Secret Keeper

by Harlan, Christopher

  “That’s a crazy story. What happened next?”

  “A few things. After I left, I told Graham that we might have a situation with him being in the building and Graham contacted his family and they got him help.”

  “Well that’s good at least.”

  “That’s not the only good thing that happened.”

  “What else?”

  “After that whole episode was over, and he apologized a bunch of times, he went into his cabinet, pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. He told me to open it later after I left. I thanked him and got the hell out of there before he went Rambo on me again.”

  “What was in the envelope?”

  “Five thousand dollars in cash.”

  “Holy shit! Five grand?”

  “In hundreds and twenties — looked like it has come right out of a bank vault, too. No folding or wear on the bills. That’s when I learned the rich aren’t like you and me. They’re a different kind of people. Granted, McDonnell was a severe case, but there are million stories I can’t tell you that are similar. Minus the gun, of course.”

  When I’m done she looks at me a little differently. Not in a bad way, just different. I’m normally a private guy, but I like opening up to her, even though I never should have told her what I just told her.

  “Wow,” she says when I’m finished. “That sounds like an amazing job.”

  “It’s never boring, I can tell you that.”

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  Oh no. My heart starts racing, wondering what questions she’s going to ask me that I potentially can’t answer, but something tells me to just let it happen, so I agree. “Of course, go ahead.”

  “Are you. . .”

  “A Sagittarius? How’d you know?”

  “Shut up, you know what I’m trying to ask you.”

  I do. But I’m going to pretend like I don’t. “What?”

  “Do you have money?”

  “Does that matter?” I ask. I’m curious where she’s going with this.

  “Not to me. It was never about money with Chandler. That just came with the package. But I could very easily go back to an apartment in Queens and have enough money to just live. I don’t need expensive cars and fancy clothes—I don’t even want those things, really, they just kind of came with the territory.”

  I love everything she’s saying. We really are cut from the same cloth. We come from the same kind of background, and in a lot of ways I feel the same way as her. The level of wealth I’m around every day isn’t something I need or even want, but I do want more than what I grew up with.

  “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, because this is what I always used to hear when someone was rich and didn’t want to say those words out loud, but I’m going to say it anyhow. I’m comfortable.”

  “I knew you were going to say that!”

  “No way,” I joke. “You had no idea.”

  “I did, I swear. I used to hear that same thing. Why don’t people ever just say that they’re rich?”

  “I used to wonder that also, but I’m saying it because I don’t consider myself rich. To me, rich means that I’m my own boss—that I don’t need to worry about losing a job and having my whole financial future put in jeopardy. Rich means freedom, and I’m not totally free yet. But, do I have more money than my grandparents ever saw growing up? Yeah, I do.”

  “Well if you’re getting slipped envelopes filled with five grand in cash from crazy people, I can only imagine what Graham’s paying you. But thanks for your honesty.”

  “You’re welcome. Anything else?” I ask.

  “Actually, yeah, just one more thing.”

  “Okay. Hit me with it.”

  “You said ‘yet’.”

  “Huh?”

  “You said that you’re not free yet. So when will you be free?”

  That question hits me in the chest. I hadn’t even realized that I said it, but now that she asked me about it it hits a sore spot. “That’s a great question. I’m not sure.”

  She leans across the table and takes my hand when my tone changes and I look away. “Tell me. What is it that you want to do?”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “I promise you, that the last thing I’ll ever do is laugh at you. Tell me.”

  “I want to open up my own chain of coffee places—coffees from around the world—Turkish, Cuban, Africa. . . all sorts of preparations that are ten times better than any Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts crap—people would line up around the block just like they do at Jorge’s place. We talked about opening it together.”

  “I think that’s an amazing idea, and I love how ambitious you are. Then what’s stopping you?”

  “I need to save enough money, and it’s no small amount. I don’t want to go into debt, so I’m trying to work enough that I can save an amount to open my first place. I’ve talked to Jorge a lot—he wants to do it.”

  “You should! Do whatever you need to do to get that money and follow your dreams. Don’t let anything stop you.”

  Maybe I will, Penelope. Maybe I just will.

  25

  Dylan

  This isn’t going to go well.

  I’m taking the subway because it will give me time to think about my exact words, but, I know that no matter what they are, Chandler isn’t going to react well. He’s a man used to getting what he wants, despite resistance. That’s the definition of power—and he’s a powerful man. My only advantage is that I have some experience with men like that. I’ve been around them long enough to get a sense of how to deal with them.

  But this one is something different. He’s like a comic book villain—ruthless, vindictive, and willing to go to any lengths to make people bend to his will.

  Unfortunately for him, I don’t bend. And I have an advantage of my own.

  He doesn’t know me. Not the real me.

