Page 99 of Strangers She Knows

Mara trembled with some great emotion. Or maybe that was another illusion. Then she smiled, pressed Kellen’s left hand onto the polished wood of the dresser top and spread her fingers wide. “I was hoping it would come to this.” Her eyes gleamed with maniacal pleasure—and she drove a five-inch-long needle through Kellen’s left hand.

42

Kellen screamed: short, surprised, agonized. Tried to yank her hand away, and as muscles and tendons tore, she screamed again. She shook in the effort to stay very still, and stared at her hand, pinned to the dressing table, a silver needle protruding from the back. Blood oozed up, bright red and flowing easily as if pleased to be released. She gripped the needle with the fingers of her right hand and pulled.

Torture. Torment.

“How does it feel to be a failure?” Mara asked. “A nobody?”

“Oh, God.” Kellen sobbed. “Why? Why would you do this?”

“Your other hand is ruined.” Mara leaned against the dressing table and observed her. “Unworthy of my taking. I might as well mutilate this one, too, and teach you a lesson at the same time.”

“What lesson does this teach?”

“Don’t betray me, unfaithful friend.”

Now Kellen understood how completely and cleverly Mara had trapped her. “You’re furious because I made it back to the house alive.”

“You dumped a dead body on me.” Mara waved a hand toward the window, where demons shrieked and roared.

For one moment, the window stretched sideways. A flash of light, and Kellen saw evil faces pressed against the wavering glass. They laughed, mouths wide open, spitting joy at the sight of human torment.

Pain brought Kellen back to reality.

No. Not demons. The storm. Lightning. Thunder. The old house was shaking under the assault.

“I was trying to avoid your bullet. I didn’t know Jamie was there.” Kellen closed her eyes, picturing the scene. “There’s justice in what happened, and somewhere, Jamie’s laughing.”

“No, she’s not. She’s dead!” Mara leaned in and squeezed the sides of Kellen’s hand.

Agony streaked up Kellen’s nerves. She screamed—and struck out with her free hand.

Mara leaped back.

Kellen twisted sideways. The needle wiggled like the swivel point on a compass. Kellen screamed again.

“Don’t be such a baby.” Mara moved close and thrust her own right palm in front of Kellen’s eyes. “See that?”

Kellen blinked, trying to clear the moisture from her eyes.

“See the scars?” Mara pointed at the center of her palm. “See this one?”

Kellen nodded, in too much pain to speak—or to see.

“That was the first one. I was five years old. I brought home a notice that I needed help with my reading. My father, I told you, taught English composition. In our house, only English composition mattered. Anything else was insignificant.” Mara was breathing quickly, staring and remembering. “I didn’t need help with my reading, he said. I needed to stop pretending to be stupid, he said.”

Pain. Confusion. Kellen couldn’t comprehend. “Who?” She blinked again and focused on Mara’s palm, dotted with hard blue scars. What was she looking at?

“My father.” Mara pointed at another hard blue scar on her palm. “That was the second one. I won a medal for a story I wrote. I was so proud. I thought he would be proud.”

“He wasn’t?”

“The teacher sent a note with it saying I needed help with spelling and comprehension. She said I got my words mixed up. My father called me Moron. He used the word like it was my first name.”

“Your father called you Moron.” Kellen didn’t understand. Or didn’t want to understand. “He… What did he do?”

Patiently, Mara explained, “Every time I brought home a note saying I couldn’t read, every time a teacher called to tell my father I needed to be tutored, he took my mother’s beading needle and stabbed me through the palm.”

---