One secret, one nightmare, one lie. You guess which is which.
1. I have the scar of a gunshot on my forehead.
2. I have willfully misrepresented my identity to the US military.
3. I’m the new mother of a seven-year-old girl.
Kellen Adams suffers from a yearlong gap in her memory. A bullet to the brain will cause that. But she’s discovering the truth, and what she learns changes her life, her confidence, her very self. She finds herself in the wilderness, on the run, unprepared, her enemies unknown—and she is carrying a priceless burden she must protect at all costs. The consequences of failure would break her. And Kellen Adams does not break.
What doesn’t kill her...had better start running.
Praise for New York Times bestselling author
Christina Dodd
“No one does high-stakes, high-voltage suspense quite like Dodd, and her latest flawlessly written novel is another guaranteed keep-the-lights-on-late read. Dodd is at her most wildly entertaining, wickedly witty best.”
—Booklist (starred review) on Dead Girl Running
“Christina Dodd reinvents the romantic thriller. Her signature style—edgy, intense, twisty, emotional—leaves you breathless from first page to last. Readers who enjoy Nora Roberts will devour Dodd’s electrifying novels.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author
“Sign me up for anything Christina Dodd writes.”
—Karen Robards, New York Times bestselling author
“[A]bsolutely gripping... A mesmerizing read.”
—Amazon.com on Because I’m Watching (Amazon Top Pick of September and Amazon Best Book of 2016)
“[An] exquisitely crafted, modern version of Gaslight that hooks readers and keeps them mesmerized until the end. A chilling and gripping tale, beautifully done.”
—Library Journal (starred review) on Because I’m Watching
“[A]nother smart, dramatic mystery that will keep readers flipping pages until the very end, with unexpected twists, psychological tension, and emotional depth.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review) on Because I’m Watching
Also available from
Christina Dodd
and HQN Books
Cape Charade
Hard to Kill (ebook novella)
Dead Girl Running
Families and Other Enemies (ebook novella)
What Doesn’t Kill Her
WHAT DOESN’T KILL HER
CHRISTINA DODD
Last year, an organization called Quilts of Honor created, personalized and donated a quilt to be given to my ninety-three-year-old father-in-law, a WWII veteran, in a touching ceremony at the local high school in Emmett, Idaho. The work that went into the quilt and the kindness behind the “Quilted Hugs of Gratitude” gave my father-in-law (and his family) and the other honored veterans a great deal of pleasure. Thank you to the people who created the quilts, to the high school students who showed such respect to the men and women who have served in the military, and of course to the veterans themselves.
If you’d like to request a quilt for a veteran or volunteer to make them, you can contact Quilts of Honor at www.quiltsofhonor.org.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
What doesn’t kill her...had better start running.
1
Sleeping Beauty was such a sucker.
You can say stuff in her defense. She was young and unwary. She didn’t know much about wicked men and cruel women. No one warned her not to touch sharp objects. But ultimately, everything that happened—the kingdom taking a hundred-year nap, her prince having to hack back thorns and fight a dragon, him having to run up a gazillion stairs, wheezing and gasping, to revive her with true love’s kiss—that was all her fault. Everything melts down around her and all she does is lie there, snoozing away.
As I said, a sucker.
Why am I bringing up corny, politically incorrect, completely unfeminist Sleeping Beauty?
Because I am that sucker/loser/fool.
When I was eighteen, I was Cecilia Adams. I met and married the handsome wealthy prince of my dreams, Gregory Lykke, a charming guy twice my age with buckets of money.
You guessed it—he was a wicked man, a monster. When after two years he tried to perform the classic husband/wife murder/suicide, he instead killed himself and my successful, brave and loving cousin.
Her name was Kellen Adams. Remember that.
Did I do the right thing, admit what had happened, start a campaign to raise social awareness about dragons and abusive husbands?
Nooo. Like the coward I was, I stole my cousin’s identity and ran away to the big city. I called myself Kellen Adams, but I was still gullible little Ceecee, easily wounded, unprepared to face the world, falling into homelessness, helplessness and fear.
One day, as I wandered through Philadelphia smelling like garbage and reeking of paranoia, I saw a wicked man dragging a terrified little girl toward his car.
Points to me for recognizing wicked. Getting smarter is a great thing.
Points to me for having all my terror transformed into rage. I saw myself in that helpless child. I attacked the man, helped Annabella Di Luca escape and won the eternal gratitude of the little girl’s family.
The Di Lucas were an Italian-American clan, successful, close and loving. Maximilian Di Luca was the girl’s uncle. He liked me, despite the garbage smell. He didn’t know about the Sleeping Beauty dumb stuff or the cowardice or that I was impersonating my dead cousin. I told him my name was Ceecee, no last name. He apparently saw something in me that he admired, because he didn’t ask questions, and he courted me.
