The Darkness of Shadows (6 page)

She looked up from her list.

“He said that your power was fading and you couldn’t protect me anymore.”

She raised both eyebrows. “That is quite strange.”

“Yeah. Did you know my father?”

“No …” She hovered over a thought. “Well, that is not entirely true. We knew each other from the Parent Teacher Association.”

Somehow, I hadn’t gotten the impression my dad was talking about her formidable PTA powers.

“Since he is still about, I want to speak to you about a security detail,” she said. “I think it is the proper thing to do.”

“I don’t know, ma’am.” I didn’t need a babysitter. Much. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course. Oh, I almost forgot—Mrs. Edwards called earlier to inquire how you were.” A hint of sarcasm made its way into her tone. “She also dropped by when you were in the hospital.”

My good mood disappeared like cupcakes at a kid’s birthday party.

“You remember why Mrs. Edwards stopped by, do you not?”

“I … ah … yes.”

“You know that neither Valerie nor I can accept what is in those envelopes.”

“Ma’am, please, can I explain?”

She waited with the patience only a mother could possess.

“I didn’t think I was going to … I thought …” Cut, take two. “I wanted you and Val to have the money from the sale of my business. I had nothing else to give you.”

“Natalie, all Valerie and I want is to have you with us—”

“You’d better get going, ma’am. The wine shop waits for no woman.”

“You must promise me that you will rest. And remember to take your medication.”

“Yes, ma’am.” But I’d only take the antibiotics—I refused to tempt the gods of addiction with pain meds. “Have a good time.”

She gathered her things. “I will not be late.”

Not late for her was me entering my second REM sleep. I smiled as she headed to her car and a well-deserved night off.

As for me … I now had an entire evening to myself. Pizza delivery was in my future: a large pie with pepperoni, onions, and mushrooms, paired with a two-liter Coke … Mine, all mine! Muwhahaha!

Speaking of evil, my father was probably regrouping. I needed to be doing the same. My original plan had hit the trifecta of stupidity, so my new strategy was simple: draw him out and kill him. No catch-me-if-you-can, elaborate, heart-wrenching speeches. Empty a magazine into him and call it a day.

First wrinkle: I had no idea how to contact him. Do I rent one of those billboard trucks, create some snappy advertisement that no one understands but him, and hope for the best? This patricide planning was exhausting.

Adding to my troubles was Rufus, who was now my constant mental companion. My parents had always been a few primary colors short of a paint set, but now … either they’d passed along more of the crazy than I realized, or my father had some serious otherworldly firepower at his disposal.

The phone rang. I grabbed the handset and checked the caller ID: Val.

“Yo, what up?”

“Hey, what’s going on?” Val said. “How you feeling?”

“Really good. Your mom’s TLC rocks.”

“Want to come over for dinner?”

One of the great things about being friends with Val was you could skip the pleasantries and get right to the point. But it was Friday night. She usually went out and did what people with social lives did on the weekends. She always invited me and I always took a rain check. And tonight was a club opening in the city that she’d been excited about for weeks. So why wasn’t she going out to blow off some steam?

“Sure.”

“K. See you around seven,” Val said.

“Whoa, wait a minute. You don’t sound good.”

“Just a little tired.”

“Uh huh. What can I bring?”

“Nothing. See you tonight. Gotta run—got a client meeting in a few. Need to be charming.”

Huh.

Charm is intangible. It’s a style of being, a presence factor. It’s something you’re born with. If I ever had it, it took a left turn at Albuquerque and kept going.

My parents were charismatic chameleons of the business world. My mother called and the CEOs came running, awaiting their time with William the Soothsayer.

This meeting was an effort to woo a new client. According to my father’s research, Mrs. Dehart had gone to school in London and loved all things English.

I decorated the sunroom of their office with fresh flowers from the garden. The table was set with my mother’s fine china, silverware, linen tablecloth, and napkins. Mrs. Dehart’s favorite scones, clotted cream, and lemon curd awaited her approval. He knew his prey.

“You must be Natalie.”

I turned and was greeted by a mocha-colored hand. She was gorgeous.

“I’m Lauren Dehart.”

My eyes went to the floor, so as not to offend her. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

She grabbed my hand and shook it. I retreated a step.

“You’re about the same age as my daughter. Boys and clothes are the main topics in our house.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I started to twist the dishtowel. If I got caught talking to one of their guests, I’d get it but good.

“Lauren, how are you?” my father said.

“I was just talking to your lovely daughter.”

“I hope she was minding her manners.”

“My Kendra could take lessons from her,” Lauren said. “Well, weekends are precious, so let’s begin.”

“Karen and I feel the same way.” My father put his hand on my shoulder. I tried not to flinch. “Let’s talk in here.” He ushered Lauren into the sunroom.

