Page 2 of What Doesn't Kill Her
Pay attention again. That’s significant, too. The Army liked me, my degrees, my efficiency. They didn’t want to discharge me, and I didn’t want to go. But the news they gave me wasn’t good, so I was out of the service and in need of employment.
I got a job at a Di Luca resort and met Max once more.
He might have been true love’s prince, but I didn’t remember him. I didn’t remember anything about that year when I was lost in the coma’s gray fog.
But Max could not let me go, for he knew more about me than I did...
And neither of us knew all the truths.
Hello. I’m Sleeping Beauty.
Not really, though.
One secret, one nightmare, one lie. You guess which is which.
—I’m the new mother of a seven-year-old girl.
—I’ve got the scar of a bullet on my forehead and a medical discharge from the US Army.
—I’ve misrepresented my identity to the US government.
My name is Kellen Adams...and that’s half a lie.
2
Willamette Valley in Oregon
Di Luca Winery
Bark mulch pressed splinters into her bare knees and the palms of her hands. Evergreen azaleas scratched at her face and caught at her hair, and the white blossoms smelled musky as they dropped petals on the ground around her. Spiderwebs brushed her skin and stuck. She could feel the scurry of tiny segmented feet down her back.
Or could she? The feet might be an interesting figment of her imagination, but whether they were or not, she still crawled close to the back wall of the Tuscan-style winery building, under the hedge, and constantly scanned the sunlit lawn beyond.
Retired Army Captain Kellen Adams did not intend to be caught. Not now. Not when she was so close to her goal—that small locked side door that led down the stairs and into the cool quiet wine cellar.
A sudden notion brought her to a halt. Had she brought the key? She groped at her button-up shirt pocket. Yes! The key was there. She breathed a sigh of relief—and her phone whistled, alerting her she had a text.
It was Birdie.
BIRDIE HAYNES:
FEMALE, 5'10", 130 LBS. AMERICAN OF COLOR: HISPANIC, AFRICAN AND FAR EASTERN. MILITARY VETERAN. RECENT WIDOW. LEAD MECHANIC. BIG RAW HANDS, LONG FINGERS. BEAUTIFUL SMILE IN A NOT-BEAUTIFUL FACE.BEST FRIEND.
She had sent a photo of her and the film star, Carson Lennex, leaning against a beautiful old car. Birdie had thoughtfully labeled it1931 Bugatti Royale Berline de Voyager.
Beautiful!Kellen texted back. Like she cared about the car. It was the smile on Birdie’s face that warmed her, and Carson Lennex had put it there. God bless the man. After the death of Birdie’s husband, Kellen had feared she would never smile again.
Putting her phone back in her pocket, she started forward again. One meter remaining until she broke into the open. She knew from previous missions this was the tricky part; moving from the relative cover provided by the shrubs and into the open. She made a last reconnaissance, started forward—and a scattering of dirt, moss and debris landed on the last shrub in the line, then tumbled to the ground directly in front of her. In a split second, her brain registered the source.
From three stories straight up, something was falling off the roof of the Italian-style villa.
Kellen flung herself backward, away from the onslaught of baked terra-cotta roof tile that slammed to the ground and shattered like shrapnel. A jagged shard bounced and hit her, pierced her jeans and her hip.
Son of a bitch.
She grabbed the jagged shard and pressed, holding it in place—if she pulled it out, blood would gush—and rolled in agony.
Three stories above, someone screamed.
