Secret Keeper

by Harlan, Christopher

  “It’s that fucking job of yours,” he tells me. In fairness, that’s his explanation every time I look stressed—which is most times I’m in here, but that doesn’t make him wrong.

  “What else.”

  “That’s the thing, man, there’s a lot else.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t want to go there.” When he says that to me I know exactly where he’s going to go. But maybe I need to hear it one more time.

  “It’s alright. Say your piece.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear?”

  “No,” I tell him honestly. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t. You were about to tell me. . .”

  “That we should be in business together, like we discussed. That’s right. Look, you’re the smartest guy I know—if you weren’t, those rich assholes would never have hired you to handle all of their rich people shit.”

  I smile. “Rich people shit?”

  “You know, all that crap they do. Always something with portfolios or hedge funds or some bullshit—I don’t even know—rich people stuff.”

  “Yeah,” I joke. “I help them all with their hedge funds. Right after I show them how to diversify their portfolios. That’s totally what I do.”

  We both laugh. “Don’t be a dick, you know what I mean. You’re a clever dude. I know they’re paying you well, but a well-paid employee is still just an employee. To own something that’s yours and to get paid—brother, that’s where it’s at. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “You know, a very bad person said something similar to me today, only when you say it I don’t have that same desire to break something with my fist.”

  “I appreciate that, because I can’t have you breaking shit in here. Bad for business, you know?”

  Business. I’m so sick of that word being used for other people—Graham’s business, Chandler’s business—like Jorge said, it’s always someone else, never me. And I can’t say I don’t have support, because Graham always encouraged me to start my own thing when he knew that I had those kinds of ambitions. Maybe I just needed a kick in the ass.

  “Speaking of that,” I start. “We need to talk about that whole thing again, from the beginning.”

  “Anytime, brother.”

  That thing I’m talking about is the plan Jorge presented to me once. Back in the day, when I first started working for Graham, I started coming in here to get my morning espresso. Sometimes it was before the gym, sometimes after, but coming to Jorge’s to get some caffeine into me became a daily ritual. One day, he engaged me in some friendly conversation when there was no one else around, and I made a crazy offer out of nowhere.

  “Let me buy into your business—then you and me will start a national chain of coffee places that will rival Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts.”

  I remember the ambition in my heart back then. I meant it, too. Name a price, I told him, and I’m in. And he did. He gave me a number, and I started a special savings account the next day so I could hit the number he was asking for to be a 50/50 partner. I stopped depositing into it a few months ago. I don’t know why. I’m not an insecure guy, but I started to think that it was never going to actually work out—or even if it did, we wouldn’t be able to last.

  I read in a sports psychology book once that the difference between people who became champions and those who don’t is that the ones who don’t could never visualize themselves as the best. When they closed their eyes, they couldn’t see themselves winning the big game, or the gold medal, or having a belt wrapped around their waist. The ones who got there were the ones who could see themselves getting there.

  I think its time to start seeing myself as a businessman and less of a businessman’s assistant.

  My phone vibrates, and all I see is a curt text from Penelope, telling me that she’ll be here in a minute. Something’s up with her. She’s never not returned a text from me since we got together, and even when she got back to me it was short. She sounds pissed, but I can’t think of what she’d be pissed at except her ex.

  Jorge and I talk a little more business, but mostly I sip my Cuban espresso and think about what I’m going to do next. After a few minutes Jorge looks over my shoulder and fixes his eyes on someone. “I think you have some company.”

  When I turn, I see that something’s off right away. There’s no smile, no wave, no indication whatsoever that she’s happy to see me. Her face looks tense, and she’s making only enough eye contact to tell me that she wants me to sit down. I get up and leave Jorge to serve up espresso to the customers who are starting to come in and I go over to sit down with Penelope.

  “Hey. You okay?”

  “I’ve been better, Dylan.”

  She sounds the way she looks—sullen, and I start to wonder just what the hell is going on with her. “What’s up?”

  She doesn’t answer right away, and I know it’s something bad. “I don’t even know how to answer that.”

  “What does that mean? Is it Chandler? What did he do now?”

  “No, Dylan, for once it’s actually not Chandler. Not exactly.”

  She’s being super cryptic and I don’t like it at all. “You’re freaking me out a little here, Pen. Can you just tell me what’s going on?” She doesn’t tell me anything—just reaches into her bag that’s sitting on the table, rustles around, and pulls out a white envelope. “What’s that?”

  “Read this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just read it!” she commands.

  I’ve never seen her like this, so I do as she asks. I take the paper from her and lower my eyes to the page.

  Dearest Penelope,

  Whatever you may think of me, I do regret what happened between us, and I do want you back in my life. I’m set to have all of my dreams fulfilled once this acquisition is completed, and you should be there to share in it with me. I’m concerned for you, and the foolish choices that you seem to be making since you walked out of our place. I’m not the jealous type, and it was me who first strayed outside of our relationship. But there are some things that I feel you should know about your new little boy toy, Dylan.