  He doesn’t know the soldier, the disciplined intellectual, the guy who isn’t intimidated by any man. That’s the real me. The one only my brothers in Afghanistan and a handful of others have ever seen. Chandler thinks I’m just some guy looking for a job—a poor kid trying to make it good by playing pretend in his world, and because of that he thinks he can control me like he tries to control everyone else, including his ex-fiancé.

  He’s in for a rude awakening if he tries that shit with me. But we’ll see how it goes. Hopefully it won’t get to that point.

  As I get off the subway, I check my phone. It’s five city blocks to his office, and I decide to walk. As I navigate the busy streets, my chest gets tight with anticipation. I feel like I’m going into battle, and suddenly the soldier in me starts to come out. It might be weird, but I hear the words that General Eisenhower gave to his men immediately before the Normandy invasion on D-Day:

  “You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade. . . Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped, and battle hardened. He will fight savagely.”

  That’s about right. I’m here.

  I tell the guy at the security desk who I am and he directs me to the top floor of the building. This place is huge—like a small city. As I make my way to the elevator and down the hallway to Chandler’s office, I can see why he’s willing to do terrible things to protect all of this. He really does have an empire here—and this acquisition of his social media company is set to make him one of the richest men in the country.

  When I get to his office, his secretary pages him and tells me to go in, and that he’s expecting me. I knock on the door even though I don’t have to, and I hear his voice from inside. “Come in.”

  “How was your trip?” I ask.

  “Fruitful,” he says. “It’s not easy to get into overseas markets when it comes to social media—so many of those countries have limitations of free speech, but the European market is a cake walk compared to Asia. But I don’t want to bore you with business logistics. Come, sit.”

  I sit down across from him in a chair that
’s very heavy for this size—I hear it creak as I move it back from the desk. As I sit down, I decide that the direct approach is the best one here. Like my grandfather used to say—pull the band-aid. I’m about to rip that bitch right off.

  “So?” he says. “Tell me what I want to know. How did it go with our friend?”

  Our friend? You mean the mother of your unborn child, and the Vice President of your company that you fired and disavowed? You sick fuck.

  “Look, before we even get into all that, there’s something else I need to speak to you about.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Really? I don’t think I like the sound of that at all.”

  Oh, Chandler, just you wait until you hear what I’m actually going to say to you.

  “I’ve thought about how to say this to you. I’ve gone back and forth in my head with a few different ways, but I’ve always found that being direct is the easiest thing to do in difficult situations.”

  “I agree,” he says. “But I didn’t know we were in a difficult situation.”

  “We are. Look, I have nothing but respect for you and all that you’re doing, but I can see that the jobs you’re going to want me to do are very different than the ones Graham had me do. I’m feeling very uncomfortable with this whole set up—and if these are the things I have to do just to get the job, I can’t imagine what I might be asked to do once I’m part of the team.”

  “I see.”

  I see also. I see his face change in that way I’ve seen it do before. It’s subtle and probably imperceptible to most people, but I see it. This is his bad news face. This is his fighting face.

  “I guess what I’m saying is that I no longer want to be your assistant, Chandler. I appreciate the opportunity, I really do, and I wish you all the best with this acquisition, but I can’t be a part of this. I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t react at first. No outbursts or yelling. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just looks like he’s studying my face. Before he says a word to me, he picks up his phone and calls for his secretary. “Mae, can you please bring a form in here? Thank you.” He replaces the receiver and looks me in the eye. “I understand, Dylan.”

  Huh? “I’m glad.” That wasn’t what I expected him to say at all, and I’m immediately distrustful of everything that’s coming out of his mouth. There’s no way he’s taking this so well.

  I hear the door open behind me and his secretary walks up to his desk and places a document down in front of me before leaving the room. “What’s this?” I ask.

  “It’s an NDA—I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”

  “A non-disclosure. Sure. I’m familiar. Why are you presenting me with one?”

  “Because I can’t have you discussing anything you learned in your dealings with Tomas or Teresa with anyone else. While I understand your decision, I’ll still need you to sign this before you leave.”

  I wasn’t expecting this one. I expected a fight—yelling, threats, anything like that I was ready for. But legal documents? This is throwing me for a loop.

  “I’m not signing anything, Chandler. And I don’t have to, I’m not your employee. Seems like this would have been a better idea to have me sign before I did all of this.”

  “Probably, yes. In hindsight, I won’t make that mistake again, but I was swept up with some. . . personal issues, as you know. After getting such a glowing recommendation from Graham, I didn’t expect you to up and leave like this, so I didn’t think it was going to be necessary.”

  I don’t like his tone and I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Something inside of me is tensing up, and the working-class Queens kid is rising to the surface. I don’t want this to go south for a number of reasons, but I’m definitely not signing anything.

  “I understand. And look, you have my word that I won’t say anything to anyone about all this, alright? But I’m not going to sign an NDA. I’m sorry.”

