Page 63 of Strangers She Knows

With a sigh of satisfaction, Max leaned back in his chair, took a sip of his beer, and said, “That storm. The typhoon. It’s one helluva big storm, and it’s aimed right at the California coast.”

“Will we be in trouble?” Kellen asked.

“Maybe.” Max lifted his hands to show his doubt. “Depends. On everything. Whether it stays on the same track and whether it maintains intensity. We’ve got the solar panels that feed the generators. If the storm lasts too long, we’ll lose power. Which is okay except—no water, no sewer.”

“Do we have to go back?” Rae had been fed and sounded less eager to leave.

Max said, “We’ll see.”

24

“My wife…” Dylan Conkle sat in front of the fire pit on the beach at sunset and threw driftwood into the flames. “My wife doesn’t respect me.”

“I saw that.” Mara watched him through eyes narrowed to evil slits. Not that he noticed, or was sober enough to recognize her intentions if he did. “What’s her name again?”

He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Jamie.”

“Right. Jamie doesn’t appreciate you as she should. You’re her man. You provide for her. You handle the folks up at the big house for her.”

“She hates them,” Dylan mumbled.

“She doesn’t appreciate how you make her life easier.” Mara lit a joint and passed it to Dylan.

“Where’d you get this?” He examined the weed with great interest.

“At the university.”At the prison.“It’s dusted with something special. It’ll make youcrazy.”She drew out the word to makecrazysound like fun.

“Really?” Dylan took a long drag. “What kind of crazy?”

“Killin’ crazy.” She dug around in her bag and found the Chivas Regal Owen had been so impressed he could afford. “Wash it down with this.”

Dylan lifted the bottle and swallowed, then coughed up a lung, then took another swallow and sighed. “That’s good stuff.”

Every man was at heart a measly peasant boy. “I thought you’d like it. Only the best for you, Dylan. Too bad Jamie doesn’t believe that.” Mara tossed a few twigs in the fire and watched the orange flames eat them. The night was warm; they didn’t need the fire, but she needed the atmosphere to work her magic. Respect seemed to be a thing for Dylan, so she repeated, “Jamie’s got no respect for you.”

Dylan took another long drag. “No respect. But you do.” He flopped toward her, all loose muscles and stupid hopes. “You could be my real wife.”

“I’d like that, but I couldn’t. Not while she’s alive.” Mara watched him process that. His mind had slowed to a crawl, making him so easy to read she wanted to laugh. But she didn’t. This was a delicate process, sending out a killer, and she needed all her concentration to make it work. “I would never come between a man and his wife.”

The dumbshit bought it, tail, hooves and hide. “You’re a good girl.”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“You like me, don’t you?”

She smiled at him, flushed from the drugs and sweaty from the fire. “Of course. Everyone likes you. Maybe I like you more than I should.” She reached into her bag again, into the side pocket, and found the bottle of pills the prison psychiatrist had prescribed for her. These pills were supposed to alter her moods, make the voices stop and the rage dissipate, be a frontal lobotomy so she could function in society without wanting to gruesomely murder everyone and cut off their hands.

She never took these pills. She liked herself as she was. She offered one on the tip of her finger. “This is a good one.”

He took it, stared at it, mouth dropped open, in the flickering light of the fire. “What does it do?”

“It makes you think you’re a king.” With all the other shit in his system, this little white mood-alterer would turn sloppy, wimpy, worthless Dylan into death incarnate.

“I dropped it!” Dylan scrambled around, patting his loose shorts, his skinny calves, the sand beneath his feet.

Mara sighed, but softly, and brought out another pill. Putting it on the tip of her finger, she said, “Open wide!” and shoved it into his mouth, far enough that he couldn’t lose it.

He gagged a little.

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