Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

looked resigned. “I shouldn’t have done that.” She slid the key in a circle, thinking, then pushed it back toward me. “Did you talk to Paul about fire?” she finally asked.

Seriously? How would she know about my police station dream? I hadn’t told her anything. She could only know if she had them herself—and God forbid she tell me that. “Not yet.”

Paul might not even be speaking to me. He’d persuaded Chief DuPont that he would make a worthy custodian of Hugh’s file on Mother—which still offered me a fighting chance of getting my hands on it. But he was still furious I’d taken it.

“Get him to teach you to meditate,” she said. “It’s calming and centering, and it provides such valuable and informative insights into situations.”

“So that’s a medita—”

“Clara! The tape!”

I stared at her. “Couldn’t you, for once in your life, be direct and tell me what I need to know?”

“You and I share some gifts, but you haven’t yet learned how dangerous they are to use.” She shook her head. “I’ve tried to explain.”

My anger found its way through a crevice in my control. “I lost my father because I didn’t trust my gift. If you had only been willing to help me—”

“Clara!” The full-on command voice. “You must never tell anyone about what you’ve found. You will need a safe space. Do you understand?”

“No. I don’t understand anything, because you make things more confusing.”

“That’s how learning works,” she said piously. “You get a whole lot of ­information and you don’t know how any of the pieces fit together. Then, something clicks and you see the whole thing. I’m giving you as much as I can, but you need to see the whole picture yourself. I can’t provide that for you.”

“Did you kill Hugh?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

The guard poked his head in. “Two minutes,” he said.

“Do you need anything?” I asked her. “Cigarettes to trade, chocolate cake, your favorite sweater?” Her look of disdain was so pure, so very her, that I was startled it didn’t provoke the usual sense of guilt.

Maybe being angry gave me some kind of shield.

Instead, a laugh bubbled up from the place that recognized the absurdity of the situation—from her incarceration, to her calm acceptance of my snooping, to her cloak-and-dagger hints. Her irritation dissolved, and she started to laugh, too.

That’s how the guard found us—dissolved in helpless giggles over the ugly table, our hands clasped in recognition that we were, at least, family.

The next morning, I walked into the Winters campaign office an hour-and-a-half late to find the place deserted. There was a note for me on the desk on top of a stack of folders, signed by Andrew himself:

Clara — I’m so glad you’ve chosen flexible hours. Your presence, in formal dress, is required at our fundraiser this evening. 8:00 p.m. at Mary Ellen’s. Bailey has directions, should you need them. — A.W.

A.W., my ass. I resigned myself to a long afternoon and evening of tedium, but when I crumpled the note to throw it away, it burned my fingers.

At seven forty-five, Bailey tooted her horn. Andrew’s snide note and the burning tingle it had left along my fingertips bothered me all afternoon, along with Hugh’s murder and my own helpless banging about in search of answers. The last place I wanted to be was anywhere near Andrew Winters. But I’d dragged myself through a shower and into a Dolce and Gabbana evening gown I’d discovered buried at the back of Mother’s closet.

“Ooooh, vintage!” Bailey cooed when I got into the car.

“Ha—which only means dresses several years out of fashion are still okay to wear because they cost megabucks.”

She grinned. “You haven’t forgotten the valuable lessons I taught you.”

She put the Porsche in gear and whirled out of the driveway. The sun roof was open and I could see the sky, seasoned with clouds and brightly lit by the moon. Patches of stars, like little spills of salt crystals, showed between them. Cold air blew in over my shoulders, warring with the heat pouring across my feet: luxury.

“I don’t even know why I’m going to this thing. All I want is to be home in bed with a book and a glass of wine. Why does Winters want me there? I sort of figured that by now you would have convinced him I was bad PR.”

“I tried. He thinks it’s funny that Constance’s daughter is working for him.”

“Like funny-ha-ha?”

“More like funny-ironic. Like he’s secretly pleased you’re there, especially because it will drive your mother nuts. There’s some weird dynamic there…whatever history is between all of them must run pretty deep. He actually laughed when I suggested he should let you go.”

“Do you think he’s a good guy?” I asked it without thinking, as if I could still ask her anything.

She glanced away from the road for a moment, as the car swerved around a corner. “Why do you ask?” She seemed wary, but it was hard to tell at this speed.

I had to decide in a split second if I believed she was on my side or not—if she was still the Bailey I knew from high school, before things got tricky. She was working for a family that was not only politically opposite to what used to be her own views, but was also one of the more powerful and wealthy in our town and state. Would she be able to put aside her own ambitions to support me?

The only thing I could do was to take the risk. “I’m not sure. I keep getting strange feelings around him—like white noise with a black line through it—like he’s exuding a whole lot of energy to control or hide something.” I paused. “Sounds insane, but I don’t know how else to explain it.”

The car filled up with quiet. I bit my lip, hoping, resolutely watching the road.

Bailey said, “Yeah, but you’ve always had really strong, accurate feelings about people.”

I stopped chewing my lip. She inhaled sharply, as if