Keep No Secrets

by Julie Compton

  What's she so afraid of?"

  "From what she says, the last time you two talked, you gave her plenty to be afraid of. You were convinced she's a murderer."

  "She has nothing to fear from me." He suddenly wonders what would happen if he never saw her again. What if he were convicted, and the time between the trial and his last appeal was all he had? He remains suspicious of her, but the desperation he feels to see her has nothing to do with thinking Maxine Shepard's murderer might go free. "Brian, please. Please just tell me where she is."

  Brian takes a resigned breath. Did he hear the alarm in Jack's voice? "I don't know. She's in St. Louis, but that's all I know. Since she left your brother's, she's made a point of not telling me her whereabouts. Perhaps she knew how persuasive you could be." He loads the last sentence with implications that Jack resents. At Jack’s silence, he asks, "Have you checked her house?"

  "Not yet."

  "I'd start there. I told her it's risky, but she doesn't listen to me much. If she's not there, I don't know what to tell you."

  "Will you be talking to her? Can you ask her to call me?"

  "I will, but I don't know that it will make a difference."

  Jack tries to remember the original point of his call. He hasn't found Jenny, and he still doesn't understand why she tried to commit suicide. If she's innocent, as she and Brian claim, what had been going through her head?

  "I still don't get it. You said she slit her wrist because she was afraid of being arrested again, but I don't buy it."

  "That's not what I said. I said she wouldn't go talk to someone because she was worried about being found out. I guess she didn't trust the therapist-patient privilege." Again, that disdain of the law.

  "Her reasons for trying to end her life ran much deeper."

  "I'm all ears."

  Brian softens his tone. "I think she's the only one who can explain those to you, Jack. And I promise you, although she might pretend otherwise, there's nothing she wants more than to be able to tell you, and for you to be strong enough to listen."

  Jack slowly sets the phone on his desk. He hears thunder and he swivels to look out the window behind him. The clouds have finally relinquished their hold on the rain.

  Despite Jenny's lies, a small part of Jack held out hope for her innocence and thought the proof to exonerate her would eventually surface, one way or another.

  Does this news about Maxine qualify?

  Brian said Jenny didn't know Maxine was the same woman who had been their father's mistress, but even if that were true, does it follow that Jenny wasn't involved in her murder? He can't really conclude it does.

  On top of everything, he now knows she also lied about the fourth letter. He's determined to learn the truth. As much as he hates to admit it, he still fears if anything surfaces, it will be the evidence that finally forces him to accept her culpability.

  He stands and looks down at the street below. The sidewalks teem with men and women caught in the rain and rushing to find shelter. They give only passing attention to the numerous news trucks at the curb; anyone interested in the case is inside waiting for the recess to end. If he's going to find Jenny, he'll need to leave the courthouse unseen. The biggest hurdle will be avoiding the press and the crowd of spectators roaming the halls and lobby, but he knows the bowels of the building well enough to manage that. The rain will provide cover, too.

  Five minutes later, with only a cryptic note to Earl letting him know he'll be back soon, he escapes out a rear door next to a loading dock and makes haste for the parking garage before anyone discovers his absence. He greedily sucks in the fresh smell of the spring storm. For a brief instant, his fears—about going to prison, about his marriage, about Jenny—

  are replaced with an unusual sense of freedom that he hasn't felt in a long, long time.

  When Jenny's cell phone rings, she’s relieved to see it’s Brian.

  "Guess who I just got a call from?" he asks.

  "He called you?"

  "Yup. It took him a while to admit it, but he's looking for you."

  "What do you mean by it took him a while to admit it?"

  "At first he asked only about the scar on your wrist. It wasn't until later that he told me he needed to find you."

  "What'd you tell him?"

  "About the scar? Or about where you are?"

  "Both."

  "I told him if he wanted to know why you did it, he'd have to ask you. As for where you are, I told him only that you're in St. Louis, but that I didn’t know where.

  To buy you some time, I suggested he try your house. He asked me to let you know he needs to talk to you. He claims to know who sent the letters."

  Jenny sits up straighter at this news.

  "He said that?" When they talked at Mark's house, Jack was convinced she'd sent them to herself.

  "Yeah, but I'd be wary. There's something he wasn't saying."

  If Jack knows who sent the letters, does that also mean he knows about the fourth one, the one she didn't show him? Is that why he asked Brian about the scar on her wrist?

  "Do you think he knows?" she asks.

  "No. He thinks he's getting warm, but based on everything he said, he's not."

