Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

for courage. “Clara, I remembered about Ethan Olsen. You made fun of Hetty’s flower.” Her hands glowed green from the dash lights.

“You reminded me last night.”

She stared at the road. “When just you and I and Ethan were hanging out, you were fine, laughing and teasing Ethan about being the only musician in the band who hadn’t gotten laid—like you wanted to be the one. But when Hetty came up, you completely changed. Those comments about the flower were intended to drive her away, and that flip-out you did on Ethan, telling him he was a sex-crazed fiend…”

The green dashboard light wriggled along a strand of her hair. “You didn’t want Ethan for yourself; you wanted to protect Hetty. When we fought about it later, you told me you’d seen something in his eyes, like Hetty was an easy target; he could do whatever he wanted with her and get away with it. I didn’t believe you. I thought you were trying to keep him away from me.”

Dimly, through all the barriers I’d erected to separate myself from my ­adolescence, the scene Bailey painted emerged. I remembered I touched Ethan’s arm when Hetty joined us and got shocked with a vision of her dress floating in the water, the full skirt ballooned up with trapped air, and Hetty herself half-naked, blood streaming down the inside of her thighs. I’d done the only thing a teenage girl knew to do. I’d humiliated her to drive her away, keep her safe.

The sensation I’d had earlier with Bailey, blood at the back of the throat, returned as Bailey’s confession continued to spill into the dark spaces in the Porsche.

“Later that night, I saw Ethan with Dara Oakford going at it like bunny rabbits. We all knew she was a slut, so I didn’t think much of it, until I got a little closer and heard Dara hitting him and telling him to stop. He didn’t, and she stayed home from school for a week after that. I couldn’t tell you after our huge fight.”

She paused for a moment. “Nothing ever happened to Ethan. Dara didn’t press charges. I think she’s part of the reason I became a lawyer.” She downshifted and slid into a parking spot in front of Mary Ellen’s house. When the car stilled, she twisted toward me in the dimness. “I’m so sorry, Clara. Can you forgive me?”

It was as though an overstuffed bag split open. Memory upon memory tumbled out: decisions I’d had to make like the one about Hetty and Ethan. Most people weren’t ready to hear what I told them. They got angry or frightened, told me to mind my own business, told me I was weird.

I had learned early how to drive someone away to protect her. But if these were gifts my mother and I shared, why hadn’t she guided me instead of denying what I saw?

“Clara?” Bailey was fumbling in her evening clutch. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. What did I say?” She held out a monogrammed lace handkerchief. I grabbed her hand and squeezed hard.

“Thank you,” I managed to get out between hiccups, decorating the lovely lace with mascara. “You always believed in me. After my father died, I felt so overwhelmed by my failure to save him. I couldn’t tell anyone. I felt so lonely without you.”

“I’m sorry. I wanted Ethan with the full blast of my sixteen-year-old ­hormones. I couldn’t see past that to my friend. If it counts, I’ve been lonely for you, too.” We hugged awkwardly across the gear shift. I rested my head on her shoulder, savoring the closeness I wished I’d had all along, the same closeness and nurturing I longed for with my mother.

As we pulled apart she said, “You asked if Winters was a good man, then said you were getting weird energy. If you think he’s hiding something, I need to know.”

I shook my head, blew my nose. “I haven’t seen him enough.”

“Maybe you could test it tonight. Get close and see what comes up.”

“That’s dangerous, Bailey. I’m not…I’m not really sure enough of myself.” Something had always held me back from asking for a vision.

“More dangerous than letting him get elected? What if what he’s hiding could damage a whole lot of people? I don’t want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, but your visions were usually on target…” She shook her head. “It’s important, Clara.”

I hedged. “I need more training. Mother’s insisting I talk to Paul, but Paul’s mad at me…”

I couldn’t tell her I’d stolen a file from Hugh’s house. “Anyway, the impressions just come when they come.”

“At least try. For me? Please?”

The last thing I wanted was to test myself out on Andrew Winters. I’d met his type all over the world. But Mother was right; I should have had Paul working with me. I should have asked about fire, for lessons in meditation, for something to prepare me. I sighed, shook off my reservations, and climbed from the car. At least it gave me a purpose for being here.

As I slammed the Porsche’s door shut, Bailey hissed, “Clara, look! Speak of the devil!”

Hetty stood by the front door, talking to Detective Samuels. She leaned in close, her hand on his arm. I couldn’t imagine what Hetty and Samuels would have in common, but Hetty had often pretended intimacy where there was none.

She turned abruptly when she heard the car door, then disappeared inside. Samuels nodded and smiled as we walked past, but didn’t speak. Despite the smile, he seemed to look through rather than at me, something chilled and dim in his eyes. Maybe all detectives looked like that; maybe coldness and reserve were hazards of the job. He appeared to be working security, since he was armed and had a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

Mary Ellen’s foyer boasted a curved staircase to the second floor. Off the foyer, a library opened to the left and a drawing room to