Wrong Alibi (Murder in Alaska #1) - Christina Dodd Page 0,2
her into the wall. Her neck whiplashed, and her head thumped hard enough to rattle her brains.
The wind disappeared as rapidly as it came.
Petie fell to her knees.
Night enveloped her.
If she hadn’t had the hat, the scarf, the hood on her head, she would have been dealing with a concussion. As it was, the memory that floated to the top of her brain was the moment when, at fourteen, she had faced her mother in juvenile detention.
Petie was afraid, horrified, ashamed, but she faced Ioana with her chin defiantly stuck out.
“Evie, I’m an immigrant. I have an accent. You’re making it hard for me at work and hard for your sister at school. Someone in the neighborhood sprayed paint on our windows—GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM!”
“Those bastards,” Evie had said sullenly. “Tell them to stuff it.”
“You do not repent? When you can make me proud, come home.” Ioana stuck her finger in Petie’s face, and her Eastern European accent was strong and angry. “Until then, you stay away from your sister. Stay away from me. Life is hard enough without having your kind drag us down.”
“My kind? I’m just like you!”
Ioana had slapped her.
Petie’s hand flew to her cheek.
Ioana gasped. Reaching out, she pulled Petie into her arms. “Forgive me. But you’re throwing away all your opportunities with both hands. Stop. Think. Live!”
Apparently, her mother and the wind had something in common.
Petie hung her head and cried a few tears, tears that froze instantly into the scarf. She staggered to her feet. She groped her way to the generator, knelt and found the large metal flashlight right where she’d left it and turned it on. She picked up the snow shovel, stood, pointed the beam of light at the ground and stepped carefully across the icy patches and up the steps. Still carrying the shovel, she let herself inside, shut the door behind her, locked it and stood listening to the beastly roar of the storm, now muffled by the protective walls.
She had fixed the generator.
The lights were on.
The heat was running.
She was not going to die here.
She said it out loud, needing to hear the words. “I am not going to die here.”
Someday, somehow she would leave the wilderness behind, mend the rift in her family, but most of all, she was going to sometime, somehow find Donald White: conspirator, con man...killer.
She would have revenge—and he would face justice.
3
Midnight Sun Fishing Camp
This spring
IN THE LAST EIGHT YEARS, Petie had risen up the Midnight Sun chain of command to become Hawley’s camp director. She no longer had to pick up guests from the airstrip and drive them to their accommodations at the fishing camp; however, when Cardinal Electronics CEO Jeen Lee requested Petie perform that service, Petie made an exception.
Now Bradley Copeland and Jeen Lee rode in the back seat of the Land Rover, and with the painful care of someone who spoke Quemadese as a second language, Bradley Copeland said, “When we announce the chip, Cardinal Electronics stock is going to leap. Miss Lee, have you made your moves?”
Presumptuous of him. But if the discussion Petie had overheard from Miss Lee’s employees was true, that was to be expected. Bradley was not only the new technological wonder boy, but a conceited young American who effortlessly offended everyone he met.
What did Jeen Lee think of him?
No way to tell. Miss Lee was a woman of indecipherable age, with carefully tended skin, a forehead botoxed and wrinkle-free, dark eyes fringed with lash extenders and generous lips tattooed a dark, glorious red. She ate sparingly, worked out diligently and moved with choreographed grace. The online community officially admired Jeen Lee for all she had achieved in her business life, but if one dug deeper, and Petie had, elements of a darker past emerged. The woman who fronted the prominent tech company operating from Quemada had once been feared for her cruel, swift vengeance against anyone who betrayed her.
She was feared still. Yet she had never been anything but kind to Petie, and Petie had her own reasons for doing the secret thing she had done. Now she had to find the nerve, and the right moment, to tell Miss Lee the truth.
As they bounced along the gravel road, Bradley asked in Quemadese, “The driver—does she understand us?”
“She’s American.” Miss Lee could not have sounded more bored.
“So am I, and I speak Quemadese.”
“So you do,” Miss Lee said.
“I’m getting better!” He was defensive. “I have a gift for languages!” And conceited.