Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(44)

Her words brought up the memory of those scattered bones, and Kellen found her knees getting a little wobbly.

Sheri Jean tsked, put her hand under Kellen’s arm and steered her toward the food. “Annie and Leo don’t expect you to work miracles, you know.”

“I know!” Now Sheri Jean was being nice. So out of character!

“The resort will get along fine without you for a few hours. You need to find a bed and crash. Lucky you’re in a hotel, hmm?”

As Kellen made her way to Annie’s office, she considered one simple truth: except for the honeymooners and the Shivering Sherlocks, almost everyone in this resort was a murder and smuggling suspect. While she was serving in the penthouse, she would take the chance to snoop around about Carson Lennex. She thought of the urbane, charming actor and chuckled.

As if someone as famous as Carson Lennex could ever be the Librarian.

*

Kellen sank onto the couch. She ought to work on tomorrow’s scheduling, but she was so tired the world was spinning, and every once in a while, she caught sight of something out of the corners of her eyes that when she looked, wasn’t really there: Priscilla’s ghost, or a murderous smuggler, or maybe an old memory that refused to be vanquished.

She withered back onto the cushions, tucked a pillow under her head and…

Cecilia knew she needed to go out into the city, to get familiar with the area, to take care of herself. To learn how to be Kellen.

Instead, she hid, avoiding television, internet and, most of all, human contact. Inevitably, she ran out of food. She was used to being hungry—Gregory had sometimes locked the cupboards—but she couldn’t die here. Not after the crimes that had been done in her name. She had to go out.

She prepared carefully, gathering Kellen’s grocery bags, her grocery cart, using the computer to review the route to the store. For the first time in two weeks, she descended the stairs, and as she did, the office door snapped open. A short, stout woman hustled out, eyes snapping in annoyance, envelopes and catalogs spilling from her hands. Mrs. del Sarto, Cecilia assumed.

“Miss Adams, in the future if you’re going to be gone for this long would you please stop your mail so it doesn’t clutter up my office and it looks as if Cityflix is still charging you so you’d better call them again and your girlfriend was here every day crying about you so would you please return her messages?” Mrs. del Sarto talked without drawing breath and manhandled the mail into one of the grocery bags hanging on Cecilia’s arm. As she straightened, she stared at Cecilia’s face.

Cecilia tensed and the refrain ran through her mind, Not Kellen. She knows. Not Kellen. She knows.

Mrs. del Sarto said, “The TV was telling the truth. You were there at that explosion in Maine. You look shell-shocked. You know the police are looking for you, right?”

Cecilia shook her head.

“They want to hear your version. Some of the people in that town say it’s a murder/suicide, but that guy’s family says you had something to do with it.”

“No. No!” Cecilia backed away. “I didn’t. Please don’t…tell anyone I’m here. I want to be alone.”

“I mind my own business.” But Mrs. del Sarto wore a pinched, pleased expression as if she’d discovered a vein of gold. “You’re going shopping? You could pick up a few things for me. Which store are you going to?”

Vivid scenarios filled Cecilia’s mind: the press discovering her at the grocery store, or worse, her return back here to the lobby clogged with police and reporters. “I’m not going out.”

Mrs. del Sarto pointed. “You have your cart.”

“I need to put this mail away. Then I…I have to go call Cityflix.” Cecilia backed toward the stairs. “I’ll be on hold for hours.”

“That’s true.” Mrs. del Sarto was patently displeased. “But you’ll have to come down sooner or later.”

Sooner. Before the police knocked on her door and demanded entrance. Upstairs, Cecilia repacked the suitcase and computer. She gathered cash and credit cards and put them in her wallet, then shoved the wallet into the back pocket of her jeans. She carefully stowed Kellen’s important documents—passport, driver’s license, diplomas and birth certificate—in Kellen’s travel wallet and hung it around her neck. In less than ten minutes she was out the door, on the street and headed toward the rail station.

New York was no longer safe for her.

Next stop: Philadelphia.





19

Kellen gasped, came awake, opened her eyes wide.

Philadelphia.

New York’s Grand Central Terminal south to Philly’s 30th Street Station. Mugged and lost everything except her cousin’s papers—driver’s license, diplomas, which she had strapped under her clothes.

No money. No credit cards. Afraid to speak to the police, to make claims on Kellen’s accounts. Months on the streets, cold, desolate, her best friend a sharp pair of scissors. Then…then there was the child, the sobbing little girl and the man who was hurting her…

Cecilia got so angry!

Kellen didn’t remember anything else. She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. She did not remember anything else…until she woke in the hospital.

What had she forgotten? More than a year gone from her life. What had she done?