Lauren said, “This is leaps and bounds above your testosterone-centric lair of an office.”

My father laughed and pulled the chair out for her. “What would you like to drink?”

“I think you know.”

His eyes flicked in my direction. I was already in motion, tea poured and delivered.

“Thank you, Natalie,” she said. There was an unspoken question in her words, but my father drew her away before it could be asked.

I slipped into the hallway and into the shadows where I belonged.

It was late afternoon, so I had plenty of time to make something for dessert. Mrs. G’s pantry and fridge were always stocked full of goodies. A lemon pound cake with a fresh berry compote would work.

I immersed myself in the task at hand and the afternoon disappeared. Before I knew it, it was six o’clock. Yikes! Time to hit the shower. As I got dressed, I thought about my short conversation with Val. Conjecture would do me no good—I’d just have to wait until I got there to find out what was going on.

Val’s place was in an older section of East Caldwell. I always took the long way there—the direct route took me past the street I grew up on.

My parents’ house was your basic center hall colonial. It impressed those who needed impressing. I hated it there and try not to remember it. But your past is your past, and it makes an appearance at the most inconvenient times to remind you of who you are.

I parked in front of Val’s stone craftsman cottage, grabbed my gear, and headed for the kitchen door—we weren’t front door people. My new cane felt a little weird. It made a different clicking noise as I walked.

Val was waiting on the porch. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore an old T-shirt and faded jean shorts that showed off her long legs. She also looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes.

“Hey,” I said.

“I told you not to bring anything.”

“Yeah, right. Show up empty handed and never hear the end of it later.”

She laughed and took the canvas bag as we went into the kitchen. The cool air was a relief from the hot, sticky night. I shut the door and put my pack in the corner, out of the way.

Val was opening the bag when the scent of lemon wafted into the air. She smiled and put the cake on the counter and the compote in the fridge.

“I figured we could have steak salad. Sound good?” she said.

Val made a kick-ass grilled steak salad. The meat was done to perfection: medium rare, sliced paper thin. A mixture of greens was dressed with balsamic vinaigrette with a touch of Dijon mustard, chunks of fresh mozzarella, grape tomatoes, and a sliced red onion finished it off.

“Need help?” I said.

“Nope.” Her back was to me as she continued the prep work.

“Val?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it your mom?” God please no, not either of them. I couldn’t take it.

She said nothing as she cut the onion into slivers and continued putting the salad together.

I went over to her. “What’s going on?”

She turned with a ten-inch chef’s knife in her hand. I backed away. She’d never hurt me, but I hate knives.

“Oh, God! I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” She put the knife down on the cutting board and washed her hands.

“Please tell me.”

She frowned. “Let’s sit down.”

“Are you sick or something?” The panic started to blossom.

“I’m fine. Mom is too.”

“So what the hell?”

“I need to talk to you.”

I let out a long breath. Whatever this was, it was bad.

“You were leaving and not telling me,” she said.

In my parallel universe, this conversation was never going to happen.

“That was the idea.” Tension folded over me. “And unless I was magically transported to the Empire of Val, I can take a trip anytime I want.”

She squared her shoulders. “That’s your explanation?”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

A thin eyebrow went up.

“Let me see if I have this right.” She poked the antique table, making it more of an antique with each jab of her fingernail. “You planned a road trip to Florida—”

“How’d you know where I was going?” I started spinning my cane.

“Directions and a map in your backpack were a big hint.”

“You went through my pack?”

“I needed your insurance card for the hospital.” She glared. “You hate Florida. You say they have prehistoric-size bugs down there.”

If I told her the truth, it would drive her away—she wouldn’t want any part of it, and just like that I’d be on my own and she’d be safe.

“You really want to know?” I leveled my death stare at her.

She gave me hers right back. “I think I deserve to know.”

“I was leaving town so my father would follow me, so you and your mom would be safe.”

She rolled her eyes. “We’re not kids,” she said. “I can take care of my—”

“I was going to kill him.”

She froze. “Excuse me?”

“You heard. I planned a first-degree murder. You know, the thing your mom puts people in prison for.” I was smug, waiting for her holier-than-thou tirade.

She stood. She looked at me, then away, then back at me.

“Are you going to give me a head start or just turn me in?” I said.

She started to say something, then stopped and pointed a finger in my direction.

“I knew you were up to something.”

I stopped spinning my cane and used it to help me get up. I grabbed my pack and headed for the back door.

Her hand clamped down on my forearm.

“I want in,” she said.

A toddler could’ve knocked me over.

“No freakin’ way!” I twisted out of her grip. “I don’t want you anywhere near this.”

“Too late,” she said.

“You’ve never gotten a traffic ticket—”