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

“Where’s Constance?”

“She’s gone to see Gary Hankin. She thinks he might testify against Winters about his blackmailing scheme.”

The silence on the other end of the phone stretched across several galaxies, looped around and came back to swat me. Right. Mother hadn’t told him about the blackmail, either. Obviously, she hadn’t gotten around to that interview she’d promised. So I told him.

“You have proof?”

“That’s what she’s trying to get.”

“Does Mary Ellen know about the blackmail?”

“We think so.”

“I need you to listen to me carefully. Are you?” He waited.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Good. Mary Ellen and I need to have a chat, but I can’t detain her. Go home and lock the doors. When your mother comes home, keep her there. Don’t go anywhere. Officer Munson will come stay with you. Don’t let anyone else in—even if he’s a cop. Call me on this number only. Don’t call the station. I think I can finally prove which of my officers is dirty.” He didn’t even let me reply, just, mercifully, clicked off.

Chapter 27

I turned the phone off and laid it face down on the passenger seat, then started to shake. One of my officers…Suddenly, Hetty’s wall of photographs made sense: Hetty, Pete Samuels, Mary Ellen—what a weird trifecta. Mary Ellen to direct, Hetty for psychic predictions, Pete to do the dirty work. Win, place, show. But what was in it for Pete? He must be the man in the black balaclava. He had access to Hetty’s dolls, and I figured all cops knew how to break into houses. Would he come after me and Mother? I could see Mary Ellen shooting off a deadly text as the cops arrested her.

I called Mother’s cell, but it shuttled into voicemail. I left a frantic message. I called Hankin’s office and asked his receptionist if she’d seen Constance Montague that afternoon. She snipped about patient confidentiality and when I told her Mother wasn’t a patient but a friend of Dr. Hankin’s, she put me on hold and left me there. I disconnected and started toward home. Maybe Mother had already arrived.

The house was empty. I double checked all the rooms, locking doors behind me. Then, as I put the tea kettle on, Mother walked through the back door.

“Oh, Mother! I’m so glad you’re okay. The chief—”

“You’re making tea?” She nodded at the kettle, shrugging out of her coat. “Would you make me a cup while I go change?” She had faded since her tart exit this morning. Even her suit had wrinkles in it.

I relocked the back door, flopped teabags into two mugs and leaned against the counter with my arms folded, waiting, trying not to feel cranky and worried. Whatever discussion she’d had with Hankin would have been difficult at best.

I sighed. The truth was, despite whatever reconciliation we reached, she would still be the same woman with the same flaws. They might soften and ease, but they wouldn’t disappear. And that went for me too. I had never been easy to live with.

The kitchen was bright with harsh winter light. The heavy table gleamed, except where I’d left crumbs this morning. The broom closet door stood slightly ajar, in its shadows a chaos of mops and brooms. I crossed the room and shut the door.

Mother came in again, wrapped in a fleece robe with thick slippers on her feet. She’d washed her face. I filled the mugs. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head. “I just need to sit with you. Is that all right?”

“Sure.” I pulled out a chair, puzzled. She didn’t say anything for a long time, just sipped. I left her in peace, delaying my tale and Kyle’s. We were safe for the moment.

After a while, she reached for my hand and held it. I practiced breathing, calming my anxiety, and watched the sun play with the shadows. My thoughts slowly stilled. Into that emptiness, an image slowly built of the woman sitting before me: I saw her lying on a raft, floating. A long thin cord tethered her to something outside my vision. She wept and her tears flowed off the raft and melded with the sea, raising her higher and higher, until the tether cut at her wrist and the cord began to pull her toward the deep water. She shifted in her chair and the image disappeared. “He said he would testify.”

“That’s good, Mother. The chief can build a case.” The first nail—why didn’t she seem pleased?

“It was awful.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “It brought back so much…of that night. He wouldn’t stop apologizing for the deal he’d made with Winters. He kept saying he was just trying to protect his family, and surely I understood that.” She pressed her finger over one of my breakfast crumbs and absently lifted it from the table. The tears spilled over, and she hunched a shoulder into her cheek to wipe them away.

“I’ve never been angry at him. I always told myself I understood why he didn’t turn Winters in, but today, he seemed groveling and weak. I felt dirty demanding that he stand up and do the right thing, even though he should have done it years ago.” She frowned, sniffed. “I know that doesn’t make any sense.” She rubbed the crumb between her fingers until it was powder. “I did it anyway, and I made him sign a statement. I know it won’t stand up in court, but—oh God, Clara. I’m as bad as Andrew.” The tears came on again. I reached for a napkin.

“You’re nothing like him,” I said, “and with Hankin’s testimony, the police can make Winters pay.” I paused, hoping she’d respond with a smile, but she just stared at the table top. Instead, I told her what I’d discovered about Hetty and Mary Ellen.

“How could I not know Mary Ellen had a daughter?”

“You’ve been gone a long time, Clara. You probably forgot. Mary Ellen is so relentlessly single, and Emma was born only a few months before they