What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(55)

Max pulled her toward the corner, behind the easy chair. “Rae is fine.”

“Rae almost died!” Kellen turned on him, shouted in a whisper. “She almost died. She almost froze to death. She... They shot at her. She knows that the sound of a man screaming can muffle a retreat.” She inhaled deeply and stared up at Max.

“It’s unfortunate that all happened. I wish she could be the same child she was before she joined you in the hopes of bonding.”

“I wish that, too.” With all her heart.

He picked his words carefully, as if he desperately wanted to say the right thing. “She shouldn’t have stowed away, but in all fairness to her, even if she had understood what true danger was, and she didn’t, this trip shouldn’t have been quite as harrowing as it turned out.”

“No.” Kellen sniveled, dug around in the pockets of the robe and finally dabbed her nose on a sleeve.

He didn’t seem to be judging her, but then, it didn’t matter.

She was judging herself.

He stood up and left her.

She didn’t blame him.

But he came back with a roll of toilet paper, sat beside her again and handed it over. “How long’s it been since you cried?”

She didn’t want to tell him. He would despise her. He would see her as the irresponsible know-it-all that she was. He would realize she shouldn’t be trusted with their daughter. Yet she couldn’t stop the words, and they spilled out. “It was another life. In Afghanistan. When I killed a woman and her two daughters.”

“Not on purpose.” But he frowned, as if he couldn’t imagine she might have made a mistake as a warrior.

“I didn’t shoot them. It was worse than that. I was responsible.” She unrolled a wad of toilet paper and blew her nose. Thankfully, there was a wastebasket beside the chair, and she tossed the wad into it and unrolled some more. And shredded it between her fingers, because she had to have something to do. Anything to take her attention off these horrible memories.

“In Afghanistan, in some of the rural areas, in the mountains, it’s difficult to live. War. Constant war. Famine, all the time. For a woman, a widow with no relatives, it’s not...good. Men control that world. More than this one. They’re not always kind, and Ghazal had two children, two girl children.”

“Ghazal was a friend?”

“Not a friend, no. She and the children lived on the edge of the poor village. A village filled with thin, pitiful people who paid both the government and the insurgents. In a hard, cold land, only the strong survive. Maybe. When our convoy went by, the eight-year-old stood out there and begged. Those big brown eyes, so sad and...old.”

That face. Kellen needed to remember that face. She was the only person alive who did.

“Madeena said she had a mother and a little sister. I followed her home. That mother and her kids lived in a hovel. I’ve seen shacks in Wyoming that had been abandoned for a hundred years in better shape. It was freezing. The children were emaciated. The mother was skeletal.” Kellen’s heart still hurt as she remembered, and she shredded more toilet paper. “I gave them everything I had. Food. Blankets. I was cold and hungry that night, but—poor me.” She had mocked her own hunger then. She mocked it now.

“Still you did help them.” Max sounded strong, encouraging. “Did no one else take pity on them? Their own people?”

“Winter lasts for months. Crops fail. Food is scarce for everyone. No one could explain all the ins and outs to my satisfaction, but because men make the deals, and because Ghazal had no relatives, she couldn’t remarry. Or wouldn’t because of what would happen to her daughters in a family where they were not blood kin. She didn’t conform, and in her part of the world, she and her girls were easy to forget.”

He sighed. “I’m so sorry. But you helped.”

“Stop using that word. It only makes it worse.” She put down the toilet paper, straightened away from him, leaned against the wall, crossed her legs. She needed to be apart from him to tell this story. “I got them stuff online, went back a couple of times. Gave them picture books. A couple of toys. A Slinky, one of the good metal ones.” She half laughed. “I’ve never seen children so fascinated and enthralled by one cheap little...” She caught her breath on a sob. “I did wrong.”

“You shouldn’t have...helped them?”

“The guys at the base, the ones who’d been there awhile, said, Don’t do this. Don’t interfere. Never never. It won’t turn out well.” She saw her hands; she was wringing them, and it took an effort to stop. “I didn’t listen. I told them I was sneaking in. I said no one would see me.”

“You were risking your life.”

“What would you have done?” She was fierce. “They were going to starve to death. I was afraid no matter what I did, that would be their fate.” Don’t tell the story. It hurts too much. “But they didn’t starve.”

“What happened?” Max put his hands over hers.

She had been wringing them again. Now she bunched them into fists. “I went to visit. Like I said, sneaking in. As soon as I got close I could smell that stench.” She could smell it now, curling like bitter smoke through her memories. “I knew what it was. I recognized it from other missions. Char, desperation, death. The house was rubble and still smoldering.”