Keep No Secrets

by Julie Compton

  Indeed, the atmosphere in the whole house is glacial. On Tuesday night, when Claire asked Jack what he planned to do about Jenny now that Alex's request for new trial had been granted, he didn't have an answer. He told her he'd met with Jenny that morning to see the letters and that Jenny had suggested she might return to Chicago. Claire understands that this news doesn't make his decision of whether or not to report Jenny's

  whereabouts any easier. Yet she didn't insist he take action, as he expected.

  Indeed, she seemed satisfied that Jenny might disappear again. Instead, her wrath flared Friday after Jack informed her he wouldn't spend Christmas at her parents'

  house. He's puzzled. He can't understand how she could expect him to go and bear her father's scorn. The two of them have carried on clipped conversations since, but most often their words consist of mere banalities of everyday life. Do you want more roast beef? Yes, thanks. Can I help you with the dishes? No, Jamie can help me.

  Marcia is picking up groceries for me, do you need anything? Just some toothpaste.

  Now, the weekend is almost over and Jack still hasn't told her what he found about Celeste. He can't let it go another day.

  "Claire?"

  She raises her eyes but her expression is unreadable.

  "Do you have a minute?" She steels herself. It's so subtle, not more than a slight tightening near her mouth. Only someone married to her as long as Jack would have noticed. In an effort to assure her he's not about to bring up Jenny again, he adds, "It's about Celeste." He doubts that topic is more welcome, though.

  She nods slightly and sets the

  newsletter and her highlighter on the small, round table at her side. Tucking both legs up under her, sets her hands in her lap and waits.

  Jack enters the room, closing the doors behind him for privacy. He sits in the desk chair and rolls it closer to her.

  "I looked at some files on Michael's computer." Other than a straightening of her posture and a habitual tucking of hair behind her ear, she's still. "I wanted to see if I might find something, some clue, to Celeste's motivation."

  "And?"

  Her lack of objection is heartening. She doesn't approve, but even she

  understands some boundaries might need to be crossed, considering what's at stake.

  "I've found some things she wrote—"

  "On Michael's computer?"

  "Yeah. Well, some of it." He reaches into his back pocket, hands her the folded papers. She unfolds them as if they're made of fragile tissue. "I'm assuming she sent the typed one to him in an email or something." When she seems to accept that theory, he continues. "The other is something she handwrote, in a journal."

  Claire glances up with a question in her eyes. He ignores it for now; she'll ask it outright soon enough. "They're dark. Not typical teenager dark stuff. I mean really dark." As she reads, Jack sees her defenses fall. She wants to be skeptical, but the words on the papers won't let her. If there was an invisible wall between them, she might have just come over to his side of it. "I also found pictures."

  "Pictures of what?"

  "Of Celeste."

  "What kind of pictures?" She swallows hard. She doesn't need an answer; she already knows.

  "They were quite explicit. More Penthouse than Playboy, if you know what I mean."

  She turns back to the papers. She's not reading them again, though. She's simply upset and she doesn't know what to do.

  "Where did you get this?" She lifts the handwritten piece.

  "You don't want to know."

  "Jack." He feels the weight of her disappointment in that one word, but instead of being ashamed, he resents her self-righteousness.

  "This is my life we're talking about, Claire, in case you forgot. My freedom."

  "But—"

  "I'll do whatever I have to do. And I refuse to apologize for it."

  "Yeah, and you'll keep getting arrested.

  How will that ensure your freedom?"

  He grits his teeth and looks away.

  "Don't you realize someone reading this will think it's you she's writing about?"

  "Like you?" Deny it, Claire. Please just deny it. But she merely rolls her eyes, and the action disturbingly calls to mind something he once heard a psychologist say on the witness stand: Eye-rolling in a marriage is a strong predictor of divorce.

  "I do realize that," he says, "which is why I took it. I know she wasn't writing about me."

  "So now you're adding 'withholding evidence' to your crimes?"

  "I didn't realize I'd committed any crimes." When she simply looks away, he adds, "It's not evidence if it doesn't describe what happened between us, is it?"

  "So why are you showing me this?"

  "Because I want to do something, but not without talking to you first."

  "Go on."

  "If what she's written is more than fiction, which I think it is, then I need to let someone know about it. But like you said, they'll think I'm the man she wrote about. So before I disclose it, I first want to read the instant messages Michael and Celeste send each other. I think he knows more than he lets on. I think I might find something that proves someone else—"

  "You honestly believe your own son would keep things from you, knowing what might happen? Knowing you might be convicted?" She shakes her head. "Jack, you're losing it."

  "You're holding the proof! What more do you need?"

  "This doesn't prove anything." She holds up the papers as she talks. "What?

  You think because she wrote these things and posed nude, that somehow gives you a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card? You, of all people, should know better."

  "No. But I damn well think it shows there's more to this than we know. That's why I want to find out what they talk about, what she's telling him." She starts to protest but Jack cuts her off. "There's a guy in IT who told me about a software program I can install on Mike's computer, but I thought you should know before I did something like that."

