Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (cool books to read txt) 📗

the public record.” The chief was combing those files in search of evidence that Hugh had figured out Winters’ blackmail scheme.

He waited.

“Hugh’s notes document my mother’s claim of rape.”

“Hearsay,” he tossed off.

I shut that file, slid another out from under it. “DNA doesn’t lie. Wendy needed those pills because her husband hid evidence that could convict you of raping my mother and fathering me.”

He was proud of himself. “My father cut the deal to lose those records; I cut the deal to save Hankin’s business, rescue Wendy, and fund my campaigns. Whatever Hankin says he still has, he’s lying.”

Perhaps only Mary Ellen knew about Mother’s recent DNA tests. “What about Hugh?”

He went back to spinning the spoon by its neck. “That was Mary Ellen’s thing. Hugh threatened to use some party boss out west to screw my campaign. I didn’t believe Hugh had the balls to go to this guy, but Mary Ellen freaked—something about the women on Hugh’s client roster. She thought they’d all whined to him during therapy and he’d concocted some conspiracy idea. Hugh didn’t have the brains for that, but she decided he had to be dealt with anyway.”

As if Winters himself was off the hook.

“Dealt with how?”

“Hugh always checked his messages last thing at night in case of emergencies. She got Pete Samuels to leave a message saying the cops wanted to consult him ASAP on a night she knew he’d be out late at your mama’s Christmas party. When Hugh called back, Pete knew he was home. He went and took care of things. It’s so easy to fool people.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “And Hetty?” A third file was filled with her photographs. “Were these taken at your suggestion?”

“Hard evidence is so useful when you’re persuading people to contribute money, isn’t it? Hetty got a little carried away with the assignment, then got uncomfortable.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Too late, sweetheart.”

He glanced at the clock. “That’s all you get. Do the reading now. I can’t miss my entire New Year’s party, and I don’t give a crap about the midnight thing.”

I pulled open the kitchen drawer nearest me and removed a pack of Tarot cards. I shuffled and laid them out between us. I tried to calm myself, but the white noise kept amplifying.

Images flickered in amongst the snow: the burning, the blood, the voodoo dolls, my mother on her knees in the gazebo, Pete standing over her with a gun. They swirled into colors: the green and sickly yellow of Hetty’s aura, the purple around Andrew, the swarming red and buzzing white I kept seeing. I turned over the cards: Death, the Devil, the Tower, Strength—reversed—the Hanged Man—reversed—the ten of swords. He stared at the layout. “What does that mean?”

I almost laughed at the righteousness of it and felt myself lift free for the first time in weeks. The white noise faded, and with it the longings, images, conflict. The dreams would stop now.

I said, “It means you can leave.”

For the first time, surprise crossed his face. “What?”

I raised an eyebrow, sure of myself, centered. I knew the right path, no matter the outcome. “Really, Andrew. Did you honestly believe after all the damage you’ve done to my family that I would give you what you wanted? Even the cards refused to do that. This reading tells me you’ll fail. That’s what Hetty’s readings told you, too, and all those years ago, that’s what Mother’s readings told you. You didn’t want to hear it, but you’ve destroyed yourself.” I stood. “You can leave now.”

For a moment, he sat stunned. Then he launched himself across the table at me.

I had a momentary flash of burning as if hell’s floor had opened and the fires were rushing up to consume us. Then it was gone, and I’d lost my advantage. I’d been prepared for violence, but before I could raise my arms to defend myself, Winters toppled me off the chair and onto the floor. “You little slut! I’ll teach you—”

He gripped my wrists with one hand and tore at the neck of my tee shirt with the other. It ripped at the shoulder and side seams, exposing my bra and skin. “Where’s the wire?” he yelled. “Where is it?”

“There is no wire. Get off me!” He started pulling at the bra.

No, no no! Not that!

He levered himself onto me, his knees pinning my wrists to the floor. I squirmed, but he slapped my face and pulled the pants down my hips.

“I should have eliminated you when Mary Ellen heard you were talking to Hugh!” His fingernails ripped at my skin. He scrabbled around my back, pulling the pants low over my butt while I struggled to loosen my arms from his grip. “You aren’t containable, like your mother. You’ll tell the world.” As he fumbled at his belt, getting the fitting loose and whipping it from the belt loops, the pressure on one of my hands lessened and I wrenched it free, slamming it into his nose—a move I remembered from some self-defense class. He howled. I pushed him off, yanked up my pants and jumped to my feet.

“You bitch! I won’t be able to speak in front of a camera for weeks.” He grabbed my leg, and I fell to my knees, just missing the counter with my head.

The gun. He’d listen to that.

I reached for the drawer, kicking at him. I wasn’t paying attention to where I kicked, but when I heard him scream, knew I’d hit something tender. I yanked the drawer open, felt for the gun, then snatched at it. He seized the waistband of my pants and tugged . The fabric ripped. I swung my arm hard and slammed him on the side of the head with the gun. His grip relaxed and he slumped to the floor.

I hoped I’d killed the bastard.

God, I hoped I hadn’t.

Hanging onto the counter, I clambered to my feet. I could still walk, despite the pain in my knees