Page 7 of Dead Girl Running

LEO DI LUCA:

MALE, ELDERLY, FORMERLY 6’, NOW 5’10”. 190 LBS. SHOULDER-LENGTH GRAY HAIR, GANDALF EYEBROWS. MARRIED “SINCE THE EARTH’S CRUST COOLED.” RESORT OWNER. AMERICAN WITH STRONG ITALIAN ROOTS. SUSPICIOUS OF NEWCOMERS.

He bent to hear Kellen when she said, “Keep an eye on Annie. I think she’s ill.”

He sagged. “She won’t ever take it easy. The arthritis has weakened her immune system, and…” He gestured toward the car. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll do everything I can to protect her.”

Outside, the downpour increased. The wind blew. The tourist bus moved on. Some early guests arrived, and Russell, their doorman, welcomed them and carried their luggage inside.

Kellen lifted her face to the cold, rainy sky. To be bound by the iron constraints of need and affection Annie put upon her…so foolish. She knew better.Yet…need.Being needed was her weakness.

She could hear Gregory’s voice in her head, courting her, winning her.I need you, my darling Cecilia. I need your vitality, your warmth, your smiles, your youth.

Young Cecilia had fallen at his feet—and into a marriage of horrors that she had barely survived.

Her cousin, the real Kellen Adams, had died.

3

“How long has it been since you’ve been outside?”

Cecilia wet her lips, and the wind off the Atlantic Ocean blew them dry again. “Winter is hard in Maine. I couldn’t leave the house then.”

Her cousin, Kellen, slashed the air with the flat of her hand. “It’s July.”

Kellen had always been like that. Older by three years. Decisive. Bossy. Pretty, blonde, manicured even in jeans and a jacket and hiking shoes.

“I was ill.”

The two cousins climbed the granite cliffs, braving the oncoming storm to speak in private.

“You were hurt,” Kellen said. “Gregory is hurting you.”

“No. No.”Don’t make me admit anything.“He…he… I frustrate him. He’s my husband, and I’m not very bright.”

Kellen stopped walking. Took Cecilia’s shoulders. Turned her and looked into her eyes. “You’re brilliant. You were accepted to Vanderbilt, no small feat.”

Cecilia couldn’t maintain eye contact. “I’m not a good wife. I don’t always understand what he wants.”

Kellen shook her. “He’s thirty-eight years old. You’re twenty. He should understand you.”

Cecilia wasn’t used to climbing. Her ribs hurt when Kellen shook her, hurt where he had kicked her. “He doesn’t hit me. He, um, disciplines me when I need it.”

“Disciplines you? When do you need it?” Kellen could not have sounded more incredulous.

“I…I didn’t cook his eggs right. So he…he… That night, he had me kneel in the corner, and he cracked all the eggs over my head, the ones in the refrigerator, and opened the window.”

“In winter? That’s sick. That’s criminal.” Kellen couldn’t contain her outrage. “Is that when that sister of his contacted Mama and Papa? After a year of not hearing a word? Said you had pneumonia and weren’t expected to live?”

“I’m lucky he chose me. He’s one of the Lykke family. They’re wealthy, influential.” The wind off the Atlantic blew hard, ruffled Cecilia’s hair, blew her own words back in her face. “They’ve been here since the country was founded.”

“What is all that worth? Nothing! They’re so self-important they won’t let me in the house, and your Gregory can’t bear to look at me.”

“He’s busy.” Feeble excuse. But it was all Cecilia had.

“Busy ignoring the only relative you’ve seen in two years!” Kellen took a breath. “You graduated from high school. You wanted to see the country. You were afraid to fly, so my folks gave you a car and said go for it. What the hell they were thinking, I’ll never know. First place you get to, you stop and get married to some old guy—”

“He’s not old. He’s in the prime of life!”