Page 45 of Dead Girl Running

Kellen replied to the comment he’d made far too long ago. “Mr. Brooks, you did say you intended to stay in the cottage, but from what I saw, you came into the hotel to wander the halls and take notes.” Might as well let him know he’d been observed.

“I’m doing research.” He sounded reproachful. “You understand that. You understand what it’s like to pay attention, to see things and understand what no one else can see or know.”

Birdie and Kellen exchanged glances again, this time with more wariness.

“You’ve got a gun,” he said to Birdie.

“It’s lonely out here,” Birdie answered. “I’d be a fool to trust to human kindness.”

“Yes. Finding that body made everyone nervous.” He shivered. “Any word from the coroner?”

“Nothing yet,” Kellen said. “I expect I’ll hear from our policeman in the morning. Do you want a blanket?”

“What I really want is to get back to my writing.” He patted the pockets of his overcoat and plunged his right hand inside.

Birdie and Kellen flinched.

But he brought out a leather notebook, shook water off the cover, opened it and groaned. “The ink’s run.”

“Happens here in Washington when you don’t wear your rain gear,” Birdie said.

“I’ll take your coat to the laundry tomorrow, see if they can do anything with it.” Kellen found a rain poncho and dropped it over his head. “Come on, I’ll get you back to your cottage now.”

Birdie caught Kellen’s arm. “He’s in really good shape for a guy who lives behind a desk. Be careful.” So even Birdie thought something didn’t add up.

“I will. I am.” Kellen grasped his arm and led him into the storm.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said as he climbed into the ATV. “You’re competent.”

“Gee, thanks.” Was that supposed to be a come-on? Because if it was, he needed to work on his lines.

She dropped him at his cottage, watched him run up onto the porch and try to get in, turn and wave his hands helplessly. He’d lost his key card, so she used hers to open his door. She shoved him inside and headed to her cottage. She wanted to brush her teeth, wash her face, go to bed and sleep in peace, quiet and comfort between cool, clean sheets. Instead, she crawled up the spiral staircase to her loft and stared out toward the west, toward the ocean and the place where they’d found Priscilla’s body.

* * *

Two miles out of Greenleaf, the rain started. Cecilia watched the first drops hit the windshield and exalted in the knowledge that the summer storm coming in off the ocean would erase evidence, muddy the explosion site…

She didn’t know how to turn on the windshield wipers.

The rain fell harder.

She poked at the controls on the steering column, turned, pushed, twisted. Stuff happened. The headlights came on. The windshield wiper on the back window started a fast, steady swish. If she’d been driving backward, that would be great. Instead, she was driving blind on a twisty two-lane highway. She was scared, dehydrated—and she couldn’t see where she was going. She peered through the sheeting rain, spied a turnout, pulled over and eased to a stop.

She sat, heart racing, eyes full of tears. In her head, she heard Gregory’s voice.You’re not capable of caring for yourself, darling. You’re clumsy. You’re incompetent.He was right. She couldn’t even flee with efficiency.

No! No. She’d find the car book. It would explain how to turn on the wipers. She opened the minuscule glove compartment, pulled out the paperwork, shuffled through it—this was a rental, she hadn’t realized that—looked back into the glove compartment. There in the recesses, she found the thin, floppy book waiting for her, and the Table of Contents/Wipers.

So! Gregory was wrong.

Someone knocked on her window.

She half screamed, realized a police officer stood beside the car and knew she’d been busted. She stared, wordlessly pleading for him to understand, to believe that she hadn’t known what Gregory intended, to let her go.

Rain sluiced off the cop’s coat and dripped off the brim of his hat. Impatiently, he indicated she should roll down the window.

She did. About an inch. Her voice shook. “Yes?”

Middle-aged guy. Stern face. “Miss, please present your license and proof of insurance.”

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