Page 88 of Strangers She Knows

Kellen stood on the beach, her toes curled in the cold, wet sand. She was soaked by the windblown rain and her efforts to help Max launch the SkinnySail into the depths of the roiling surf. There was no way—no way—Max could guide the vessel bearing Rae through the storm to the mainland, to the coast of California.

Yet Kellen trusted that somehow he would. He had to. Rae was their daughter, their hope, the proof of their love.

Max struggled against the storm, using brute strength and motorized power. Waves swamped the small vessel; Max and Rae disappeared from view, and Kellen found herself on her toes, straining and screaming at them to come back, come out. As if her shouts lifted the SkinnySail, the boat rose, wobbled at the top of the wave, and finally thrust itself out of the surf and into the rough, gray seas beyond.

Max was frantically bailing water from the tiny vessel.

“My God,” Kellen whispered. She observed until they had disappeared behind a curtain of rain.

They were gone. Gone from sight, gone from assistance, gone beyond all the help she could give them—except prayer. She could pray, and she did, as she seated herself on a driftwood log, rubbed the worst of the sand off her feet, and donned her soaking wet socks and worn running shoes. She prayed fervently and constantly as she fought the wind on the steep and twisted path up the cliff. And she wept.

As she climbed, she kept touching the pistol in the holster at her side. Mara was up there somewhere. She wasn’t going to make her revenge easy and shoot Kellen; if she had intended to end things that quickly, she could have done that at Yearning Sands from a safe distance. No, that demented bitch had some other crazy plan.

Kellen had her own crazy plan: shoot Mara between the eyes, shoot her in the back, shoot her anywhere and anytime.

The wind continued from the south, pushing her up the trail, and at the same time, rain made the gritty rocks slick and dangerous. More than once, as the wind shifted a few degrees to the east or west, she could have bounced all the way down to the beach. When she reached the top, the sand swirled in her face. She slid backward, grabbed a handful of the rough beach grass, and stopped herself. Struggling erect, she wiped the rain and tears off her face, took that last big step onto the top of the cliff, and heard that familiar female voice.

“I gave her only a half dose, because she loved me.”

Kellen used her sleeve to clear her eyes. She looked up at—

MARA PHILIPPI:

FEMALE. DARK HAIR CHOPPED SHORT, FAIR SKIN, BLUE EYES. 5'6". 130LBS. AGGRESSIVELY PHYSICALLY FIT. UNCLEAR ON DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WAR ZONE AND GYMNASIUM. SMUGGLER. LIAR. ACTRESS. SERIAL KILLER. MURDERER OF KELLEN’S OWN CHILD.

Mara Philippi: dressed in a rain poncho, standing beside the golf cart, pointing her pistol at Kellen and smiling as if she’d done something kind.

Kellen didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. She ducked and attacked, head first, driving herself into Mara’s belly.

Above her head, the pistol blasted.

Both women stumbled, thrown off balance by the recoil.

Kellen slammed the top of her head into Mara’s elbow.

The pistol went flying into the tall, wet grass.

Now Kellen could kill her.

But when she went for her pistol, Mara slammed a fist into Kellen’s wrist.

Outraged by the pain, the nerves in Kellen’s arm went numb. Her hand, her right hand, curled into the useless ball it had been after the brain surgery.

She stared at it, at the poor thing at the end of her arm, and all the helplessness of the past rushed at her.

But she wasn’t helpless. She could use this wrecked limb. She had learned how, in the garage, punching at a mattress Max had pressed against the wall.

She looked up at Mara. At Mara, who stared at her hand, lips curled in disgust. “What’s wrong?”

Kellen flung that arm, that hand, at Mara’s face. With all the power of her body behind her, she punched her right in the nose. She felt the crunch, felt the satisfaction of knowing she’d hurt the woman who had drugged her baby.

Mara shrieked, fell backward, floundering under the ferocity of Kellen’s attack. She whimpered. She moaned. She tried to speak, but Kellen didn’t care, didn’t listen. She wanted to beat Mara into the ground, make her unconscious, hurt her until she died.

Punch left. Right. A kick. Left. Right.

Mara spun, caught herself, did a flip so athletic Kellen remembered their former rivalry. When Mara landed on her feet, she had a black and yellow weapon in her hand. She stabbed it at Kellen. Kellen parried with her hand and arm and—

A blast of pain. A shriek of nerve burn. The brain shut down.

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