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tank.”
    “Then they need to let someone else step in and play Jessica for a while. It’s been done before.”
    Beth sniffed. “And usually with disastrous results. You don’t replace an Eric Braedon, much less the famous Jessica, and not expect the fans to grumble.”
    “Well, some actresses get away with pregnancy leaves by having their characters take an extended vacation,” she offered. “Like a sudden honeymoon. Or they go down on a sinking ship and get stuck on a deserted island. Or they cling to life after a car wreck and stay in an induced coma. Whatever. They always come back. Jessica could, too, in her own sweet time.”
    But did she really want to return? Had what happened actually been fortuitous? Could she finally make a break from Jessica? She had plenty of money socked away. Which was good, since she couldn’t work for months anyway, according to old doom and gloom Dr. Maxwell.
    If she wasn’t working, that might be the break she needed from being so strongly identified with Jessica.
    Where could she go? Get away from everything here?
    Especially the left-handed psycho with the knife.
    Home. I want to go home, she realized with a sweet ache. Back to Louisiana. It was the only place that appealed to her. Sure, she loved the hustle and bustle of New York and even the house she rented sometimes out on Long Island, but Aurora was what she needed. Mama was long gone, but Great-Aunt Callandra was still there. She could rest. Heal. Decide what she wanted to do. Professionally and personally.
    She opened her mouth to share her decision with Beth, only to be interrupted by a solid knocking on her door. It opened before she could reply.
    In walked Detective Waggoner and another man, slender, with a neatly trimmed black beard. Carrying an iPad.
    The detective nodded at Beth but immediately turned his attention to Callie.
    “This is Frank. He’s our best sketch artist.”
    She watched the man take a seat and power up his tablet. He smiled at her reassuringly.
    “I know. Different from the old days, but a lot faster. Waggoner tells me you might be fuzzy about details, but I want to capture whatever you can remember before anything fades.”
    Beth stood. “I’ll excuse myself and let you get down to business. Cal, what should I do? The phone calls. The emails pouring in like crazy?”
    Waggoner interjected, “Say Miss Chennault is resting comfortably. Period. No info beyond that. Nothing about her injuries or what she remembers. Nothing. I’ve told the network PR people the same thing.”
    Beth nodded. “Got it.” She bent and kissed Callie’s cheek. “I’ll stop by later.”
    Frank asked, “Are you ready?”
    “I guess so.” She closed her eyes, trying to picture Simon. Nothing came. Then a quick flash seared into her conscience, which caused her to gasp because it was so real. Her stomach flip-flopped as if on the downward slide of a roller coaster. She forced down the palatable fear to concentrate on the memory. She wanted to get it right.
    “He’s close to my height. I’m five-nine. Maybe an inch or so taller. Probably mid to late twenties. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”
    “Anything about the shape of his face? Hairstyle? Bushy brows?”
    Callie squeezed her eyes tightly, hoping to remember more. “It was raining. His hair was short. Julius Caesar bangs plastered to his forehead. No skin problems. No moles or scars.”
    She balled her fists together in frustration and opened her eyes. “He was the male version of a Plain Jane. Just an average Joe. Non-threatening, to tell the truth. Regular eyebrows, regular lips. Not thin or thick. No jewelry. Tan jacket. I think he had on jeans, but I’m not sure.”
    She licked her lips and frowned. “Nothing else is coming. I’m sorry. I just don’t remember.”
    “Hey, you had a concussion. But this is a definite start.” Frank’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “I’m putting in very generic guidelines. We’ll see what you think.”
    He turned