Free The Opposite of Dark by Debra Purdy Kong Page A

the disillusioned and poor part, so why the big secret out a second income? Unless . . .
    â€œSimone, what did Dad import for you?”
    â€œRare decks of tarot cards; all kinds. Celtic, Egyptian, I Ching.”
    â€œReally?”
    Simone blinked at her. “Through those cards, I helped people with problems. Clients still look for me, which is why I need privacy.”
    What on god’s earth would Dad have had in common with a fortune teller? He’d never believed in that stuff. “Judging from this photo, I gather you two were also friends?”
    â€œYes.”
    Casey handed the photo back to Simone. “Do you know if he imported anything else besides your cards?”
    â€œFurniture, art.”
    â€œAnything else?”
    â€œI don’t know.” She gazed off into space. “He had an assistant at his architectural firm. Vincent, I think his name was. He might know.”
    Vincent Wilkes knew about the importing business? She’d have to have another chat with him. Aware that Simone was watching her rather intensely, Casey tried not to squirm.
    â€œMarcus often mentioned you,” Simone said. “He had hopes for a grandchild.”
    Another thing she hadn’t known, and why was this old woman refusing to believe that Dad had faked his death?
    â€œSimone, were you with Dad when he died?”
    â€œNo.”
    Casey thought she saw a glimmer of fear. “Then can you be sure it really happened?”
    â€œMarcus died in the hospital, no mistake.”
    â€œThe man you ate with might have been an impostor.”
    â€œIf he were alive, he would have come for his book.”
    â€œWhat book?”
    â€œA notebook. He said to give it to you if he died. It’s the other reason I needed you to come here.”
    Simone walked to a large wooden trunk under the window at the front of the cottage. Following, Casey watched her retrieve a key from a chain hidden under her shirt. Simone knelt and unlocked the trunk. The lid creaked open.
    Casey stepped closer as the woman removed decks of tarot cards and small wooden boxes. Simone lifted out a cassette tape labeled “Mozart: The Last Four String Quartets” and a folded sheet of paper smudged with charcoal. Simone hesitated over these items then quickly exchanged them for a zippered, blue book. The book was a little larger than a paperback. Simone shoved it into Casey’s hands, as if she couldn’t bear to touch it.
    â€œWhen I came home two years ago, I called you again,” Simone said. “A woman said you’d moved away and wouldn’t give any information.”
    â€œMy ex-husband’s girlfriend; she moved in right after I moved out.”
    Simone pointed at the book. “It’s yours now. Take it.”
    Casey opened the zipper. “What’s inside?”
    â€œAll I know is that it was valuable to Marcus.” Simone returned her things to the trunk. “You must leave now.”
    A house key fell from the pages and Casey smiled. “Have you ever been to Dad’s home on Marine Drive?”
    â€œNo.” She shut the lid. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me or where I live, promise?”
    â€œAs I said, the police might want to talk to you. Frankly, I’m a little surprised they haven’t found you yet.”
    â€œOnly Marcus and one other friend knew this phone number and address. This was my hidden retreat. I moved here permanently after I left Paris. I don’t want people to know where I live.”
    Was this more than a privacy issue? Was something troubling this woman? “Simone, do you know anything about a Marcus Holland look-alike? As far as I know, Dad never had a long lost twin.”
    Simone locked the trunk. “I know nothing about the person in the morgue.”
    Casey flipped through dozens of pages containing names, phone numbers, email and street addresses. “Do you know who these people are?”
    â€œI