Page 117 of Dead Girl Running

That was when Max made his fatal mistake.

He ran his hand through his dark hair and agreed. He said, “Sure. You’ve got a business degree. That would be great.”

He didn’t realize what he’d admitted.

At some point, he had looked at the documents Cecilia so vigilantly guarded. He believed she was Kellen Rae Adams. He thought she had a business degree. He probably knew the police wanted to talk to her in conjunction with the explosion at the Lykke house in Maine.

He had looked.

He had lied.

She was so sickened by the betrayal she threw up. Then while he was at work, she called his car service, took Kellen’s papers and ran away to Philadelphia. She didn’t have a plan, or money, or even good sense. What she had was a terrifying sense of panic. Max knew her secret, he’d never said a word about it to her—and the secret was a lie.

She had the car drop her off at Rittenhouse Square. She wandered the walks under budding trees and through cold sunshine. How could she explain to him her marriage, her cousin Kellen’s death, her own cowardice and deception?

Beneath Cecilia’s fear was a lurking anger.

Why had he looked at the papers she so carefully guarded? How dare he invade her privacy! Why had he broken his word? He had ruined everything.

A man, rough, unpolished, walked the path toward her. He had pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears and kept his hands plunged deep in his pockets. He had a desperate air about him, a reckless attitude she identified from her time on the streets.

She veered to avoid him.

He walked to intercept her, and she recognized him: Annabella’s father, Ettore Fontana, his face a death mask.

How had he found her so quickly?

Probably an informant on Max’s staff.

Across the wet, brown lawn, she saw a man running toward them. Running as fast as a linebacker could run. Max!

How hadMaxfound her so quickly?

Probably through his credit card, the one that paid for the town car.

She tried to run.

Ettore grabbed her by one arm, pushed her up against a tree trunk and pulled a pistol out of his pocket. He touched it to her forehead.

She froze, afraid to move, afraid not to move. She felt the cool metal, saw the black barrel, smelled her own fear.

Max raced toward them, his mouth open as if he was yelling, but she heard no sound except the heavy beat of blood in her ears.

Then…then nothing.

Nothing, until the moment when she woke in the hospital from her coma.

She remembered so much. Almost everything. But nothing would ever bring back that year after the bullet had entered her brain.

That didn’t matter, did it?

What mattered was that in the years since, she’d lived and grown and become the woman the real Kellen Rae Adams would be proud to know.

And maybe what mattered was that Max Di Luca seemed to think they had unfinished business.

Perhaps they did.

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