Page 17 of What Doesn't Kill Her

Turning on her heel, she marched back toward the gym. She stepped in, intending to confront Max, ask the name of the restorer guy, how long this job was supposed to last and if Max expected her to come back when it was done.

Max stood in the middle of the gym, punching the bag with blinding speed and terrifying force.

Left, right, face the mirror, kick the inflatable stability ball.

Ball slams the wall.

Left, right, face the mirror, kick!

Ball slams the wall.

Left, right, face the mirror, kick!

He scowled every time he punched. Smiled when he kicked and the ball slammed into the mirror. Left, right, kick...

This time he was too slow. The ball smacked him. He staggered backward. Kicked again. Left, right...

His knuckles left a red smudge on the punching bag. Blood. He’d torn his knuckles open. Clearly, he was a man in the throes of vivid brilliant Technicolor frustration.

Kellen backed out the door, shut it softly behind her and tiptoed away.

She wasn’t exactly sure what had angered Max—her, her inability to bond with Rae, her way of leading Rae into danger by encouraging her to climb to ridiculous heights? Or it was nothing to do with her, maybe his mother’s tendency to burn oatmeal butterscotch cookies until the bottom was black and he had to scrape them off with a bread knife?

Maybe he didn’t care what happened to Kellen. But probably he did, and maybe he was angry the way everything was falling out. And not that she didn’t feel the same way, but—damn.

She didn’t know how to make this work. As far as she knew, there wasn’t a manual that explained how, while in a coma, to push a baby out of her loins and seven years later bond with it. She felt so stupid.Cowsproducedcalvesand bonded with them. She had unknowingly produced a child and couldn’t bond. Was she less than a notoriously dumb barnyard animal?

Maybe.

No wonder Max was kicking and punching.

Across the miles, Birdie must have sensed the tangle of Kellen’s emotions. She texted,Everything okay?

I’ve got a job. So yes. Everything’s okay. It’s good to be busy.

What kind of job?

Security.

A pause.

Last time you worked security, you almost got killed.

Shouldn’t happen this time.

Make sure it doesn’t!

Kellen headed back to her bedroom in the old farmhouse and pulled her duffel bag out of the depths of the closet. She stared into the dark interior.

The clothing basics: underwear, toiletries, poncho, three pairs of socks—a change of socks made every day better—and a change of clothes for rugged terrain. Her hiking boots. A cap.

Emergency basics: compass, flashlight, waterproof matches, nylon rope, knife, nylon zip ties.

Those items were always in there.

She needed more. She added ammunition, her sleeping bag and an all-weather blanket. She assumed this would be at most two nights, but one thing the military had taught her—things go wrong, people lie, and a mission schedule wavers according to those two things.

Okay, that was three things the military had taught her.

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