The Second Lie

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “Who are Wendy and Daniel?”

  “Wendy’s my best friend. Daniel’s my brother. He’s in high school.”

  “Does Daniel do drugs, too?”

  Eyes wide, the girl shook her head. “He runs track. He says drugs’ll kill you. He wanted Mom to ground me for the rest of the school year.”

  “Did she?”

  “I don’t know. She hasn’t said yet. I just can’t go anywhere or do anything until she says so.”

  “Well, just so you know, Wendy’s partly right. You could go into detention for drug possession. But she’s wrong that you couldn’t finish school. They have school in juvenile detention and every inmate is required to attend. Juvenile offenders here in Fort County generally range in age from eight to seventeen. All the girls are housed together. You’d have to sleep in a cell….”

  Nicole started to cry.

  “On a cot. You can’t wear shoes, only slippers made out of paper that the guards give you. They give you clothes to wear, too. You have to eat when you’re told. And only what they give you. You have to go to bed and get up exactly when you’re told. You have to shower out in the open. No privacy. You can’t go outside unless it’s a sanctioned function with a guard present at all times, and you can only have visitors a couple of times a week for a short period. No unauthorized phone calls are allowed and no e-mail.” The girl was sobbing, staring at Sam through her tears.

  Sam had considered taking Nicole through juvenile detention, to show the girl what her fate could be as a result of drug use, but after seeing the girl’s raw fear, she changed her mind. She wanted to scare Nicole, not give her psychological issues for the rest of her life.

  “And then, depending on your sentence, if you get out before you’re eighteen, you’ll have a criminal record. Do you know what that means?” Sam handed the skinny kid a tissue from a pile she’d stashed in her back pocket.

  Nicole shook her head.

  “For one thing, it means that if you get in any more trouble, any little thing at all, they’ll throw the book at you.”

  Thank you, television.

  “Have you ever heard of an aggravator, Nicole?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “Hey.” Sam touched the teenager’s forearm. “Look at me.”

  Nicole did as she was told. Her face was blotchy and tears continued to pour down her cheeks.

  “Aggravators are things that happen that make a crime a more serious offense. Do you know what an aggravator for drug possession is?”

  Nicole’s head shake was barely discernable through her sobs. Sam concentrated on the girl’s trembling chin, not the eyes that stared at her with naked fear.

  “Buying or selling drugs near a school is an aggravator,” she said, hoping her voice was as firm as it had been when they’d begun this conversation and did not, in any way, reflect her compassion for the child’s obvious suffering.

  A day’s misery for the girl was one hundred percent better than a life ruined by methamphetamine.

  “That means you’re in extra trouble and the sentence the judge gives is more harsh.”

  Sheriff Hale, Sam’s elected boss, passed by and glanced in the window, brow raised. Sam shook her head and he moved on.

  He’d offered to up the pressure if Nicole gave her any attitude.

  This little girl didn’t seem to have a microfiber of attitude. She was a sweet, frightened child who’d somehow been convinced to buy a dangerous drug.

  MaryLee Hatch was going to be relieved to find out that she did know her daughter, after all.

  And Sam was going to find out whatever she could from Nicole.

  It was up to all of them, working together, to keep Nicole, and children like her, safe in a dangerous world.

  Chandler, Ohio

  Thursday, September 16, 2010

  Lori Winston, I was finding, was a hard woman to get ahold of. Without a home phone, she could be reached only by cell, and didn’t pick that up much. At least, not when I dialed the number—which I’d done multiple times since my Tuesday afternoon meeting with Maggie. I needed Lori to confirm that she knew about Maggie’s visits to the park.

  Thankfully Sam hadn’t been so hard to reach. Since dinnertime Tuesday, the deputy had been on a “Mac” hunt and city-park detail. I’d told her that I believed Maggie had met the man in the park originally and that she’d only seen him once.

  My high school buddy hadn’t sounded good. She still wasn’t sleeping. I wished she’d let me help her and was now determined that if she didn’t come to me soon, I was going to have to get pushy.

  With a pen between my teeth, I dropped my office phone in its cradle and pushed the intercom button. “Deb, you busy?”

  I had half an hour before my last appointment of the day.

  “Of course.”

  Which could mean anything from bookkeeping or licking envelopes to filing her nails. I didn’t much care.

  Deb got the work done.

  I asked her to come to my office.

  “What’s going on?”

  She was dressed up today. Wearing a red sweater and red boots with her jeans. Her short black hair, longer in front than back, curled around her face, giving her an elfin look.

  “Just wanted a minute. Everything okay with you?”

  “How do you mean? Did I screw up something?”

  “No. Of course not. Do you ever?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Not that I’m aware of, either.” I’d had a couple of secretary/receptionist/bookkeepers. Professional ones. And probably more respectful ones. But none of their work equaled Deb’s for accuracy and precision. And none of them were as loyal. “But you seem edgy. Is something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She came in and sat on my old couch. I joined her, pad in hand. I didn’t have to worry about doodling in front of Deb. She knew me. Heck, she’d be more uncomfortable if I didn’t write something now and then.

