Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

I pulled into the garage. Whatever Hetty’s obsessions, they were distracting me from figuring out Mother’s trauma, and I was more than ever convinced her trauma lay at the heart of everything. I could feel it in my gut, even if nothing I had found so far confirmed it.

My watch read three o’clock. Time enough to head back to campaign headquarters and use my newly found leverage. I ran into the house to print a couple copies of the photographs, just in case.

I arrived about three-thirty, which I could justify since I needed to attend another command performance fundraiser that evening. I opened my bottom drawer and dropped in my purse and its curious photographs, then turned to toss my coat over the back of the visitor’s chair next to the desk. Someone was sitting in that visitor’s chair. I gave a little cry and stepped back. The slug protested. It didn’t need any more drama today.

He grinned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

I felt my face grow furnace hot. “Jeez. Don’t sneak up on a person.” I set down my coat, hoping my flush would disappear by the time I turned back. No such luck. His long legs stretched out in front of him, draped in fine-gauge navy wool. The suit jacket had apparently been abandoned elsewhere, since his pale green shirt and dark green tie were unadorned. Blond hair, blue eyes, a slightly crooked nose—a freakish lacrosse or skiing accident, no doubt—topped a square chin, and thin patrician lips.

He held out his hand without getting up. “Andrew Winters, Junior.” My face must have betrayed surprise, because he leaned in, pulling me toward him and whispered, “Right. You didn’t think my mother was capable of doing anything as messy as reproducing?” He rubbed his thumb across my hand, then released me. What was it with guys and that move?

I sat down abruptly, surprised my head still sat on my shoulders, given the thumping going on between my ears. “I, uh, they don’t talk about you. In fact, they don’t talk about any of their children. I didn’t even remember they had children.”

“I’m the bad seed. Law school, yes, but I’m headed for the public defender’s office.”

“A noble goal, if a tiring one. Or so I’ve heard.” My skirt slid up slightly as I crossed my legs. His eyes rested there a moment before returning to my face. He’d inherited some things from his father. I pulled it down again. “You’re home for the holidays?”

He nodded, talking about his law career as if I hadn’t mentioned another topic. Typical—of men, I could say, but it was also a Winters trait. I found men obsessed with themselves interesting—for a time. Men like my soon-to-be-ex, for instance.

“It’s the wrong side of the tracks. I’m supposed to join my father’s firm this summer, become a partner, buy a house in town, raise blond children. You’re not available for that, are you?”

I put my chin in my hand—it would steady things, yes?—and studied him, my eyebrows raised. He was funny. I liked that. “Raising blond children? Not at the moment. Thanks, though. I appreciate being considered for a part in your truly meteoric rise.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mary Ellen step into Andrew’s office. Ah, my quarry—dressed in what appeared to be Carolina Herrera, the softest look I’d yet seen her wear.

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I thought if I could find the right woman, it might make Dad’s plan palatable.”

I shook my head. “How old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-seven. Why? Am I too young?”

“I’d have to know a bit more about you than your career plans.”

“Great. It’s settled then.” He stood up, pulling the secretive suit jacket from the floor where it had dropped behind the chair. Armani. On the floor. No wonder he was the bad seed.

“What is?”

“Dinner. With me. Tonight. Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

“Can’t. I’ve got your Dad’s fundraiser.” Never mind that I couldn’t ­comprehend remaining awake that long.

But, the snake in the Garden of Eden whispered, he might know why Mother and Mary Ellen hated each other, which might tell me about my mother’s trauma, which might give me a way to get her out of jail. The slug was on a roll.

“Blow it off,” he said.

“Not possible. I’m sure you know a bit about that.” Mary Ellen stepped out of Andrew’s office and glanced at us. I tried to smile perkily at her, but it came out like a grimace. She raised an eyebrow at me, got her coat and sashayed out the door, along with my opportunity to question her.

“We’ll go after the fundraiser’s over. It can’t last longer than ten, right?”

I tried to refocus on Junior. “You think you can find a restaurant in this town still serving at ten?”

“No problem.” He grinned again, swung the jacket over his shoulder and sauntered off toward his father’s office.

As I flicked on my computer and pulled up the file I needed, I felt a little knot in my stomach, a warning. Handsome yes, but he was a Winters. And for god’s sake, I was divorcing my husband. Since when did I date guys to get information? I twitched around a little in my chair, trying to get comfortable as I thought about why Junior bothered me. I was beginning to listen to myself, but knowing when my intuition spoke and when my imagination spoke still wasn’t clear.

Why would Junior home in on me? Maybe he liked flirting, or he was sent by his father or Mary Ellen. Do your part, son: wine and dine the new girl. Maybe that’s what the knot was warning me about.

Later that evening, I stepped outside the latest palatial mansion used to persuade the party adherents into giving up their cash, and found Junior standing by a black stretch limousine. Light from the portico glimmered off the high-gloss paint and reflected off the smoked windows. I could barely see the dim outline