The Secrets We Keep

by Nikki Lee Taylor

  What Readers Are Saying

  “If you want to add this to your To Be Read List, you certainly can because this nail-biting thriller gets you and at the same time makes you emotional. There is a beautiful pain this book leaves behind, and I certainly couldn’t figure out the cover till the end and that is also something that I was not expecting... NOT AT ALL.”

  “This is one intense, twisted, addictive, complex, jaw-dropping novel! Not only is this a very well-written book with wonderfully interesting characters, but the suspense builds at just the right pace as the story unfolds.”

  “This novel had quite a few twists and turns and the twists are so juicy that I couldn’t stop reading.”

  “The story and how the characters are interconnected is an interesting twist, I can’t say I’ve read before. This book was hard to put down because I felt like I was a spectator with a front row seat to one highly dysfunctional family.”

  “The book touches on so many sources of pain addressing each with intelligence, empathy, and humanity. It is a true thriller in women’s fiction.”

  ‘The Secrets We Keep was by far the best book I have read this year. Many twists and turns throughout kept me looking forward to my reading time each day. The ending was fantastic.”

  THE SECRETS WE KEEP

  Published by Magpie Creative Media 2021

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  © Nikki Lee Taylor 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

  If this book raises issues for you, please contact your nearest mental health provider. In Australia call Beyond Blue on 1300 223 636 or Lifeline on 13 11 14

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  According to research, in Australia 18 per cent of women and 4.7 per cent of men report having suffered sexual abuse before the age of 15. International analysis suggests the rates are even higher, reaching 19.7 per cent for girls and 7.9 per cent for boys.

  Even more alarming is a survey carried out in 2016 by the Australian Bureau of Statistics which reported only 10 – 15 per cent of Australian cases included a stranger as the perpetrator.

  These are horrific statistics.

  While this kind of abuse is not a major theme of The Secrets We Keep, it does play a role in highlighting the importance of shining a light on child abuse.

  All characters and events are fictional in The Secrets We Keep, and as the author I have paid careful mind to tackle this subject with the most delicate of care and consideration.

  There are no graphic abuse scenes in this book, however I do hope the references make you, as the reader, uncomfortable enough to realise this is an ongoing problem and one that should not remain behind closed doors.

  While ever we shy away from things that make us uncomfortable, evil will continue to find its way through the cracks.

  We must be brave, and we must be vigilant, and most of all, we must always stand up for those in need of a plain-clothed hero.

  For my mother Glennis Craig, who has spent every day teaching me what a mother’s love should feel like…

  Preface

  When something breaks, when it shatters, sharp edges are always left behind, and that’s how it was with me. I saw myself as a broken window, fraught with shards sharp enough to make the hardest of hearts bleed. I cut people, not because I meant to, but because I was broken.

  It had been that way for as long as I could remember. Only pieces existed. Pieces that whispered and pieces that shouted. Pieces that sought solace and pieces that screamed bloody murder. Pieces that ached, and pieces that longed, and pieces that drifted on the breeze, quiet and gentle like ghosts in the dark.

  People had tried to repair me. They’d wanted to round out my razor-sharp edges, but it never really worked. I was angry. I was hurt. I was a person without hope. I lived in the dark, surrounded by invisible walls too high to climb.

  As a mother I always saw myself as wanting. I never could figure out how things went so wrong. All I could do was live with the outcome, the fallout of my failures.

  On the day it happened I hadn’t seen it coming. I had no idea that what started out as a simple conversation would end the way it did, with a secret so dangerous it threatened to destroy us all.

  Chapter One

  Sophie

  The blinds are drawn because I need them to be. There are days the light is welcome, but not today. Today I need the darkness. It is the best way I know to pull them in close, here in the dark, in the empty spaces where they no longer exist and yet still take up every particle of air.

  My life. My love. My family. James and Josh. My husband and son, stolen while I was sleeping, peacefully unaware at that very moment that the entire world was shattering.

  It’s the small things that hurt the most. An unexpected letter with his name on it. A television commercial for Linvilla Orchards – where we picked peaches every July, just the two of us at first, and then with Josh. His familiar scent trailing behind a stranger, its ghostly arms wrapping around my lungs and squeezing. The crisp sting of empty sheets as autumn turns to winter. Worst of all: the sudden ring of a child’s laughter breaking the silence and tearing my heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

  I stroke the fur on Miss Molly’s golden head and close my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, even though dogs don’t understand apologies. “It’s this day, it’s….”

  I let the words trail off, unable to say out loud that five years ago my husband and son took their last breath, trapped in a car wreck, and I hadn’t been there. Unable to say that while they were dying, I lay peacefully in bed, useless and selfish, taking an afternoon nap. It hadn’t even woken me. I hadn’t sat up, my instincts kicking into overdrive. I hadn’t experienced so much as a bad dream.

