom had visited her in the hospital several times when she was recovering from her bullet wound, accompanied by guards from Mariposa County Jail. The guards treated the two of them like A-list celebrities. Odd, one of them a farmer who used to work at I. Magnin, the other an ex-con who worked for a semi-illegal dating Web site. These guards couldn’t get enough of them. One had even asked for Kelly’s autograph.

  Of course, people change. Wounds heal, some faster than others. Kelly’s neck wound, for instance, was almost completely healed, flesh wound that it was, while her shoulder, still in a sling, would keep her in physical therapy for months. Good thing Bellamy wasn’t a better shot, her southwestern couch having taken most of the bullets. It’s not personal, she’d kept saying as she fired and fired, Bellamy who had once picked up Vee’s gun and shot at a stream full of fish without checking to see if it was loaded. Bellamy had always been more about impulse than aim.

  Strange, as Kelly lay bleeding on Bellamy’s living room floor, Bellamy knelt down and said to her, “I’m only protecting my family.” But who had she meant? Her father was dead, mother had already confessed to the police, and her brother had left her house, vowing never to speak to her again. “I’m your family, you idiot,” Kelly had whispered. And that’s when Bellamy had finally called 911.

  So the irony wasn’t lost on Kelly—her mother and herself sitting across from Bellamy in the sun-drenched visitors’ room of Malibu’s Passages Mental Health Center, the closest thing to family that Bellamy Marshall now had. As usual, she wore full makeup, bright red lips, but the effect was strange with hospital scrubs, vacant eyes.

  Her intense gaze was gone—Kelly knew it was probably the meds, but Bellamy looked as though she’d had the spirit sapped out of her, as though she had nothing to live for with her family gone and she was wandering through life aimlessly, a ghost looking for the next role to inhabit. Maybe that’s why she’d asked them to come. It had been her doctor who called both Kelly and Ruth, saying it would be a great service, but she’d never explained why Bellamy wanted to see them, or even if she did.

  “I’m writing a book,” Bellamy said now for the third time, staring at the middle distance between Kelly and Ruth, so neither one of them knew to whom she was speaking. “A tell-all about growing up in Hollywood.”

  “Are we going to be in it?” Kelly said.

  “Maybe.” She lit a cigarette. Exhaled slowly. Looked at Ruth. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did my father love you?”

  Ruth’s gaze moved from Kelly to Bellamy. “It was a long time ago.”

  “I know that. But did he? Did he tell you he loved you?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, Bellamy,” she said carefully. “He did.”

  “What did that feel like?”

  “Being in love?”

  “No. How did it feel to hear my father say ‘I love you’?”

  Kelly looked at her. “He never said it to you?”

  She shook her head. “Not once,” she said, her voice small, lost. “I’d love to know how it sounds, my father saying those words.”

  KELLY AND RUTH LEFT THE FACILITY IN SILENCE, IMAGES ROLLING through Kelly’s mind—Bellamy Marshall at seventeen passing her notes in science class, mascaraed eyes searching for her in the rearview mirror of the car, asking if she was having fun.

  “You know what I liked most about Bellamy when we were kids?” she said.

  Ruth turned to her. “Her glamorous lifestyle?”

  She shook her head. “No,” Kelly said. “I liked her because she paid so much attention to me. But now that I look back on it, I think maybe she was just sizing up the competition.”

  Ruth shook her head. “Don’t be cynical about your memories, Kelly. Paint them in a golden light. Make them into beautiful fiction. They’re all you’ve got.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Bellamy adored me. She really did love me like a sister.”

  “That’s the spirit.” As she slipped into her pickup truck, ready to head back to Defiance, she touched Kelly’s hand, gave her a smile. “You know, now that I think about it, I’m not entirely sure Sterling ever said he loved me. But it’s still nice to remember it that way.”

  Kelly swallowed. “I miss Shane,” she said.

  “It’s good to miss people. It reminds you you’re not alone in the world.”

  “Did you miss me, Mother?”

  “Every day.”