  She suddenly flushes. "What kind of software program?"

  "It's called Web Watcher."

  She hands back the papers and stares at him.

  "What is it?" No response. She moves her gaze to the window, but when he turns to look, nothing's there. Just the brown grass on the front lawn and the leafless trees. "What is it, Claire?"

  "There's no need to install anything."

  What does she mean? Does she already know something and has been

  withholding it?

  "It's already there," she adds.

  "What's already there?"

  "Web Watcher."

  Nothing is making sense. "On Michael's computer?"

  She nods. Simply nods. She still won't look at him.

  "You've been watching what he does?"

  She shakes her head.

  "You want to tell me what you're talking about, then?" The irritation in his voice causes her finally to meet his eye.

  "It hasn't always been his computer, remember?"

  It was Jack's, Claire's. It sat on the desk behind him, in the spot now taken up by the newer one they bought three years ago.

  His mind pieces together the

  information. She knows Web Watcher is on the machine, but she denies that she's been watching Michael's activity. It can mean only one thing.

  "You were watching me?"

  She looks at him without responding.

  "Am I right?"

  Nothing, just those translucent eyes staring at him sadly. There's no anger in them. But there's no shame, either.

  "Damn it, answer me. Am I right?"

  She says quietly, "Yes. You're right."

  "Is this computer"—he motions to the desk—"rigged, too?"

  She looks down, and he takes that as a Yes.

  Jack tries to absorb the meaning of this. He feels betrayed, though he has no right to. Not really. Her actions were merely a response to his. And yet, Claire's is a continued deception, revealed only because he stumbled upon it in his efforts to defen
d himself against Celeste's allegations. The anger he's tried to aim at Jenny redirects itself at Claire. His eyes take in the shrinking room. He suddenly hates the color of the walls, the deep chili pepper inexplicably transformed now, it seems, to the color of coagulated blood.

  He hates the chair she's sitting in, how it swallows a person. He hates the Missouri Digest on the table, the highlighter next to it. He hates the shirt he's wearing because she bought it for him. He hates the ribs that have braised in the Dutch oven all day, their tantalizing scent wafting through the house. He suddenly hates anything and everything that has her mark on it.

  As if to answer his shock, she begins to talk. Her voice is flat, revealing nothing.

  It's impossible to tell if she's apologizing for her actions or aggressively defending them.

  "I installed it when you moved back in.

  My dad told me about it." Figures. "I felt desperate to know if you really had changed. I needed to know whether you remained in contact with her. A part of me didn't believe you could stay away from her. I needed to know. It was the only way I knew to follow what you were doing. I thought if you communicated with her, it would probably be online somehow, but not from your office or on your Blackberry. That would have been too dangerous. And not emails. I knew it wouldn't be anything so easily tracked.

  But I—"

  "I get it, Claire. You can stop. I get it."

  "—watched what you did for only a year or so after you returned. He didn't think I should stop, but I realized—"

  "I can't listen to this right now." He stands. He needs to go for a run.

  "Where are you going?" Her tone still lacks any affect. He almost says "St.

  Charles" just to be petulant—but it would be more than petulant; it would be cruel. He can't fault her for what she did, especially knowing her dad pushed her into it. He simply needs time to get over it.

  Once outside, he takes it slow, but he works up a sweat quickly because their neighborhood is large and quite hilly.

  He's seen no sign of the press. As he jogs, he listens to his iPod strapped to his arm.

  The music distracts him enough that he doesn't notice the car turning into the subdivision until it honks and pulls alongside him.

  "Hey!" Mark yells as he lowers his passenger window. "What are you doing?"

  Jack gives Mark a look that says, Look at me. What do you think I'm doing? Out loud, he says, "Is there something else my wife didn't tell me? I didn't know you were coming over today." His breath curls through the bitter air. Wishing he'd worn gloves, he pumps his hands to keep them from getting stiff.

  Mark frowns, one eyebrow lowered in thought, not understanding the context of the question. "Surprise visit. But if it's not a good—"

  "No, it's fine." At least he'll be a distraction. "Stay for dinner. She's making her famous ribs." Sarcasm creeps into his voice; he tries to check it. She did nothing he didn't deserve.

  The rumble of a large SUV pulling in behind Mark causes both men to turn.

  The call letters KSDK are emblazoned on the side of the vehicle and a small satellite dish sits on top. Shit. Jack thought they'd given up on him. He's in no mood for the press. He's bound to spout off something for which, later, Earl will have his head. In seconds they'll recognize him under the black skull cap that covers his head and ears.

  Quickly pulling open the passenger door, Jack slides in beside Mark.

  "How'd you like to go for a Sunday drive?"

  "Where?"

  "Head toward the Daniel Boone Bridge. An old friend in St. Charles would love to see you."

  This time Jack calls ahead from Mark's cell phone. The front desk puts him through to Room Five—Jack doesn't specify the name of the guest in the room

  —and without mentioning Mark, he

  informs Jenny that he's on his way. She's surprised to hear from him; he's relieved she hasn't skipped town again, as she warned she might.

