Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

him out with a string of expletives, carefully chosen and absolutely silent.

Melton was a dear, told me about how the government almost put him out of business except, wink-wink, for a friend who helped him out, drank down a couple of Manhattans, and wrote out a check as if he were giving away promotional cologne samples in Neiman Marcus. He twinkled as he handed it to me. “You tell that rascal Winters I’ve got his number. You couldn’t have been a more charming companion, my dear, and I have thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Now, I’m an old man, and I’m going home.” I helped him find his coat and the parking valet.

All the while, I heard the buzz of white noise in my ears, but I couldn’t tell if that was because I’d raised money to help a Republican get elected, if I was still getting a vibe off Winters, or if it was the room full of Stepford-perfect people. I gave the check to Mary Ellen and tried to escape, but Andrew found me and sent me off to charm a few more donors. Melton remained my high water mark, but by the end of the evening, I had significantly enriched the campaign coffers.

Even Mary Ellen found it in her cold little heart to compliment me. “You’re a natural, dear. Who knew?”

Tomorrow, I would have to write a very large check to the Democratic contender. I might even have to talk some of my friends into contributing.

By one in the morning, all the “marks” had left, and Bailey and I retreated to the Porsche.

“So, anything?” she asked.

“Nothing except white noise,” I said.

She shrugged, as if it hadn’t mattered after all. Exhausted, I shut and bolted the front door, stripped off the gown in Mother’s bedroom and headed immediately for the shower, as if scrubbing could wash off my disgust and confusion.

When I stepped from the shower with only a towel wrapped around my body, a man stood in my bedroom.

Chapter 10

Black balaclava’d face, black leather jacket, black jeans, black ­engineer boots. Dark brown eyes. A long hunting knife in black leather-gloved hands.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I hadn’t set the alarm.

I shrieked. Turns out I was good at it. The cops probably heard me three counties away.

“Shut up.”

Instantly, the Montague asserted itself. “Don’t tell me to shut up in my own house.”

He advanced toward me, the knife point glistening in the half-light spilling from the bathroom door. The bedroom was dim, but I tried to see and memorize the details of him: Oval face under the mask? Wide shoulders under the jacket? Or were they padded? Long lean legs in the jeans, large feet in damp, snow-crusted boots. He couldn’t have been indoors very long.

“What’s that for?” I took a step back and pointed at the knife with the hand that wasn’t clutching the towel closed above my breasts.

“To make sure you listen.”

“Fine. You’ve got my attention. What is it you want?”

“Your mother killed Hugh. Let it go.” The knife seemed to sharpen as it moved closer. A hunting knife, not a kitchen knife, it curved into a notch near the handle. I wondered what the notch was for, and then figured I didn’t really want to know.

I wondered why now, of all times, the intuition had gone dark. Useless gift. Idly, I noticed his jacket had fringe on the sleeves, like a biker jacket. For some reason, this suddenly made me furious.

Why was everyone wound up about me? I hadn’t killed anyone. I hadn’t even been here for the past decade and a half. Why wouldn’t they leave me alone? Why did they think they could waltz into my house whenever they wanted and leave dolls and threaten me with knives?

“I know nothing! How many times do I have to say that!” Still damp from the shower, I felt myself start to shake.

“You know more than you should, and my employer is willing to send me again with a stronger message, if necessary.” He lunged at me, the knife wounding the air by my cheek. I leapt back, lost my balance and landed on the floor with the towel open to expose my thighs, my waist, my vagina. Before I could cover myself, he got himself a long look. He raised his eyes to mine, and laughed, low, dirty, and mean. Then he turned and disappeared out the door.

I scrambled to the bedside phone, hugging the towel tightly and trying not to cry. I called the police. Fifteen minutes later, Chief DuPont strode through my front door. I had dressed, but my hair still hung wet, and I couldn’t stop shaking. I hadn’t, in all my travels—not even in that Swiss asylum bed—felt so exposed and vulnerable.

The chief called to the officer who had accompanied him. “Get her a blanket, would you?” He turned to me. “Where’s the kitchen?” I pointed, my finger wobbling through the air like a drunken bird.

He made me sit at the kitchen table while he fixed hot chocolate—lots of sugar, caffeine, protein. Things to calm the shock. The officer, Joe Munson, found a towel to wrap my damp hair and draped a chenille blanket from our living room sofa over my shoulders. Its weight and warmth comforted me.

The chief plopped a large mug in front of me. “Take me through it.”

I did.

“Fringe? A hunting knife?” he asked, when I’d finished.

“Why would I make that up?” Anger felt reassuring. This was an emotion I was well acquainted with.

“Not questioning your memory. Just confirming.” He shot Munson a look, and Munson disappeared.

“Did he have a scent? Garlic? Cigarette smoke? Anything?”

I closed my eyes to remember, but instead of an image of the intruder, I saw the chief on patrol, surrounded by mud and debris, a dark speck in the middle of a shining disaster. Now I got a vision? Seriously? I opened my eyes. “You from New Orleans?”

“Good guess,” he said, bemused, “but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“He smelled like talcum powder and shampoo, like