Turns out, I really liked him. I slept with him. I loved him. I dreamed that somehow this romance would be different than my marriage, with some happily-ever-afters and no thorns or drago
ns. For a few months, it seemed as if I would have my heart’s desire.
But lies and omissions have a way of catching up with a person.
I still had Kellen’s papers. Without telling me, Max looked through them. He thought I was Kellen Adams, with all her degrees and her credentials. I guess I don’t blame him, but when I found out, I panicked and ran away. The wicked man who had tried to kidnap Annabella took his revenge; he tracked me down and shot me in the head.
Here comes the real Sleeping Beauty part.
I didn’t die. Instead, I lay in a coma.
The seasons passed. I didn’t know.
The world changed. I didn’t know.
None of that was important. What mattered was, I didn’t realize the changes my body was going through.
Pay attention. That’s significant.
After thirteen months, I woke in a hospital. I didn’t know where I was or why, and I didn’t remember anything about the Di Luca family or Max. I only knew I was afraid. I rose from my bed and fled.
Using Kellen’s papers, I joined the US Army.
In the military, in war and peace, I changed from the timid, fragile young woman I had been. I became strong, competent and fierce, a warrior for good.
Yay, me.
Six years later, I was given a medical discharge.
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 it 1931 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.
More debris followed, and more screams.
Still holding the shard, she scrambled out from the shrubbery, backed away from the building and looked up.
A stout man dangled off the roof, feet kicking, screaming wildly. She’d seen him two days ago, and earlier today, in the tasting room. Thank God for the Rolodex in her brain; she remembered all she had observed about him.
RODERICK BLAKE:
MALE, WHITE, 30-40 YO, BLOND HAIR, OVERWEIGHT, TOURIST GARB WORN BADLY. BRITISH ACCENT. GRIPED ABOUT PAYING THE TASTING FEE. PAID AND OVER-TASTED, PRIMARILY PINOT NOIR. LEERED AT HER AND THE FEMALE TOURIST, WHO HASTILY DEPARTED. LEFT IN A LEXUS, LOUDLY PROCLAIMING HIS INTENTION TO GO TO A GOOD WINERY.
Now he was hanging off the roof.
Guess he didn’t find a good winery.
She dialed the winery’s emergency number. As soon as Rita Grapplee picked up, Kellen said, “I’ve got a man dangling off the winery roof, back side of the building close to the cellar door.” The cellar door which I almost reached and thank God I stopped to check for the key or I would have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A broken piece of terra-cotta tile piercing her hip was better than a six-pound roof tile slamming down on her cranium. She had enough trouble with her head... “I’m going to try to bring him down safely, but get the EMTs here ASAP.”
Rita gave a squawk that sounded like, “Whatnotrooffall?”
Kellen guessed they didn’t get emergencies like this very often. “Send help!” She hung up.
From above, she heard Roderick yell again. How much had he imbibed that he’d climbed onto the roof of a three-story building and almost fallen to his death?
The original estate on this site had been orchards surrounding an early twentieth-century farmhouse. A few towering cherry trees surrounded the now remodeled farmhouse and provided gracious shade for the well-tended yard. The trees still bore fruit, and workers now picked the fruit and loaded it into buckets strapped to their belts.
She ran into the trees, each step more and more crooked as the pain in her hip blossomed into agony. A twenty-foot spike ladder leaned against a tree; the picker was all the way up in the top branches. She grabbed the ladder and lifted it. Every muscle in her poor abused hip told her that was a mistake.
In the tree, the picker cursed at her.
“Thank you!” she yelled and headed back to the winery, dragging the long heavy wooden ladder behind her.
The winery building was three stories of classic Tuscan architecture, a jewel that glowed like ancient amber in the setting of Oregon’s long lush Willamette Valley. The front of the building faced west toward I-5 and welcomed wine tasters with a long winding drive bordered by tall thin evergreens, rows of grapes growing in purple clumps and a walled garden. On th
e first floor, in addition to the tasting room, was a special events center, a kitchen tended by an impatient chef and wine storage.
Guests fought to stay in the exorbitantly priced second-and third-story suites, lounge on the balconies, enjoy the cuisine and if they wished, take part in bicycling tours and unique-to-them wine tastings.
Things like a guy falling off the roof did not happen here—or at least, never had before.
Kellen took a second look at the splinter of tile protruding about an inch from her hip. It hurt like a dirty bitch and blood oozed around it, staining the shredded thread of her jeans. The sharp tip had hit bone and backed out a little, so it wasn’t scraping her with every movement. Folks, that’s all the good news for tonight.
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.
What Doesn't Kill Her Page 1
