Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📕

forget how that felt? Here we were humiliating her again, by calling her out on the photographs. Bailey was right; we needed her as an ally.

I thought a moment about how to shape what I wanted to tell her, then said, “We were trying to protect you from Ethan, and because we were young and stupid and didn’t know what else to do, we made fun of your pretty dress.” I caught Bailey’s expression from the corner of my eye. Never mind. She’d set me up for this, so she would have to deal with my exaggeration.

I leaned across and put my hand on Hetty’s arm as reassurance, but the gesture backfired. My vision clouded and I saw the man who’d invaded my bedroom, still in his black balaclava, his arm around Hetty’s throat, gun to her head. I flinched, pulled away, but Hetty’s hand had flown to her throat, just where I’d seen the intruder’s arm. She looked terrified. Even Bailey looked a little nervous, as she glanced back and forth.

“Sorry.” I shook my head to clear it.

“What was that?” Hetty whispered. Was she intuitive after all? It would be terrible if she’d seen what I’d seen. Should I tell her? Would she believe me? I looked into her eyes, paralyzed by indecision. As I hesitated, I saw her anger crystallize like a sugary sweet she loved to suck on.

“I…nothing. Ethan was acting weird, all drunk and aggressive. It was a bad time for you to hang out with him, especially since, well, we’re pretty sure he raped Dara Oakford that night.”

Any color remaining drained from Hetty’s face. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

“Dara was absent for a week after that, remember? And she came back quiet. Not the same girl.” Bailey touched her hand. “We were trying to keep you from getting hurt.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” The words stumbled past the dryness in Hetty’s throat. Bailey pushed a glass of water toward her. She sipped. Bailey’s lipstick printed the glass’s rim, but Hetty didn’t notice.

“Bailey?” I said. “Why don’t you tell her?” Revenge is sweet.

No reaction. All that court training came in handy. Finally, Bailey said, “We wanted to clear the air.”

Hetty’s hand shook as she sipped again. “You can’t make up now for the fifteen, seventeen, whatever years of hurt you’ve caused.” She was almost hissing, but tears glimmered in her eyes. The nearest diners looked over curiously.

“Hey, guys! Imagine finding you here.”

It hadn’t seemed possible for Hetty to go any whiter, but Andrew Junior’s appearance seemed destined to make her collapse. He slipped in next to me with a friendly kiss on the cheek. Bailey raised her eyebrows. I suggested Hetty needed something stronger than water, since she looked as bleached as new wool. Junior gestured to the waiter and ordered a round of brandies.

Yeah, great idea. More alcohol.

“How are you?” he asked me, after the drinks had arrived. He touched my hand briefly. “I had fun the other night.”

“Me, too.” I realized it wasn’t a lie. Even if I did have reservations, I had that sense of being aligned with him.

“You feeling better, Hetty? Brandy always warms me up.” He slid closer. Must have learned that move from his old man.

The alcohol hadn’t improved Hetty. She appeared to be in a catatonic state of mute terror, only her eyes flicking rapidly between me and Junior, like some awake version of REM sleep.

“Hetty,” I echoed, “are you okay?”

“You’re friends?” She nodded at me and Junior.

“We met a couple of days ago.”

“When did you get home, Andrew?” Bailey tried to smooth the ­conversational awkwardness.

“Just before Christmas. Figured I’d see the family until court starts up again after the new year.” He looked at me, as if searching for something.

“You must get home a fair amount.”

“For an overnight or dinner. I don’t have a lot of time available, but over the holidays nothing particular keeps me in the city—” at this, he glanced at me again—“so why not hang out here?”

Bailey said, “Are you helping with your dad’s campaign?”

“No.” He paused, then showed himself to be a politician cut from Winters cloth. “But Dad’s got so many great people, really loyal…this time.” He looked at Hetty. “And all the targeted campaign work is really paying off.”

Hetty leapt from her seat. Junior grabbed at Hetty’s brandy glass as it slid toward the edge of the table and nearly into mid-air.

“Hetty, be careful.” I meant it on too many levels to articulate.

Oblivious, she scuttled across the dining room, yanked open the door, and practically threw herself out. Her pale face looked in on us for a split second before she disappeared into the night.

Chapter 17

I fell asleep on the couch in the solarium and woke with a start from a dream about Hetty’s attacker, with the smell of gunpowder in my nostrils. Mother stood over me. She’d turned on every lamp in the room. I sat up, shielding my eyes from the light. “What’s the matter?”

She sniffed. “It’s two in the morning and you were snoring like a common drunk. Couldn’t you even make it to your bed?” She sat down in the chair across from me and surprised me by wringing her hands. “What’s going on, Clara?”

I rubbed my face, trying to think clearly. The last thing I remembered was leaving Bailey at the restaurant. That wasn’t good, since I’d obviously driven home and parked myself on the couch before passing out.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I stuck to my innocence in arguments with Mother, until I knew what the argument was about.

“I’ve been home for two days. I find your things in my bedroom and bath as if you’re living in my room. You work for the Winters, date their son, and ride with Mary Ellen. You’ve asked Nat Mueller personal questions about me, and Wendy Hankin tells me you’ve badgered her husband for my medical information. Is that clear enough?”

Too much alcohol lingered in my blood for this conversation, so I