  “I’m worried about Cole.”

  Deb’s husband of four years worked for the state as a road engineer.

  “Why?”

  “He just doesn’t seem as interested in me all of a sudden. He used to insist on holding my hand everywhere we go. Now half the time he doesn’t—and doesn’t seem to notice that he’s not. We used to make love at least four times a week. Now I’m lucky if it’s once…”

  It was nice to talk to a friend who didn’t have to be coaxed to open up to me.

  But I didn’t want to hear this. Not from Deb. She and Cole had been so clearly devoted to each other. They seemed a perfect example of the true love that I still believed in, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary that I saw in my practice.

  “Is he spending more time away from home?” I asked, expecting an affirmative answer. I knew which signs to look for. It just remained to be seen whether a who or a what had replaced Deb in Cole’s affections.

  “No.”

  “More time on the computer?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about a new hobby? Or sport?”

  “Uh-uh. Unless you count the cooking lessons we’re taking at the Y.”

  “You’re taking them together? In the same class at the same time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You guys still spend all your free time together?”

  “Yep.”

  Oh. Well, then. Life could still surprise me.

  Too sure of yourself. I jotted. And followed the words up with two more. Jaded. Ineffective.

  Which was what I would be if I handled all my patients like I’d just handled this situation.

  “How are your finances?” I said aloud. Not a usual boss-to-employee question, but this was a counseling office. We did things differently.

  “Okay. But I don’t think they are at Cole’s work. There’ve been a lot of cutbacks. He says that with all the layoffs he’s been given a lot more to do. He’s valuable because he knows how to do most of the different jobs so they can just mo
ve him around.”

  “Have you asked him what’s wrong?”

  Should have been my second question. After “how are you?”

  Deb nodded. “He just tells me not to worry about it. And I wouldn’t. I mean, I’m not needy or anything, it’s just that…with the physical stuff…”

  Deb was worried about once a week. I hadn’t been held in…well, this wasn’t about me.

  “In most cases, after the first year or two of a relationship, the sex settles down to a level that can be sustained through a lifetime together.”

  “But it doesn’t seem like settling in. It seems like he’s lost interest in me. Which is what I told him.”

  “What does he say about that?”

  “That he still wants me. That there are just times when other things take precedence. He said that when guys are focused on changes at work, the economy, finances, sex sometimes doesn’t happen as often.”

  “That’s true.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course.”

  “But…studies say that men have sexual thoughts once every seven seconds and—”

  I shook my head. “Studies don’t say that. Urban legend does. The Internet does. Any studies I’ve read only point to the fact that men report a higher percentage of sexual thoughts than women. Just as women report a higher percentage of emotional thoughts than men.”

  As I might have mentioned, I was not fond of the Internet. For all the good it might do, what I saw was the huge amount of damage created by too much easily accessible, dangerous information.

  The damage created when kids like Maggie felt safe speaking with pedophiles.

  I saw the cesspool hiding behind the websites. From sexual deviants to psychological statistics, incorrect self-diagnoses and self-cures, even companies manipulating people’s fears for financial gain through fancily skewed statistics and surveys…

  But I couldn’t get sidetracked right now.

  “A lot of things affect the male sex drive.” I told my friend what I’d learned in books, because they were really all I had on this one. “Financial worries are one of the biggest desire suppressors. Job and life changes also affect sexual desire. A lack of sleep, lack of exercise, hormonal imbalances and diet are a few others.”

  “So you don’t think it’s me?”

  “It doesn’t sound like it. I’d guess it’s the economy and work.”

  “Really?” I hated the doubt and hurt I saw in her eyes because it reminded me once again of the fragile state of the human psyche. Deb was questioning her attractiveness.

  “Really.”

  “Cool!” Deb smiled and I did, too.

  “I’m happy to speak with him if you want me to.”

  “No.” Deb relaxed back into the couch, as though relief had left her exhausted. “I don’t want to put any more pressure on him. I’m good with once a week. I was just scared I was losing my husband.”

  “There are no guarantees, you know,” I felt compelled to tell her. “Without speaking with Cole, I can’t be sure….”

  “No, it’s okay. I feel a lot better. Cole said the same things you did. I just thought he was, you know, making excuses because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings by admitting that I didn’t do it for him anymore.”

  “Once a week is hardly not doing it.” I said drily, because she was my friend. “Anyway, I could have told you this weeks ago. Why didn’t you just ask?”

  Deb’s expression sobered. “Because…people…they take advantage of you. A lot. I’m not going to do that.”

  People didn’t take advantage of me. “I help because I want to, Deb.” This was new—the idea of someone looking out for me. Even with Sam, I was always the caregiver. “Please, come to me anytime. It’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t.”

  “Well, hopefully I won’t need to, but—”

  She was interrupted by the pealing of the office phone and she waited while I jumped up to answer it.

