Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

them. I’d come home, for god’s sake. I was learning to meditate, as Mother wanted. And while I was doing all sorts of things Mother probably wouldn’t want, the dreams weren’t synonymous with Mother’s needs and desires. They belonged to me. Mother must understand that one couldn’t control an intuition. She would forgive my prying because she would know I had to honor what the intuitions gave me, right? But it didn’t make sense that my dreams were still waking me. What was I missing? What was I supposed to be doing that I wasn’t?

Tentatively, I reached my toes toward the floor and stood, hanging onto the bedpost. The room swayed, then righted itself. Oh, good. I sat down again, assured I could stand when I wanted to. Not that I wanted to. Not yet.

A long time ago, Paul said it wasn’t necessarily the images that were ­important, but how I felt in the dream. My heart had pounded, but it occurred to me, it wasn’t from fear but from excitement: my people had come to rescue us. That was all well and good in a dream, but who were my “people” in real life? I didn’t see any white knights on horses. These days, a girl was in charge of her own rescuing. I moved my head slightly. The slug had calmed down. Maybe I could walk across the room. I stood again and tottered into Mother’s bathroom. I was still sleeping in her room, wearing her clothes. Weirdly, I hoped it would get me inside her head.

Fifteen minutes later, after a hot shower and raiding her make-up and closet, I padded back to my own bedroom and stood in front of the mirror. I’d created a hybrid image, a combination of Mother and me. If sleeping in her bed didn’t get me inside her head, maybe wearing her Calvin Klein suit would.

But Mother’s behavior worried me: why wouldn’t she tell the chief what she knew? Why had she torpedoed her chance at bail with that stunt at Hugh’s memorial service? What was she getting protection from? Or what was she protecting me from? I stared at myself, the image in the mirror warping and slithering in the glass, and tried to think what to do next.

Wolves…beautiful gray and white hair…my people…wolves and sheep…the cottage…the Christmas fête…sheep…Hetty…

Hugh and I had sat across from Hetty at the Christmas fête, and all during dinner, she’d watched us as if she were a jealous wife. I couldn’t imagine Hetty and Hugh involved with each other, but perhaps they hadn’t been and that was the problem. Maybe Hetty had a thing for Hugh, and I’d gotten in the way, just as I’d gotten in the way with Ethan all those years ago.

After I’d chased Hetty away from Ethan, she came after me with a ­vengeance. It started with notes taped to my locker accusing me of sleeping with the football team or cheating on an exam. When I didn’t react, the notes went to the school newspaper, teachers, and principal. When a letter to the editor appeared in the local newspaper about the children of the rich getting away with cheating—Hetty all but named names—my father called Loretta, and then, with her blessing, called his lawyer. Hetty, threatened with a libel lawsuit, backed off.

Could Hetty have killed Hugh? Maybe that’s why the DNA tested female. But why would she still be coming after Mother and me? Balaclava Guy hadn’t sounded or looked female, but maybe that was more what I expected than what I’d seen. And I’d nearly forgotten: Maria had suggested I check out Hetty’s psychic side business because of Hugh’s attempts to shut her down.

I changed out of my mother’s suit and pulled on flannel-lined jeans, a cashmere turtleneck, and thick socks. I breakfasted on espresso and an English muffin while checking out Hetty’s property on Google maps. The aerial photo showed three structures: the barn, the house, and a smaller building off to the west, at the edge of the woods. A path wandered alongside the fence, and a second drive came straight to that cabin or shed. Maria had said Hetty used a room in her house for her readings, but if I knew Hetty, that cabin was a re-creation of the one at her mother’s farm, the one that my mother used. I printed the image and the map, then put on my sheepskin coat and shoved my feet into quilted boots, all the while careful of the slug in my head, who was slowly, slowly shrinking. I checked my watch: eight-thirty. How long did a farmer need for morning chores?

The drive took me north, into the greenest part of town, with its generous land parcels. Charming split rail fences and stone walls acted as boundaries between snow-covered meadows. Christmas traffic was concentrated downtown and at the malls in Stamford, so I had the roads mostly to myself. Twenty minutes later, I pulled off near the driveway for Rising Moon Farm. I double-checked the map, then swung out, drove a quarter mile down and turned right into a narrow, unmarked drive.

The trees folded over me, heavy with ice and snow. Little sunlight penetrated here, and the ground remained frozen. The driveway wasn’t well maintained. Perhaps Hetty didn’t see clients in the winter, or maybe this was a test: if they braved this road in their precious cars, they were worthy of her attentions. I slowed the Land Rover to a crawl, hoping Hetty, wherever she was, wouldn’t hear the engine.

Finally, I saw the faint frame of the house through the trees. Small and white, it huddled under the pines like the gingerbread house in the fairytale, but without all the sugary enticements. It stood like a ghost house against the dark evergreens. One concrete step led to a door, in front of which sat a metal pail. A path had been shoveled and the little stoop was brushed clean of snow, so even without clients, it appeared someone