What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(3)

Taking a fortifying breath, she lifted the end of the ladder and slammed it against the building close to one of the third-story balconies. The spike sank into the golden-colored stucco, knocking flakes and chunks down on her.

Max was not going to be happy about that.

He wasn’t going to be happy about any of this.

She hit the rungs hard, climbing fast.

She had to, right? She didn’t have forever to save this guy. She had a chunk of roof tile protruding from her hip, wiggling with every movement. Sooner or later, she was going to faint, and she didn’t fancy falling off the ladder eighteen feet up. She made it to the balcony and over the wide Italianate railing.

That was when the situation got hairy. The dumbass on the roof was five feet too far to the left to drop onto the balcony. He hung over nothing but thirty feet of air and if he let go, he faced a backbreaking splat landing onto Mother Earth.

Inside the exclusive guest bedroom behind the balcony and through the open screen door, she heard a woman shriek and a man shout. They’d seen her, and she knew whatever else happened, two unhappy guests would be making their complaints known.

Yeah. Bummer. She spoke through the screen. “Throw your pillows and comforter out on the balcony. We’re going to save a life here.” Looking up, she shouted, “Hey! Roderick! Move to your right!”

A moan of terror answered her.

“One hand at a time. You can do it.” Actually, she didn’t know if he could. He had a lot of body mass and didn’t look as if he had much upper strength. “Hand over hand,” she instructed in a calm, encouraging voice.

The idiot wailed and kicked his feet.

She put her hand to her hip and moaned—and climbed up on the top of the concrete railing. It was a foot wide; wide enough for her to stand with no problem—as long as she avoided looking down the three stories to the ground. That got her close enough to grab at him. She didn’t, though. She didn’t want to startle him. “Roderick, can you look at me? See how close I am to you? Come on, Roderick, a quick glance.”

Roderick glanced, his face a combination of blistering red effort and green-white terror.

“Hand over hand,” she said. “It’s Oregon. We have a lot of rain. That gutter will hold you. All you have to do is move a little bit.”

He looked up at the sky and hung, gasping. Then he shuffled his hands to the right in three quick movements.

“That’s great,” she said. He’d hardly moved at all. “When you get closer, I can guide you down to the balcony.”

“I’ll break my legs,” he yelled.

“The people inside the room are bringing out pillows and blankets. Aren’t you?” She blared the question toward the screen door in her Captain-Adams-in-command voice.

The screen door snapped open and a man in a white terry bathrobe stood there, looking annoyed. “Look,” he said.

“You look!” She pointed up.

Had he thought she was kidding? Apparently so, because as soon as he saw Roderick dangling there, he ran inside and came back hauling pillows, sheets, the comforter.

She switched her attention back to Roderick. “Rod, listen.”

“Roderick,” he snapped.

For a guy hanging by his fingertips, he was pain-in-the-ass arrogant.

“Roderick, we’ve got you a soft place to land. Come on, shuffle over a little more.” Because hand over hand was apparently too much to ask.

He shuffled.

She made approving sounds.

The bathrobe-clad woman in the room stepped out, looked up and shrieked, “He’s going to plunge to his death!”

Little Mary Sunshine, that one.

From below, Kellen became aware of a growing mutter, like the rumble of thunder from a faraway storm. “You’ve got an audience, Roderick,” she said. “You’ve got something to prove. You can do it.” She measured with her gaze. “You’ve got about three feet before you can drop onto the balcony.”

He shuffled a little more. “I’ll break my legs.”

“Maybe.” She figured this was the time to be blunt. “But it beats dying of a broken neck. That’s a three-story drop below you. Come on! Move it!” She’d moved from Captain Adams to Army drill sergeant, balancing on the top of the broad balcony railing, braying out orders at an unseasoned recruit.

Roderick moved on her command. He shuffled, hung, shuffled, hung. Sweat stained his armpits.

She moved back to allow his flailing legs to get past her.

He got about a foot past her, and his hand slipped.

“He’s coming down, get out of the way,” she shouted at the people on the balcony.

They leaped back against the building.

He swung his legs.

His foot hit her outstretched hand.

Already overbalanced, she fell sideways onto the balcony. She landed on the comforter; agony slashed at her hip, and she blacked out. Somewhere in the depths of her mind, she had heard a sickening crunch.

He’d made it to the balcony—barely.

Seconds later, she woke to Roderick’s screams. He had missed the pillows and the padding. When she looked, she saw blood and shattered white bone sticking out of one leg.

The man on the balcony, the one in the robe, leaned over the edge and heaved.

EMTs burst through the screen door and knelt beside Roderick.