  “Lori, thanks for calling me back,” I said, recognizing Maggie’s mother’s voice on the other end of the line.

  Turning back to let Deb know I’d be a minute, I saw that she’d already left the room.

  “I would’ve called sooner, but Mags has been around,” Lori said, and I could tell from the long breath she took that she was smoking a cigarette.

  I started to ask her about Maggie’s volunteer activities, but she cut me off.

  “Listen, I was going to call you, anyway, to thank you,” she said, sounding more up than I’d ever heard her. “I don’t know what you said to Maggie, but it worked. It’s like I have my daughter back. I went to work yesterday morning and said goodbye to this girl all done up like a tart and came home last night to a fourteen-year-old in jeans and a baggy T-shirt with no makeup and her hair back in a clip like she used to wear it.”

  “Maybe she’d just gotten comfortable for the night.”

  “No. She went to school that way this morning, too. And she told me that I was right about not wanting her to get all dolled up and that she was going to be more careful.”

  Inexplicable behavior change. Maggie’s file was on my desk. I jotted the note on the inside cover. In red ink. I hadn’t encouraged Maggie to change her appearance.

  So who had?

  “Are you aware that Maggie spends time in the park with the kids she babysits?” I asked instead.

  “Yes.” Was that sharpness I heard in the woman’s tone? Or a quick intake of nicotine?

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “What? Yeah, I played in that park as a kid.”

  “Times have changed.”

  “Not that much. Not in Chandler. Besides, Maggie’s a great kid. I just… I might overreact to the guy thing, but I’d rather overreact than have my kid end up like I did. I called you because I needed a professional opinion—you know, in case I missed a sign or something, since I didn’t do so great in that area myself.”

  The woman was rambling.

  “Being a single parent is mostly okay, but I know how easy it is to fall into the whole being-loved thing and not realizing that it’s not love at all until it’s too late. But other than that, there’s nothing to worry about with Maggie. She doesn’t do anything wrong and wouldn’t get into trouble. She’s the best.”

  “I agree—you’ve got a great daughter, Ms. Winston. You’re very lucky.”

  I just wished I felt that Maggie was equally blessed. Or even half as certain that Maggie was okay.

  I wished Samantha Jones would call with news on Mac.

  16

  After exacting a promise from Nicole Hatch that she would never again knowingly be in the vicinity of illegal drugs, and getting it in writing, Sam finally told the distraught girl that she was not going to press charges.

  “But I can’t let you get away without paying for your crime,” she said.

  Nicole’s tears had stopped, but she glanced up nervously from the table where she’d written her statement in elaborate cursive that looked as much like art as it did handwriting.

  “You can’t?”

  “No. You have a choice. You can volunteer at either of the two assisted-living places in town one day a week, for two hours, until the end of the school year. You’ll be reading to older folks who have trouble seeing.”

  The arrangement had already been okayed by Nicole’s mother.

  Frowning, Nicole said, “You told me I have a choice. What is it?”

  “You can decide which place you’re going to volunteer.”

  “So I don’t really have a choice.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, but I don’t know if my mom will let me…”

  “She’ll let you, Nicole. This is the law talking. You do understand that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I ever, ever see your name anywhere near a police report in the future, I’m coming after you personally, you got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay, now tell me how you got connec
ted with Shane Hamacher.”

  “I just know him. You know, from school.”

  Shane was in high school. “You mean from last year?”

  “And before that. He’s just one grade ahead of me.”

  “So how did you know you could get drugs from him?”

  She had Shane’s version through Chuck and wasn’t satisfied.

  “I didn’t. There was this number to call if you were having troubles with a class and needed help.”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  “Kids were passing it around. It wasn’t like a secret or anything.”

  Sam was confused. “Where did they pass it around?”

  “At school. In classes, or the lunchroom—whatever.”

  “In front of teachers?”

  “Yeah. I thought it was like tutoring or something. I’m really good at English, but not so good at math, and I have algebra this year and I got my first B ever. Daniel doesn’t have as much time to help me since he’s working now and still staying in shape for track, and my older sister, Tanya, she’s babysitting all the time to make extra money and she’s not so good with math, anyway. And Mom’s working and always has chores to do when she gets home even though we all help out, so I called the number.”

  I liked the kid. She communicated.

  “And Shane gave you the number?” So much for notes in his locker. “Or did he answer when you called?”

  “No.” Nicole shook her head, her eyes clear as she looked at Sam. “It was a recording. You could leave a number and what you needed and someone would contact you.”

  “So did someone call you back?”

  “Uh-uh. There was a note in my locker that told me if I wanted help, to wait after school on Friday by my locker. So I did. And this girl showed up from the high school.”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “Nope. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Did she tell you her name?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. She was from high school. You know, a lot older than me. Like a teacher, sort of. And…I didn’t ask your name. I just see Jones.” Nicole glanced at the name bar pinned above Sam’s left breast.