  He’s my employee. Well, I guess he’s not anymore. But I hired him to keep an eye on you, along with some other things. I know that he took it way farther than was appropriate. I know now that I put my trust in the wrong person, and I’ve since fired him from being my personal assistant. Just know that whatever he’s said to you, whatever he’s promised you, it isn’t real—it was all a job.

  I know that it was unethical of me to do this, but I can’t bear being here without you. Please come home.

  Yours,

  Chandler

  When I finish reading I’m nauseous. Every time I think I’ve discovered what a dick Chandler can be, he sinks a little deeper. I should have anticipated this move, but he blindsided me. “Penelope, I. . .”

  “Is it true?”

  “That’s not an easy thing to answer.” It took me no time at all to say the wrong thing, and that was definitely the wrong thing to say.

  “Yes, it is,” she tells me. “It’s either a ‘no, I wasn’t paid to be with you’ or this letter is the first time Chandler’s told me the truth in a long time. So, which is it?”

  “It’s not that simple, Pen. I mean, technically, yes, he was going to hire me as his personal assistant. And yes, part of what he asked me to do was to take you out.”

  “And you agreed?”

  All of a sudden, I feel like I’m on a witness stand being cross examined. Every question already presumes an answer, and I feel trapped. But I have to tell her the truth. I’m not going to lie like that bastard. “I did, yes, but. . .”

  “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  All of a sudden, she jumps up, grabs her bag, and walks towards the door. I jump up after her, trying to get her attention without causing a scene. “Penelope.” She ignores me. Before I know it, she’s out the door, and I follow her onto the street. “Penelope, stop. Come here.” I
reach out for her arm, and as soon as I touch her she turns around and pulls away.

  “Don’t touch me!” she yells.

  “Listen. I need to explain.”

  “You explained enough. I need some space, I’m sorry. Please don’t follow me.”

  She walks away and I let her. I follow her only with my eyes, watching her slowly fade into the Manhattan crowds until she’s out of my sight.

  I can’t believe that just happened.

  28

  Penelope

  I don’t come here as much as I should, but right now she’s on my mind.

  I pull up to The Meadowlark after leaving the city. It was a rough few days, and all the emotions I’m feeling needed the open road, even if that open road was really just a bumper-to-bumper trip along the Long Island Expressway.

  I get off at Jessica’s exit and take a few side streets until I’m in the parking lot, staring into the sea of cars, trying to figure out how my life went so wrong, so fast. I hate that all this is happening, even though I realize in my heart of hearts that Chandler is the wrong guy for me and that we shouldn’t be together. I can handle what happened with Dylan, even though I thought he was different than all the other guys out there.

  But it’s how this whole thing is going to impact Jessica that’s really eating away at me.

  Chandler is such a bastard—trying to coerce me into being some kind of trophy fiancé by threatening her. What kind of monster would do something like that? My monster. The one who I almost made my husband.

  I get myself together with a few long, deep breaths. I decide to leave my personal drama behind. Once I’m here, I’m here for her—to spend some time with her and forget all the crap that waits for me back home. I can figure it all out later, but one thing I know for sure, I’m not going to let him hurt her—no matter what I have to do.

  29

  Dylan

  The rational part of my brain isn’t working right now.

  I’m about to commit some kind of career suicide, and maybe even worse than that. But I don’t have a plan. At least if something happens, I’ll be able to tell the judge that it wasn’t premeditated.

  It was an act of passion, I’ll tell him, something that just came over me and I felt powerless to stop myself. Maybe he’ll understand and take pity on me. He’ll understand, that judge. He’ll remember that time some other guy threatened what was his, and the things he probably did to make it right. And if he doesn’t understand, then fuck him, I’ll do my time for what I’m about to do to Chandler Daniels.

  When I walk in the door, I walk past everyone I know in the lobby without acknowledging them—Mr. Cox, the oil tycoon in apartment 3; Mrs. Williston, the widow and one of the biggest hedge fund managers in the country, all of them. I pass through over a billion dollars of net worth to get to the elevator. I press the button and wait, even though the adrenaline pumping through my veins makes waiting even a few seconds seem like an eternity.

  Fuck it, I think, I can’t wait. I walk away and head for the stairs. I start sprinting, taking three steps at a time until I’m on the fourth floor. I shove the door open and start to walk down the hallways towards Chandler’s place. It’s only then that my brain starts working. What if he’s not even home? It’s the first rational thought I’ve had in a while.

  Then I remember what he’s done and all rationality flies out the window and I approach his door anyhow. There’s no one else in the hallway, and I approach the door quietly, putting my ear to the door and trying to listen. I hear noise inside. He’s home! This is it, I’m going to make him pay for what he’s done. I don’t know what that even means, but it’s going to be bad for him.

