Page 96 of Strangers She Knows

As she got closer to the Conkles’ tiny house, she used the rain and the wind to hide her approach. As she came around the corner, she kept low, watched for someone’s recent footprints. Glancing up at the house, she saw greenery draped across the roof. A branch had blown off one of the wide and ancient live oaks.

No, more than a branch. My God.

She put her feet down, stopped herself, and stared.

The whole tree had toppled. The impact split the cottage in two. The house Kellen intended to search had disintegrated into a mass of dried and splintered boards, rusted nails and shreds of insulation. Wind had ripped open the attic, dismantled cupboards and furniture, left everything inside open to the elements.

Whatever weapons Kellen might have been able to glean had sunk into the mud.

Stunned, she rode toward Jamie’s greenhouse. There, one of the oak branches had smashed through the glass, taking out the growing tables, leaving the plants exposed to each blustering squall. The deluge had destroyed the carefully composted soil, and the plants had been uprooted.

It was as if Jamie’s spirit had claimed the house and the greenhouse as hers, and only hers, and broken them apart.

Kellen hid her bike and headed into the greenhouse. There she rescued a few cucumbers, some green beans and some baby carrots. She let the rain wash them clean and ate with eager appetite. The water barrel was intact and overflowing, and she scooped up the stream of water in her palms and drank until she couldn’t drink anymore. She concealed herself in the wreck of the oak tree and relieved herself. When she was done, she thanked God Mara hadn’t found her at that moment; Kellen didn’t want to die with her pants around her ankles.

Her trip so far today had yielded nothing. She had hoped for a weapon at Mara’s camp. She had hoped for a weapon at the Conkles’ home. She was still alive, but so far, she had survived, yet not advanced her cause at all.

Where now? What was the plan?

She set off for the grove of redwoods. As she rode, abruptly, the winds stopped shrieking, and the downpour became a mere rainstorm. The ride became comparatively pleasant, if Kellen could forget the fact Mara was out there somewhere.

Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe Mara had sent Kellen out to exhaust her while Mara stayed in the house and survived the storm in comfort.

Kellen straightened and grinned.

No way. Not Mara. She’d never allow Kellen to run a race that Mara didn’t run, too. Mara’s competitive spirit allowed no rival.

Kellen heard a rumble in the distance. She looked up; the return of the storm turned the afternoon skies to black. Lightning flashed, temporarily blinding her. She wobbled.

Then the wind snatched up the bike’s rear wheel and blasted it to pieces.

Kellen found herself on the ground, stunned and sure she’d been hit by a lightning bolt. She lifted herself onto her elbows and looked at her bike—and realized that damage wasn’t caused by lightning, but by a gunshot.

In those moments of lessening storm, Mara had caught sight of her, used her rifle and proved she could shoot.

Kellen whispered, “Max and Rae… I’m sorry, darlings.” She had failed them.

The pain in her ribs was different now. She looked down and saw a long, thin sliver of the bike’s spoke had penetrated her clothing and pierced her just below her right breast. She scooted into the relative cover of the grass, and with every movement, the spoke jiggled, tearing skin and muscle. She stopped, took a few deep, deliberate breaths, pulled it out and pressed her hand over the wound.

The puncture was small, she assured herself. Painful, but no big deal. She could survive this.

Within five minutes, she saw Mara running toward the bike, crowing with so much laughter, Kellen knew she thought she’d killed her. Before Mara realized she hadn’t, Kellen crawled deeper into the sodden grass. Then, keeping low, she raced toward the redwoods.

She was close. Closer. Almost there…

She heard Mara scream with fury.

Kellen broke cover and dove for the depths of the trees.

A shot blasted past her.

That damned rifle. If Kellen had any firearm, she could even the odds, but to have nothing…

The mighty trees had taken the typhoon and created a haven, a grove made up of whirling redwood needles and spirits groaning with the effort of resisting the storm.

Kellen ran, no plan but to survive. She knew where she needed to be. One mighty tree had in its death fallen into another, providing a pathway up into the protective branches. She found it; a broad old tree at a steep angle. She climbed like a monkey, using hands and feet, and made it into the security of the living tree. She crouched there on a massive branch next to the massive trunk, and waited.

It was always dim in here.

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