Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(10)

Gregory knelt at the gas meter, using something—a pipe wrench?—to fiddle with the connection.

Cecilia scanned the area, looking for Kellen, and she spotted her. There she was, inside the house, sitting on the couch, facing the front door, her back to the picture window, waiting to confront Gregory.

Gregory stood, dropped the wrench onto a clump of golden daylilies, wiped his hands on his dark trousers. He was handsome, tall, strong. And so cruel… He walked briskly around the house, as if on some kind of timetable.

Without him in sight, Cecilia was able to move. She ran toward the house. Through the window, she saw him come through the front door—with a pickax, its long spike lethal and shining.

“No!” Cecilia ran faster. “Kellen! Come on!”

Kellen didn’t budge. Maybe she was afraid.

No, not Kellen. Even if she was afraid, she would react.

As Gregory approached, Kellen slumped forward on the cushions.

What had he done?

Gregory walked around the couch, behind Kellen, lifted the pickax, slammed it into her head.

Her skull split. Gore…blood…death. Oh God, death!

Cecilia screamed, stumbled to a halt, covered her face with her arms.

Then…a whiff of gas. And she knew. She looked.

Inside the house, Gregory walked to the drawer where they kept the lighter for the fire.

I’ll kill you and I’ll kill myself.

That was what he intended. But he hadn’t killed Cecilia. He had killed Kellen and now—

He clicked the lighter a few times. No spark. No flame.

Something drew his gaze up and out the window. He saw Cecilia standing there. He looked down at Kellen’s body. Looked up again, his face twisted by a too-familiar fury.

The house exploded.





4

“Captain? You okay? It’s really rainin’ out here. You want to come inside?”

At the sound of Russell’s voice, Kellen shed the grim memories like rainwater. She looked at the man who stood outside the portico, holding an umbrella over her and staring anxiously.

RUSSELL CLARK:

MALE, 46, 5’11”, 220 LBS., AUTISTIC. YEARNING SANDS DOORMAN SINCE HE WAS 16. GOOD AT HIS JOB. WILL NOT GO ON VACATION EVEN IN WINTER. LIKES/NEEDS ROUTINE.

She looked down at herself, at the yellow plastic rain poncho that draped her to her knees and protected her from the worst of the rain, and at the soggy hem of her long black dress and the damp leather of her fashion boots.

She mentally checked her schedule, made sure she had her top-security-I’m-the-acting-manager pass card that would open any room in the resort and said, “Yes, thank you, Russell. It’s time to go inside.”

“Captain, you’re an interestin’ woman,” Russell said.

“A lot of interesting people work at Yearning Sands Resort.” As if the fires of hell pursued her, Kellen hurried into the resort. A familiar feeling—she’d been pursued by a devil before. She walked into the tall, warmly appointed lobby that glowed with golden, color-washed stucco, a lush plant wall, an eccentric floor-to-ceiling gas fireplace that produced flame from artfully arranged metal rods, and comfortable seating areas where, every morning, the resort served a full complimentary breakfast. She was, for the first time, on duty as resort manager.

As Kellen walked through, she accepted a cinnamon roll bite from the servers who were cleaning up the meal and replacing it with platters of cookies and bowls of fruit. The lobby’s comfort and the warmth were dwarfed by the two long window walls. Drawn by the panorama, Kellen walked over and looked, first to the west at the thrashing ocean and gray clouds rimmed with gold, then to the north, toward the towering Olympic Mountains. In every mood, even in this unrelenting rain, the view was stunning. Breathtaking. No wonder Yearning Sands was one of the world’s most exclusive, expensive, out-of-the-way resorts.

A critical voice sounded behind her. “Taking a moment, are you?”

“There are no words to describe this setting,” Kellen said and turned to face Sheri Jean Hagerty.

SHERI JEAN HAGERTY:

FEMALE, AMERICAN/ASIAN/POLYNESIAN, 40, 5’2”, PROPORTIONED LIKE A CLOTHING MODEL FOR PETITE SIZES. EMPLOYED 18 YRS. GUEST EXPERIENCE MANAGER. SHAKES HANDS TOO FIRMLY. RIGID SCHEDULE. STAFF FEARS. GUESTS ADORE. WANTS MY JOB.

Sheri Jean gave the roiling Pacific a cursory glance. “Yes, it’s pretty.”

“Pretty?”

“Grand, epic, blah blah.” Sheri Jean waved a dismissive hand. “I know how to do the tourist spiel—I simply choose not to waste it on you. Don’t you have something more important to do than look out the windows?”

Kellen’s teeth were suddenly on edge. “Sheri Jean, when we meet this afternoon at two fifteen, if you wish, we’ll discuss Annie’s decision to hire me as assistant manager.”

Sheri Jean’s eyes narrowed. She looked like a small tiger ready to pounce. “It should have been me.”

“Yet it was not, and perhaps you should consider why.”

“I could have assumed the role with no training.”

“The employees would have fled the resort.” Kellen watched a man in a suit walk toward them, then step back, away from the confrontation.

Sheri Jean followed her. “No one would be challenging me now.”

“Ladies, excuse me.”