  At the time friends told me I should try to forgive myself, that it wasn’t my fault. They brought soup, and sent messages. They held me and promised things would get better. They stood on my stoop and reminded me, “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  Therapists call my depression and anxiety a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Survivor’s guilt, they say, although that’s not the official term. Apparently it’s natural for parents who outlive their children to experience a sense of blame, but I have struggled to believe there is anything natural about it. Could there be anything more unnatural than for a mother to bury her son?

  Then there were the people who told me to have faith. I’ve never been a religious person, but I have stood alone on a rainy afternoon and heard the hollow thump of dirt shoveled onto a tiny white casket. I’ve heard the mournful cry of a loon as people, not knowing what else to say, turned and made the sad walk back to their cars. I have stood as day turned to night, staring at two holes in the ground, hoping my husband and son wouldn’t be cold on the first night away from their beds. Away from me. Having faith would mean believing James and Josh were taken for a reason, that there was some divinity to their absence. There is not. There is only pain and empty spaces.

  I get up from the couch and pull the curtains further across. But no matter how dark I make the room, there are always slivers of light that keep me in the place I don’t want to be. Slivers that never let me bury the one question I still have no answer for.

  How do I ever find the strength to step into the light when they are forever lost in the dark?

  Chapter Two

  Madelyn-May

  Thirty floors below, people are scattered across Washington Square Park like colorful confetti. They are gathered around the fountain, its splashing water hypnotizing them away to some place they’d rathe
r be. How many of them know the leafy space was once a Potter’s Field? That right under their noses lie thousands of discarded bodies, the remains of soldiers from the American Revolution, victims of yellow fever, slaves, and criminals, all scattered across the park, their secrets buried along with them.

  “Madelyn-May?”

  “What is it, Sarah?” I ask without turning around, my mind still buried in the past.

  “I have a candidate for the video producer job. You’ll like her.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll like her?”

  “Yes,” Sarah nods. “She’s a mom herself and—”

  “No. No mothers.” I turn in time to catch Sarah swallowing hard. Her forehead is creased, confusion resting heavy on her brow. She’s been my assistant for three months and I can already tell she isn’t going to work out. She is emotional, soft, and tries too hard. “You signed a confidentiality clause when you started here,” I remind her, slipping my feet back into new-season Guccis, “so I will explain this to you once and once only. I do not hire mothers. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Madelyn-May. I understand.”

  “But do you?”

  Sarah is stuck. From the strained look on her face it’s clear she has no idea what I’m trying to tell her, or what the correct response might be. She is a people-pleaser. I knew that when I hired her, but I’m still not sure if she is smart enough to please me. “Our key messaging, my brand, is based around the notion that here at Love, Mommy, we love mommies more than anything else in the world. And we do, Sarah, we love mommies. Do you know why we love mommies so much?”

  “Sure,” she nods. “They’re just like you.”

  I grin at her attempt to placate me. “No, Sarah, we love mommies because they are our core customer. They are who make this business, my business, a success.”

  “Of course,” she nods, her eyes dropping. “My mistake.”

  “There are two kinds of mothers out there, Sarah. The ones who are thoughtful and loving and will do anything for their families, and the mothers who are weak, confused, and in desperate need of direction. Our content caters to both types of women, but neither can work here, because either their priorities are elsewhere, or they won’t handle the pressure. Do you see?”

  “I do, Madelyn-May.”

  “I personally create the core content base for our subscribers, our evangelists. Outside of that, I need smart, hard-working, loyal staff, who want this company to succeed as much as I do. I saw that in you Sarah, so don’t let me down. I don’t have time to replace you right now. Not with everything that’s going on.”

  As she turns and scurries out of my office, I glance back to the email message.

  How long can you hide the truth?

  I found it in my inbox this morning, amid a scrolling list of messages about blog content, speaking tours, and social media. The sender’s name is one I have never seen before and the subject line is empty.

  Over the years I’ve received hundreds of nasty emails and letters from women who either didn’t agree with something I wrote, were jealous of my success, or were just plain crazy. But this one is different. There’s something sinister about its simplicity, something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up like an invisible presence in the room.

  I press the intercom on my desk. “Sarah, get IT on the line for me, please.”

  After a brief conversation with a techie named Brad, it’s clear the best they can do is provide a location the email was sent from. It’s not what I wanted, but it might be enough to determine whether the email was sent from a crazy person – or worse.

  I close my eyes and rub slow circles across my temples. Anything to calm my mind. Today is becoming one of the rare occasions I imagine leaving early, sneaking up the drive of our Chestnut Hill home, kicking off my shoes, and falling onto the cool, crisp sheets of our California king. It’s unusual for me to leave the office before six pm, but right now, the stillness of an empty house with no rambling footsteps on the stairs, feels pretty inviting.

