Page 89 of Strangers She Knows

Kellen knew nothing. Nothing. Not even the gray.

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Kellen swam to the surface of consciousness. She lay on her belly, face turned to the side. The surface beneath her cheek was rough. She ached all over, as if she had the flu. She didn’t know where she was, or why she hurt.

She did know who she was, and counted that as a plus.

She listened to the ticking of a clock, to rain and wind rattling the windows, and to an odd, rhythmic clicking. Twice the clicking stopped for a few seconds, then started again.

She opened her eyes. They felt swollen, and when she looked, she saw things from an angle she had never before experienced: shelves lined with books, the legs of a coffee table, a heavy, ornate wool rug that scratched at her cheek. As she looked farther, she saw lamps on the tables that tossed golden light toward the ceiling. On the desk, the gilded edge of a book: Ruby’s diary. That meant something, but she could not recall what.

After long moments of orientation, she realized she was at Morgade Hall on the floor in the library. She was wet and cold, and when she shivered, every muscle painfully spasmed. Something had happened. Something momentous.

Slowly she turned her head, and as she did, she heard a woman say, “You’re awake. Jesus fucking Christ, you scared me. I thought you were dead.”

Mara Philippi.For sure. Nothing was never her fault. Whatever happened, she was the only one affected.

Following the source of the voice, she saw Mara’s shoes—waterproof hiking shoes, she thought inconsequentially. She followed the length of Mara’s legs up to her torso, to her face, that beautiful, hated face, alive with indignation that Kellen had caused her worry. She had a towel around her shoulders, and she held Max’s pistol.

Like the queen of all evil, she lolled in the big overstuffed chair, the one Max sat in when he was here, and the sound Kellen had heard was Mara clicking the safety on and off, on and off.

She had stolen the pistol off Kellen’s body.

Kellen’s memory flooded back. Rae had been drugged. Rae was dying. Max had taken her in that tiny boat in the hope of getting her to a hospital. Kellen had seen them off into the teeth of the storm, climbed the cliff—and Mara was there. They had fought.

Kellen took another look at Mara.

She wore tough clothes meant for the outdoors: waterproof tights, long-sleeve tee, insulated vest. A rifle with a scope leaned against the chair’s arm. She had prepared for whatever torment she intended to inflict on Kellen—but her nose was swelling, and one eye had a bruise forming beneath it.

She was the queen ofnothing.

Kellen had beat the snot out of Mara until… Until what? She worked her lips, her tongue, making sure they were under her command, then asked, “What did you do to me?”

“I Tased you.” Mara touched the black-and-yellow weapon at her side. “Why did you pass out? It was just a Taser.” She sounded serious—and scornful.

Kellen had nothing to lose. Her daughter and her husband had set out to sea in a violent storm, with little chance of survival. Even if they made it to the mainland, Rae had been drugged. She might never recover. She might never smile, she might never speak, she might never be Rae again.

Grief swelled in Kellen, followed swiftly by rage. She lifted her head off the carpet. “Really? You Tased someone who two years ago had a brain surgery? And it didn’t turn out well? I’m so sorry to hear that. What kind of idiot wouldn’t know that that would blow all my neurons to hell?”

In a motion so swift Kellen’s dazed eyes could barely follow, Mara came to her feet, lifted and pointed the pistol. “I’m not an idiot!”

Kellen had hit a nerve.

“I’m not stupid. Say it. Say it!” Mara’s feet, clad in those hiking boots, stomped forward, aiming for Kellen’s right hand.

Kellen may have imagined she had nothing to lose, but she’d protected, cherished, worked that hand for too long to have Mara break all the bones. She pulled it close to her body, rolled to her side and onto her feet—and one knee gave way. It hit the rug hard enough to bruise her, jar her spine. Her head spun and with her hand still tucked close, she leaned over the coffee table and retched.

“Yuck!” Mara backed up. “Don’t barf!”

Kellen fought for control of her stomach, her body, her mind. She practiced her breathing, in and out, and when she could, she pressed her good hand onto the table and used it to support her as she stood. She swayed and, head down, stared through her lashes at Mara. “You’re not stupid,” she acknowledged. “You were illiterate, yet still you ran the largest antiquities smuggling operation in this country, from Yearning Sands, and no one knew. No, not stupid. A psychopath. A serial killer. But never stupid.”

That was good enough for Mara. “Good. You’re not stupid, either, so you understand what I’m doing here.”

“No. I don’t. You were in prison.”

“I got out.”

“You escaped!”

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