Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

Inside, I flipped on the lights and walked the rooms to ensure everything remained in its place, then sat on the floor with plenty of pillows behind my back. Paul had taught me some new relaxation exercises. They helped, but I still jumped out of my skin when someone knocked.I crossed the room, intuition on high alert, feeling every fiber in the carpet through the soles of my shoes.

I opened the door. “Andrew.” I could see an aura around him, the violet aura of visionary thinkers. I was obviously seeing things.

He was dressed in a tuxedo, but he’d pulled the tie loose and worn hiking boots rather than the fancy dress shoes he must have sported at his New Years’ Eve party. He had arrived nearly an hour and a half before the time Mary Ellen and I agreed on, but the boots showed he wasn’t all impulse. I needed to remember how smart he was. His face wore a self-satisfied smirk. “I figured you’d come around eventually. Smarter than your mother.” He stamped the snow off his boots and looked around the room with greedy interest. “Mary Ellen regaled me over the years with tales about this spot.” He took in the limited furniture, the turquoise and white color scheme, the pillows on the floor. “Charming.”

The word dripped with disdain. I breathed in and out slowly, trying to hear past the white noise enveloping me. I had to quell it to do the reading, or I wouldn’t get accurate images. “Come into the kitchen,” I said. “We can discuss the terms before we get down to business at midnight.”

“That midnight crap sounded like bullshit. Did you make that up?” Niceties over, he slithered from his civilized skin.

“Midnight ‘crap’?”

He yanked out a spindly kitchen chair, hitting the leg on the wall and leaving a mark. “That New Year’s midnight was the ideal time for intuitive practice because you could see more clearly.”

Beneath the impatience, I heard the first crack—a crack I intended to wedge open like the entrance to a secret cave. He had waited for this moment for thirty-five years. Hetty served her purpose, but the Montagues doing his bidding was sweetened whipped cream on his dessert. If I gave him that ­triumph, I wouldn’t have any more dreams. I wouldn’t have to deal with him again. He might win his Senate race, if he kept his momentum going, but his opponent had raised support and several surprisingly large infusions of cash. She’d spent a lot of time in working class neighborhoods, earning her media buzz. He needed to know if his blackmail would be exposed, and what magic he could work to keep that from happening. My visions could tell him. I was his daughter—I would be genetically tuned to him. A wave of white noise washed over me.

“Of course I didn’t make it up,” I snapped. “It’s too serious for you to take this lightly. Here are my terms. I’ll give you intuitive guidance for your Senate campaign, but once you’re elected, we’re done.”

He waved his hand in agreement, an agreement I could see in his eyes he had no intention of keeping.

“I have a few questions first.” I opened one of the files on the table.

“You going to make me write it all down and sign it, like your Mama did with Hankin?” He held a spoon by the neck and spun it on the table top.

“Those are the terms,” I repeated.

He leaned over the table, his eyes locked on mine. “Go on, girl.”

“How did you persuade Dr. Hankin to ignore his medical ethics?”

He snorted with laughter, a thousand stones pounding the rocky shore. “Why the hell do you care about Hankin’s ethics?”

“I didn’t say I would explain.”

He waved at the walls. “And you happen to have little recording devices scattered all over the place.”

The installer had assured me no one could find them. “You’re welcome to check.” I shrugged, thinking I only knew what kind fathers were like—and my kind father was dead. The desire to have him standing next to me overwhelmed me. Father would know how to handle this man.

Winters studied me, hate and mirth mixed in his eyes, and I remembered the snaky arm at that first fundraiser. He’d known then who I was, and he’d made a pass at me, to see how I’d respond.

I wasn’t this man’s daughter. I wouldn’t ever be, despite our shared genes. He would always let his darker passions dominate.

“Gary Hankin was an idiot, like most people around here. Too stupid to do right by themselves and always coming to my family to rescue them. Early on, Gary tangled himself up in some legal snafus. He was taking drugs home to his lovely wife, and selling samples off the books to his friends. Had himself a nice little side business going, which financed his wife’s drug habit. He was dumb enough to sell to an undercover officer. I negotiated a settlement, and Gary moved his practice out-of-state.” The spoon still spun round and round, Winters’s fingers tight against its neck.

“He’s given you a lot of campaign contributions.”

“Payment for services rendered. His contributions to my campaign have indicated his gratitude.” He sneered, a snake curving around its prey.

“How did Wendy’s drug habit start?” All I had to do was be a good listener. A captive listener.

“A little issue during my father’s time. Gary ‘lost’ some records as a favor to us”—his eyes flicked from the spoon to me—“and Wendy was so afraid someone would find out, she needed pills to stay calm. Stupid. No one found out in thirty-five years.”

I shrugged. “I have.” I opened Hugh’s file on my mother.

He looked unsurprised. “Your mama finally break down?”

“Yes. But it’s corroborated by Hugh’s notes. Did you know that therapists make a second set of notes following therapy appointments? They’re called ‘shadow notes,’ and they record the parts of the session the doctor or patient doesn’t want in