  Kelly kissed her mother on the cheek. She watched her drive away, thinking of Shane just one week ago, leaving for good to go to San Francisco, the latest person in her life to fall away. Their parting had been amicable but strange and sad. “You’re not losing a husband, you’re gaining a brother,” he had said as he’d gotten into the airport limo.

  “But I am losing a husband,” she’d replied.

  “Miss Lund!” An excited young voice shook her out of her thoughts. Kelly turned to see a nurse rushing across the parking lot toward her, waving a piece of notebook paper.

  “Did I leave something?” she said.

  “No.” The nurse had shiny blond hair. Round, light eyes like a kitten’s. “I just can’t believe it’s you. I’m a huge fan.”

  Kelly stared at her. “Of me?”

  “Yes! Taking the rap for your friend like that. All those years in prison when you didn’t kill anybody. You’re a hero.”

  Kelly forced a smile, the night of June 28, 1980, coming at her in flashes before she shoved it into a drawer. “Thank you,” she said.

  The nurse handed her the piece of paper and a pen. “Can I have your autograph, please? I’m Jenna. With a J.”

  Kelly held the paper against the car and wrote.

  To Jenna:

  Don’t stop believing!

  Love, Kelly Michelle Lund

  The girl nearly swooned. Kelly got in her car. “Thanks, Vee,” she whispered, though really, she’d never needed any favors from Vee, never needed him in her life for any longer than he’d been in it.

  In two hours, she’d be back at her home with her birds and her laptop computer, her skull-headed angel and her tattooed ex-bully—Rocky Three, who for now was someone to believe in. She pulled out onto the Pacific Coast Highway and rolled down the windows, smelling the ocean air, gazing out at the road ahead, and, for the briefest of moments, recalling McFadden’s last words, the feel of the gun discharging in her hands as he lay on that jewel-toned carpet, mouthing his speech. A hero. Kelly felt as though she could drive forever.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Big thanks to detectives Tim Marcia and Mitzi Roberts of the LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide division, who graciously allowed me into their workplace and answered many, many questions. Anything I got right in the Barry Dupree sections is due to their help. Anything I got wrong . . . well, that’s on me.

  As ever, thanks to the wonderful Deborah Schneider, my outstanding editor Lyssa Keusch, and the tireless Rebecca Lucash. I am so grateful to Liate Stehlik and the HarperCollins/William Morrow team for all their support.r />
  Thanks to Stephanie Riggio for her Joshua Tree expertise, Marcia Clark for early-on legal expertise, Bill Ward for naming my strip club, and Linda Flyntz Rubin for her memory of defective ’70s dolls. I’m grateful as well to my writer friends for their help and feedback—particularly Megan Abbott and Paul Leone at the beginning of this process and Abigail Thomas at the end. And to the FLs, who instigate and inspire me and make me laugh on a daily basis, even when I’m on deadline. Thanks to The Golden Notebook in Woodstock, NY, aka best bookstore EVER, for their support of local authors.

  Chas Cerulli and James Conrad, Anthony Marcello and Paul, Jamie and Doug Barthel, thank you for listening to my whining and helping to keep me (reasonably) sane during the writing of this book. Thanks and love to my amazing in-laws, Sheldon and Marilyn Gaylin, and my wonderful mom, Beverly LeBov Sloane. And to Mike and Marissa, who I can’t possibly hug enough.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALISON GAYLIN is the author of the Edgar-nominated thriller Hide Your Eyes and its sequel, You Kill Me; the standalones Trashed and Heartless; and the Brenna Spector series: And She Was (winner of the Shamus Award), Into the Dark, and the Edgar-nominated Stay with Me. A graduate of Northwestern University and of Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism, she lives with her husband and daughter in Woodstock, New York.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  ALSO BY ALISON GAYLIN

  And She Was

  Into the Dark

  Stay With Me

  Hide Your Eyes

  Heartless

  Trashed

  You Kill Me

  Reality Ends Here

  CREDITS

  Cover Design by Amanda Kain

  Cover Photograph © Ulrike Neumann/Getty Images

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.