Read Online Karma's a Killer by Tracy Weber - Free Book Online Page A

stranger’s words. My stomach clenched, my throat constricted. Nerve endings tingled along my spine. My mind whirled, trying to connect the disparate pieces in some way—any way—other than the truth. I knew the term ‘dharma’; it was the Sanskrit word for “duty.” And, of course, Dharma was this stranger’s name. But that wasn’t what felt familiar. Somewhere deep in my subconscious I had to have known who Dharma was, but I didn’t want to—I couldn’t—accept it.
    Bella sensed my inner turmoil. A low sound rumbled deep in her throat. She backed slowly away from Dharma and stood in front of me. Stranger-friend or not, if Dharma meant me harm, she’d have to go through Bella first.
    â€œEasy, girl,” I said automatically. “This is our friend.” I wasn’t sure I believed it.
    Dharma took several steps back, but she didn’t break eye contact.
    I wanted to flee. I wanted to go home. I wanted to jump back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and live the rest of my life blissfully unaware of this woman’s existence. But I couldn’t. A ten-ton weight had fallen from the sky and pinned my feet to the earth. My heart got crushed somewhere beneath it.
    â€œYou might not remember me anymore,” Dharma continued. “When you were a little girl, I went by Daisy. My last name is Carmichael now, but for a very short time, it was Davidson.”
    I couldn’t delude myself anymore, no matter how much I wanted to. I knew exactly where I’d seen Dharma’s eyes before: every morning in the bathroom mirror. I opened my mouth to reply, but the sound that emerged was an unintelligible hybrid of a squeak and a croak.
    The no-longer-a-stranger-and-certainly-no-friend tentatively smiled.
    â€œIt’s nice to see you after such a long time, Kate. I’m your mother.”

Seven
    â€œYou lied to me. You told me that your mother was dead.”
    Rene’s voice was significantly louder than I would have preferred, given the circumstances. Every coffee drinker within a twenty-foot radius halted mid-sip and craned their necks in our direction. The barista even stopped steaming my soy milk to peer at me over the espresso machine.
    At least someone found my life entertaining.
    Dharma had left after dropping her emotional bombshell. She claimed that I needed time alone to think, which was proof positive that the woman knew nothing about me. Stewing in solitude would have eaten a hole in my stomach.
    That is, if it didn’t outright kill me.
    Before Dharma had gotten out of the parking lot, I’d run to the studio, called Rene, and begged her to meet me across the street for an emergency girls’ date at our favorite coffee shop, Mocha Mia. Now, forty-five minutes later, I stood at the counter, trying to look inconspicuous while Rene alternated between browbeating me and adding items to her characteristically complex and calorie-laden order.
    I muted my voice, hoping our audience would lose interest. “I already told you. Dharma is not my mother. At best, she qualifies as an egg donor.” I looked pointedly at the barista. “Let’s talk about it after we sit down.”
    The barista took the hint. Sort of. She turned her back to our conversation and poured my drink into one of the café’s diverse collection of second-hand mugs. Her choice for today was a cream-colored ceramic mug with the caption Happy Mother’s Day .
    Classic.
    I spied an empty table by the window. “I’ll save us a seat. Try to leave some food for the rest of the neighborhood.”
    I tucked a dollar in the tip jar and wove through Mocha Mia’s eclectic collection of mismatched chairs, scarred wooden tables, and Tiffany-style lamps. The garage-sale decor usually amused me, since it so closely matched the not-quite-up-and-coming vibe of my studio’s neighborhood. Greenwood was famous for aging antique shops, trendy art