  “Madelyn-May…”

  Sarah’s voice cuts through the intercom and I leap in my seat. “Jesus Christ… Yes, Sarah, what is it?”

  “It’s Brad from IT again. Should I put him through?”

  I tell her yes. The phone buzzes and I scoop up the receiver. “Do you have more information?”

  “The ISP of the computer shows that the email was sent from a terminal at DigiMads, but that’s about all I can tell you.”

  “DigiMads?”

  “Oh, my bad, ma’am. It’s a communal workspace down on Samson Street. Digital nomads and online influencers use the space for publishing stuff to social media management platforms and travel blogs, things like that. It’s like a community office full of hot desks, if that makes more sense? My buddy Jethro runs an online—”

  “Did you say Samson Street? As in, here in Philly?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I clear my throat. “You’re telling me the email was sent from someone right here in Center City?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you’re certain?”

  “As far as I can tell.”

  I fall back into my seat and tug at the stray ends of my hair; a nervous gesture I thought I trained out of myself fifteen years ago. “And there’s no way it could have been rerouted or something?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but it doesn’t look that way.”

  My eyes fall over the angry scar on my wrist. “There’s absolutely no way in your opinion the email could have come from somewhere in say, California?” I think back to the place I grew up and wonder if my own history can remain buried, still and silent like the bodies in the park below, or if someone is about to go digging up the past.

  “Not that I can see, ma’am, no.”

  “Alright, thank you. Oh, and Brad?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “This conversation didn’t happen. Is that clear?”

  “Course, ma’am. I understand.”

  “Good. And for God’s sake, stop calling me ma’am.”

  Chapter Three

  Sophie

  When the knocking fails to wake me, Miss Molly takes it upon herself to ruse me from a dream state I would like to have stayed in, preferably forever. “What is it?!” I ask. “What are you doing?” Before I can open my eyes, her wet nose is up against my cheek. “Alright, okay, fine. I’m awake. Now, what’s the emergency?”

  More knocking, and another excited bark from Miss Molly.

  “It bothers me how excited to see him you get,” I scold her, gently. “You know that, right?”

  Unperturbed, Miss Molly runs in circles, her tail wagging so hard her entire body becomes an obscure U-shape.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself,” I grin. “Settle down.”

  With no time to find a brush, I pull my messy hair into a ponytail, and consider leaving him out on the stoop while I clean my teeth. But he’s seen me at my worst, and sometimes it gets a lot uglier than this, so instead I turn and follow Miss Molly downstairs. “I’m coming, hold on….”

  By the time I get to the final step, Miss Molly is pawing at the door. “Now, that’s just embarrassing,” I smile. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you about playing hard-to-get?”

  I unbolt the latch and the rich aroma of coffee brings a smile to my face. “Almond milk mocha?”

  He nods, and as usual I cave. “Alright, come inside.”

  Today his suit is royal blue, accompanied by the same lavender tie he wore on my last day in the office. A day that feels like a million years ago.

  Miss Molly throws herself at him, her front feet reaching his thighs, strands of her golden hair immediately attaching to his perfect pant legs.

  “Molly, get down,” I tell her. “We’ve talked about this. Sorry….”

  “Aww, it’s alright, isn’t it Miss Molly?” he smiles, playfully rubbing her head. “At least someone is happy to see me.” He hands me the cup, and strolls easily toward the kitchen win
dow. “Your back lawn need doing yet?”

  “Bastian….”

  “What?” he shrugs. “I’m just asking. It’s summer. Grass grows fast.”

  “I know, but I can do it myself.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I saw you go out there.”

  And there it is. That tone. That judgmental, sympathetic, degrading tone that screams You’re an unstable, incapable, good-for-nothing waste of space who can’t mow her own grass.

  “Don’t do that,” I tell him. “I can mow my own lawn, and I sat out there yesterday, if you must know.”

  He nods, knowing better than to challenge me. “Okay, I’ll believe you. Come here….”

  “Bastian….”

  “Sophie, come here, and stop being such a pain in the ass.”

  Knowing he’ll win me over eventually, I shuffle toward him, my grey sweatpants hanging loose and sleep still in my eyes. “Why do you come here and do this?”

  “You know why.” He gently tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “Tell me you know why.”

  I want to look away, to tear my eyes from his, but as usual they pull me in. “Fine, I know why.”

  “Then let me help you.”

  I sigh, and gently trace the olive skin of his cheek. “Fine, you can mow my grass.”

  “I thought of you last night,” he says. “Anniversaries must be hard on you?”

  I pull away, the moment between us instantly broken. Yesterday marked five years since the accident, and another man mentioning anything to do with my husband and son still feels like a betrayal.

  “Did you get through the night okay?” he tries again. “I’m just asking, Sophie. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  “I know, but it’s hard for me. I still feel like…”