  He listens to me and then there’s nothing but silence between us for what feels like forever, but what’s probably only a few seconds in reality. Then he speaks. “I’m sorry too. Do you want to know what I’m sorry about, Dylan?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A few things, actually. I’m sorry that your former employer made such a horrible recommendation of someone so unprofessional. I’m sorry that you’re making the terrible decision of not signing this very important document sitting in front of you. I’m sorry that I’ll have to tell all of my friends that you’re unsuitable to work in a similar capacity for any of them because of your complete lack of professionalism—which is a shame considering you’re now gainfully unemployed. Those kinds of things, Dylan.”

  You fucking prick. I’m finally meeting the real Chandler Daniels. Nice to finally see my real enemy. Before I get a chance to respond, he finishes his little speech.

  “But do you know what the worst part is? What I’m truly sorry about, Dylan?”

  Oh great, he’s saved the punch line for last.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m sorry that you’re fucking my fiancé.”

  It’s hard to leave me speechless. Congrats, Chandler, you just got the job done.

  26

  Penelope

  How the hell did he know where I was? God damn him.

  My anxiety level rises when I open the letter that was slipped under my door last night with his personal seal on the envelope.

  The fact that someone came to where I was sleeping and slipped this under the door is disconcerting enough, but I can’t imagine what I’m about to read.

  It’s typed—of course—why would he bother to take the time to actually write what he wanted to tell me.

  I start to read and, by the time I hit the final sentence, I’ve drop the letter to the floor without even realizing it.

  I can’t believe what I just read.

  27

  Dylan

  The next day

  After I take care of some building responsibilities, I engage in the only wake-the-fuck-up ritual that doesn’t involve punishing myself at the gym—some espresso at Jorge’s place. I’m meeting Penelope here in a few minutes—she wouldn’t return my texts most of yesterday, but she finally did, and we agreed to meet here. She didn’t say much. I got the feeling that something was off, but I’m not sure what.

  That aside, considering that, only yesterday, one of the most powerful men in the city told me he was going to ruin my reputation, and then told me he knew I was with his ex and was going to get me back for it, I’m in a pretty good mood.

  After Chandler shocked me with the news that he knew, the rest of the conversation went like this.

  “What are you talking about? I’m not. . .”

  “Please, Dylan,” he said, putting his hand up and smiling in a really dick-ish way. “Don’t embarrass yourself. The modicum of respect I actually have for you comes from the fact that you seem to be a man of action, a man of integrity. You were a soldier, correct?” I nod, worried that he’s going to take this too far and I’ll have to show him how much of a solider I am. “I respect battle. I understand it. But please don’t ruin it by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. Do you really think I’d just trust you to take her out without having eyes on you both?”

  I hadn’t even thought of that. Maybe it was the small part of me that’s still naïve when it comes to guys like this, but I never thought he’d have spies watching me and Penelope have pizza and. . . everything else that came after. Holy shit, how much did his spies see?

  “To be honest I’d never considered it, but I guess it makes sense. No matter what Graham tells you, you have to see for yourself whether or not I’m trustworthy.”

  “And I’m sad to say that you failed that test, Dylan.”

  “Because of Penelope?” I asked him. And what he said next shocked me, even though at that point it probably shouldn’t have.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t care about her. You failed because you were willing to walk away
from my organization at the slightest test of your own moral compass.” Then he snickered. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that snicker for the rest of my life. It was the most dismissive sound I’d ever heard—a blend of offense, shock, and complete disbelief in what was happening. He stood up from behind his desk and strolled over to his window overlooking the city. “People like you fascinate me.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked. “People like me?”

  “The ones who come from nothing but want to have everything, only you’re not willing to do what it takes to get the life you want. My father was one of you, but he did what he needed to do to make sure he was the last in his family to ever have that distinction. Every Daniels born from now until the end of time will be born something—with something, as something. But people like you—you’re a tourist, a visitor, a voyeur. You like to be around people like me and my family—to watch us, study us, pretend that being in our presence somehow makes you one of us. But you’re not. You will never be. Your working-class ethics limit you from being able to do the things you need to do to have an office like this. It’s a shame, really. But don’t feel bad. The world needs men like you, so that men like me can have employees.”

  I stood up and walked out after that. There wasn’t anything to say. I let him make his little speech that he’d probably practiced in the mirror at home, and left happy that I’d freed myself from almost taking a job with a New York’s richest sociopath. But my relief was short lived. As soon as it wore off, his threats came ringing back in my mind.

  And now, here I am, a Jorge’s, waiting for Penelope. She should be here any moment. In the meantime, I do what I do best and shoot the shit with Jorge. Or, I should say, he shoots the shit with me.

  “You’ve looked better, brother.”

  “I’ve felt better. It’s been a rough day—have a few things going on.”