  Just as I’m about to pound on the door, I feel the vibration of my cell phone. I try to ignore it, but I realize that I forgot to put it fully on vibrate when my ringtone starts blasting out of my pocket. The sound distracts me and snaps me out of my rage for a second. I look down. I don’t recognize that number.

  I walk back down the hallway in the direction I came, towards the stairway, and pick up.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  30

  Penelope

  The phone call goes like this:

  “When is the news announcement for the acquisition?”

  “Friday. At the offices. I want you there.”

  “I’ll be there. I have no choice, do I?”

  “There’s always a choice. It’s just a matter of being strong enough to make it. It’s up to you, of course.”

  “Fine. I’ll be there. And then what?”

  “And then my life’s dream comes true two weeks later. I’ll need you there for all the appropriate press and social events, of course. There’s also a gala in a week that I’d like you there for, at the offices. The press will be there.”

  “And then?”

  “And then what?”

  “I mean what happens after that? Are we done?”

  “For the time being. I’ll see if I’m ready to let you go after that. See you at the gala. You can stay at the hotel if it makes this easier, but eventually you’ll have to come back home.”

  I end the call after that. I hate myself. But at least I know that my sister will be safe for now.

  31

  Dylan

  I’m in my car, driving to Long Island for the second time in a week.

  That call was unexpected, but it probably saved me a time in jail. I was ready to beat the hell out of that piece of shit. I haven’t seen red like that in a long time, and, now that I have some distance from that building, I realize how out of control I was.

  Ironic that it was her who saved my ass this time, and now I’m almost to the park where she wanted to meet. As I drive, all I can think of is Penelope. I haven’t heard from her, despite the fact that I sent her a few texts. I guess it’s stupid to think she’d text me back right now, but I need to explain what really happened.

  That’ll have to wait.

  I’m here.

  I see her sitting on the bench. It’s a beautiful day, belying the fact that I’m here to discuss something ugly. I park and walk over to her as she stares off into the distance, only making eye contact with me once I’m standing next to her.

  “Hello, Teresa.”

  “Hello yourself. Sit.”

  I put my butt down against the chipped green paint of the public bench and look around. There are families with little kids all over, and the sights of them playing lightens my mood a little. It reminds me that there’s a world outside of the craziness I’ve been living in. “I was a little surprised to see you calling me.”

  “You probably thought you’d never hear from me again, right?”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t sure.” I didn’t say much the last time we met, but now that things have gone down with Chandler the way that they have, I feel no more obligation to keep his secret. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go for it.”

  “Did you know that. . . I mean, last time I met with you, did you. . .”

  “Know that you were spying for Chandler? Of course I did. I know him as well as anyone. Probably better than his own fiancé, if we’re being honest.”

  The mention of Penelope gets my heart racing again. I don’t like what she just said, even though that makes no sense at all. “How do you figure that?”

  “You don’t understand what a crazy and driven man Chandler is.” No, Teresa, I really do. “The man spent more time coding with me than he did at home with her. That’s the truth. He told me that she’d asked about us—that she had her suspicions about the affair, but he did what all men do—deny, deny deny. Even though Penelope was dead on in her intuition. But he really did spend more time with me than with her—I would have been suspicious also.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s your point here?”

  “My point is that I’ve always seen Chandler for what he was—I just didn’t care. I’ve always been drawn to powerful men. I was just stupid enough to think that he�
�d be different with me. I was naïve.”

  This is all very interesting, but I have better things to do than to listen to her philosophize about the nature of her affair with that douche. “Why did you call me here?”

  “You’re a get-to-the-point kind of guy, aren’t you? Fine. I called you here to give you something. I don’t know why I’m trusting you with it, but I heard through the grape vine that you had a falling out with our friend also.”

  How the hell does she know about that? “What are you talking about? How could you possibly know?”

  “You’re not the only one who works for Chandler—or I guess I should say worked for him. He’s got a small army of people who gather information for him in situations like this. I could tell last time that you weren’t one of them—you were way too nice. That’s why I trusted you and told you what I did. I knew you wouldn’t last, and I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “You were, but how did you know?”

  “Because I asked about you.”

  What the hell? “Asked about me? To who?”

  “His name isn’t important, just another one of Chandler’s guys. He came and saw me the other day. I asked where you were—I think I called you ‘the other guy—the hot one.’”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Don’t be a dick. If you’re nice to me, I may give you something that I know you’ll be interested in.”

  I don’t know what she keeps referencing, but it’s the reason that she called me here, and I want to know what it is. “I’m sorry. Go on.”

  “Thank you. Like I was saying, another one of his guys—much older and uglier than you, by the way—came to see me. He wasn’t nice like you were. I asked where you were, and he told me that you weren’t with Chandler anymore. No one really quits him, so I figured you’d had a falling out.”