  On the drive Jack brings Mark up to date. Mark already heard on the news about the development in Alex's case, and even with his limited legal knowledge, he understands its significance. After the initial shock of learning that Jack and Jenny have been in touch, he remains wary but reluctantly accepts Jack's insistence that Claire knows everything.

  Jack suspects his desire to see Jenny overrides his caution.

  Funny how Jenny has that effect on both Hilliards.

  Standing outside the motel door, waiting for her to answer the knock, Jack feels his brother watching him.

  When she opens the door and sees

  Mark, Jenny flings herself into his arms.

  Jack thought she might be upset he shared her secret with one more person; this unexpected display of affection is unnerving. She even gives Mark a kiss on the lips.

  But it's Jack's hand she takes when she beckons the two of them into the room.

  "Did you run here?" she jokes. Only then does Jack remember what he's wearing. To his surprise, she places her warm palm on his cheek as if touching him is the most natural thing in the world, as if Mark isn't watching. The heat surging through him feels as if she's left a burn mark. "Your cheeks are still red."

  The room is neater than before. Both beds are made, the nightstand and dresser are clear save for one book next to the bed. He sees some things on the

  bathroom sink at the rear of the small room—makeup bottles, deodorant,

  toothpaste, a small cup with a toothbrush standing inside it—but they're organized and tidy. A few clothes hang neatly from the chrome rack near the sink; towels are folded on the shelf above. Her closed suitcase still rests on the unused bed.

  But what he notices the most is her scent. The same scent he caught in the tunnel, the scent that marked his car and followed him home the next day. It hangs lightly in the air, just enough that it can't be ignored. Does Mark notice it, too?

  "What's going on?" she asks. "Why are you two here?" She directs the questions at Jack, and in her anxious eyes he sees one more: how much does he know?

  Jack sits next to the suitcase, while Mark sits on the other bed. She chooses a spot next to Mark, and Jack would like to think it's because she wants to maintain eye contact without Mark noticing or intercepting their signals.

  Mark lifts his brow at Jack as if to second her questions.

  "It occurred to me Mark could help us."

  Mark smirks—he knows Jack is

  winging it—and Jenny simply waits for more.

  "It's becoming impossible for me to go anywhere without a reporter on my tail.

  Driving Mark's car isn't going to cut it anymore. And now that Alex gets another bite at the apple, you've become quite the prize. If the wrong person learns you're back . . ." Jack lets the sentence drop off.

  He should be encouraging her to come forward, not helping her hide. But he has a better chance of learning the truth, doesn't he, if he stays close? "Mark can be our middleman. No one follows him."

  She smiles at Mark. "I like that idea."

  And suddenly Jack wishes he hadn't suggested it. But really, if he intends to stay in contact with her, what other choice is there? It is a good idea. But will Mark go along?

  "It's a great idea," Mark says and winks at her.

  And that's when Jack knows for sure Mark smelled it, too.

  Jack and Jenny explain the threats Jenny has received, and like everyone else, Mark asks why she didn't go to the police.

  Jenny answers the question with one of her own: "If you were me, would you contact the police?" Jack isn't surprised when Mark lets it go at that; like Jack, his desire to spend time with her trumps his skepticism. He doesn't even ask the follow-up question that Jack, Claire, and Earl asked: Why Jack? Jack wonders if the answer is that obvious, even to Mark.

  After Jack tells Jenny about his

  conversation with Dog, Mark asks her innocuous questions about how she's spent the last four years. She leans against the headboard, her legs crossed like a pretzel in front of her. They act as if Jack's not i
n the room. He watches her, takes in every detail. She wears the same gold Mizzou sweatpants she wore the day his knock on the door woke her.

  "Why don't you simply come stay at my house?" Mark asks.

  "Hmm, I don't know." She pulls her knees close to her chest and hugs them.

  The scar on her right wrist peeks at Jack from beneath the long sleeve of her jersey.

  "I second her reluctance," Jack says.

  "It's too risky. Someone will recognize her if she's hanging around Clayton. Too many lawyers."

  "You're the only lawyer I let in my house, bro." Mark smiles a Cheshire grin.

  "I'm not saying she should start lunching at Napoli's. But she'll be more

  comfortable at my place than here."

  "I just don't think it's a good idea, that's all." He glances at Jenny, but she's focused on picking at an invisible thread from her sweatpants. He has the

  inexplicable urge to reach over and pull her hand away. "She'll be a prisoner." The instant he says it, he wishes he hadn't. It hits a bit too close to home for both of them.

  "Better trapped at my house than in this hole."

  "She gets out of 'this hole' every once in a while. She couldn't do that if she were closer to the city. And it would be even more difficult for me to meet up with her."

  "Really? That's odd, because I doubt the press would think it unusual for you to visit your brother." Even though Mark's voice has its usual friendly, teasing tone, Jack hears the sarcasm. "I thought you wanted me to be the 'middleman?'"

  Jenny sighs loudly. "Will you two stop it, already?" She moves to the sink, leaving a wisp of the unidentifiable scent in her wake. He can't name it. Jenny.