Page 4 of What Doesn't Kill Her

She put her hand to her hip and moaned—and climbed up on the top of the concrete railing. It was a foot wide; wide enough for her to stand with no problem—as long as she avoided looking down the three stories to the ground. That got her close enough to grab at him. She didn’t, though. She didn’t want to startle him. “Roderick, can you look at me? See how close I am to you? Come on, Roderick, a quick glance.”

Roderick glanced, his face a combination of blistering red effort and green-white terror.

“Hand over hand,” she said. “It’s Oregon. We have a lot of rain. That gutter will hold you. All you have to do is move a little bit.”

He looked up at the sky and hung, gasping. Then he shuffled his hands to the right in three quick movements.

“That’s great,” she said. He’d hardly moved at all. “When you get closer, I can guide you down to the balcony.”

“I’ll break my legs,” he yelled.

“The people inside the room are bringing out pillows and blankets. Aren’t you?” She blared the question toward the screen door in her Captain-Adams-in-command voice.

The screen door snapped open and a man in a white terry bathrobe stood there, looking annoyed. “Look,” he said.

“You look!” She pointed up.

Had he thought she was kidding? Apparently so, because as soon as he saw Roderick dangling there, he ran inside and came back hauling pillows, sheets, the comforter.

She switched her attention back to Roderick. “Rod, listen.”

“Roderick,” he snapped.

For a guy hanging by his fingertips, he was pain-in-the-ass arrogant.

“Roderick, we’ve got you a soft place to land. Come on, shuffle over a little more.” Because hand over hand was apparently too much to ask.

He shuffled.

She made approving sounds.

The bathrobe-clad woman in the room stepped out, looked up and shrieked, “He’s going to plunge to his death!”

Little Mary Sunshine, that one.

From below, Kellen became aware of a growing mutter, like the rumble of thunder from a faraway storm. “You’ve got an audience, Roderick,” she said. “You’ve got something to prove. You can do it.” She measured with her gaze. “You’ve got about three feet before you can drop onto the balcony.”

He shuffled a little more. “I’ll break my legs.”

“Maybe.” She figured this was the time to be blunt. “But it beats dying of a broken neck. That’s a three-story drop below you. Come on! Move it!” She’d moved from Captain Adams to Army drill sergeant, balancing on the top of the broad balcony railing, braying out orders at an unseasoned recruit.

Roderick moved on her command. He shuffled, hung, shuffled, hung. Sweat stained his armpits.

She moved back to allow his flailing legs to get past her.

He got about a foot past her, and his hand slipped.

“He’s coming down, get out of the way,” she shouted at the people on the balcony.

They leaped back against the building.

He swung his legs.

His foot hit her outstretched hand.

Already overbalanced, she fell sideways onto the balcony. She landed on the comforter; agony slashed at her hip, and she blacked out. Somewhere in the depths of her mind, she had heard a sickening crunch.

He’d made it to the balcony—barely.

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