Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

My blood? Maybe I’d dug my fingers into the intruder’s arm deeper than I thought, but somehow, hazily, I remembered a lot of fabric between me and his skin. I tried to ask what was going on, but it didn’t come out so well.

“She’s mumbling. Is that a good sign?”

I finally heard the second voice.

“How should I know?”

Morrie and Alcott. I felt myself lifted up and deposited somewhat hastily onto the couch. “Jeez. She’s heavier than she looks.”

“Most bodies are.”

“God, Morrie. She’s not a ‘body’ yet.”

“That’s a lot of blood, though.”

I lost consciousness again. What I remember next was a piercing light shining in my eyes.

“She’ll be okay.” New voice. “But we’d better take her in for observation. She might have a concussion, and it didn’t do her any good to lie on that cold ground.”

Things went black again.

Chapter 22

I woke in the hospital. Machines beeped next to the bed; footsteps hustled along the corridor, accompanied by quiet voices. Mother sat in a chair by the window reading a book. A vase of red and white carnations decorated the institutional gray table.

“I see you’ve decided to rejoin us,” she said, closing the book and using her finger to mark her place.

I shook my head, too quickly. Ow. “This is worse than a hangover.”

“Luckily, you’ll recover,” she said. “The rest of us may not,” she muttered to herself.

“What happened?”

“Do you remember anything?”

“Not really. I remember going home to change. Then I started missing Dad, thinking about how we used to celebrate Christmas, the Christmas tree we’d drive to Newtown to chop down ourselves. Trying to figure out the murders. After that, not much.”

“Morrie and Alcott found you in my office.”

“Why did they come?”

“When you hadn’t come back for an hour and a half, and you didn’t answer your phone, we thought it a good idea to go find you.”

“Thanks. What happened?”

“You were lying on the doorsill with your head cracked open. You’d fallen on the lip, so you hit not only the stone but also the hard metal track of the door. You’ve got a dent the size of the Marianas Trench in your skull.”

“No wonder my head hurts.” I rolled gingerly onto my side, so I could see her more clearly. “Oh.” I sucked up a breath at the pain. At least a memory came with it. “I didn’t fall. Someone was going through your files.”

“I figured as much. My papers were all over the carpet. You might pry, but you are a more careful snoop. I’ve had to look hard over the past couple of weeks to determine what was out of place.”

So I hadn’t gotten away with anything.

“He threw those papers at me. What was he looking for?”

She scratched her finger inside the book, as if working at a blemish on the paper.

I said, “You know, but you won’t tell me, yet I’m in a hospital bed and someone out there wants to shut us up. How much more risk are you willing to take to protect yourself?” That was definitely too much energy expended. My brain felt as if it would pound free of my skull. I groaned and rolled onto my back again.

She looked up, willing herself, perhaps, to the task. “It’s a long story, but—”

The door swung open.

“Hello, Constance, Clara.” The chief loomed in the doorway, his entrance unbelievably ill-timed. “I need to hear about your intruder.”

“Could you, maybe, come back in a little bit? My head is killing me.” Besides, Mother was just about to tell me what I’d waited fifteen years to hear. I pulled the blanket up to my shoulders.

He ignored my request, pulling out his phone to type notes. “Male or female?”

“Male, I think. His face was covered. Not much of a figure, if it was female.”

“Height? Weight? Distinguishing features? Attire?” I did my best, but even his hands had been covered.

“He was searching the file cabinets?”

I nodded. Immediately regretted it.

“What was he was looking for?”

“Don’t know.” I glanced at Mother. Regretted that.

“Constance? Do you?”

Mother pursed her lips.

Kyle settled himself at the bottom of the bed. My head twanged with the movement. “It would be really useful if we knew what the intruder was looking for. That way, if, say, we caught him, we’d have leverage.” He looked back and forth between us, waited out our silence.

Mother liberated her bookmark from a stack of magazines next to her chair. I could now see the book title: Living with Grief. Why would she still need a book like that, all these years after my father’s death? She slid her sweater off the chair’s shoulders. “Chief DuPont, I am going to take my daughter home and tell her a story. When I am done, I will tell you everything you want to know. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

Kyle didn’t look happy. “I have your word on that, ma’am?”

“You have the word of a Montague, Chief DuPont.”

She didn’t mean to, but she lied.

The doctor said I should stay another night in the hospital for ­observation, but Mother insisted we were going home. He cautioned me to rest for a few days and to let him know immediately if anything changed. I could come back in a couple weeks to have the stitches removed. They wheeled me to the hospital entrance, and I clambered into the car.

When we arrived home, she settled me in my father’s old office on the couch, with blankets tucked around me, looking out at the fading winter light.

“I’ll get us a cup of tea.”

“I’m not an invalid, Mother. Just sit down and tell me.”

“I know what you are. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” She left, delaying the inevitable. I wanted to hear, but after all this time and all this secrecy, maybe I didn’t want to hear. Maybe that’s why Paul kept the file from me, why both he and Kyle told me I wasn’t ready.

Through the French doors, the doors through which the intruder had fled,