  Brian sighs. "Look, Jen, just be careful. As much as I think he deserves to know everything, I also think he's got another agenda, and until you know what it is, I don't think you should trust him."

  "He won't do anything to hurt me."

  "If it means saving his own butt, he might."

  "No."

  "Jenny, you're in denial. When he found out about Maxine, he went public with the information, remember?"

  "That had nothing to do with saving his butt. He's always been about right and wrong. He was just doing what he

  thought was right. He was afraid Alex might have been wrongly convicted.

  Don't forget, he gave me my alibi even though he knew the consequences. And only a couple months ago he gave me a head start out of town before he turned himself in for questioning."

  Brian scoffs. "You're thinking with your heart instead of your brain again, sis."

  "So what if I am? Maybe we all should be so brave."

  Her brother laughs at that. "Then tell him. Take your chances and tell him."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE BLACK SHUTTERS around the

  tall, narrow windows of the rehabbed Victorian duplex need a new coat of paint, and no colorful bulbs pop from the beds like they did every spring when she lived here. Otherwise, the exterior looks the same as the last time Jack was here, more than four years ago. Someone has minimally maintained the small front yard. A bit of shrubbery frames each side of the two sets of steps—one leads to Jenny’s door, the other to her neighbor’s

  —and two patches of brown Zoysia grass line the short walkway from the street.

  The landscape is simple, but neat and tidy.

  The house faces Lafayette Square. He parallel parks in front, on the street side closest to the park, and looks up at the house. The pounding rain coats his car windows with a thick veneer of water, blurring the picture. In all this time, he never came back. Not even to look. He never even drove by on his way to somewhere else. Indeed, he went out of his way to avoid it. He always told himself he did it for Claire, but now, looking across the street at the red door, he knows he did it for himself. Out of sight, out of mind, perhaps. Except it didn’t quite work out that way.

  She's not inside. He knew as soon as he pulled up. It’s not that he expected to see lights or other evidence of life. If she were there, she’d make every effort to hide her presence. But somehow, still, he knows. Brian knew, too.

  He's going in anyway.

  He slams the car door shut and quickly crosses the empty street, stepping around potholes and puddles. It takes only a few minutes to find the faux stone in which she used to hide a key, but already the rain has soaked his head and found its way under his coat. Why is it always raining when he's here? The small stone is tucked
under the steps in the same spot as always, mixed in among many real ones.

  The key, too, is still inside.

  He knocks first, but only as a formality.

  He slips the key into the keyhole. Once inside, a stale smell greets him. The air is slightly frigid, as if the house held winter inside even as outside the season gave way to spring. He locks the door and then stands for a moment, steeling himself.

  He tries each of the three switches near the door to see if any lamps come on. The electricity is off, as he suspected.

  Everything is in its place. But for dust on every surface, the room is just as he remembers, only more sterile. Impersonal knickknacks line the fireplace mantel; she must have taken any that had meaning.

  Throw pillows are propped perfectly in each corner of the couch, and draped over the back is the familiar blue and gray afghan he covered her with that night. He remembers her affection for it and wonders why she didn't take it. A stack of magazines rests neatly on the end table.

  The top one, a Newsweek, is dated a mere two weeks after the last time he was here.

  She must have skipped town not long after the lie detector tests ostensibly cleared her.

  He starts for the kitchen in the back.

  As he passes the bottom of the stairs, he hears a noise and halts. Silent and holding his breath, he waits for the sound to repeat. Only after he hears muffled laughter through the shared wall of the duplex does he relax and resume his tour.

  After a quick glance in the kitchen, he moves upstairs. The stairwell grows darker after the 180º turn at the landing.

  He heads first to her study at the back of the second floor, a room he’s never been in. But like the others, it reveals little about the woman who once lived here.

  He finally turns toward the bedroom at the front. His earlier decision to break in can only be blamed on the existence of this one room, on his desire to return to it one more time. She's like a drug to you. If Claire is right, then this room is his opium den.

  He stops in the doorway. It's been four years, yet here he thinks he finally detects her scent. He closes his eyes and inhales, letting himself be intoxicated by a memory.

  He thinks of the morning he woke next to her in her large four-poster bed. In the moment he first opened his eyes, he was prepared to give up everything for the privilege of doing it again and again. She quickly set him straight. Even though he’d fallen asleep holding a woman he thought had finally opened herself to him, he woke next to a cold stranger who belittled the feelings he confessed for her and left him riddled with guilt and despair. He didn’t— couldn't—understand the transformation, and he tormented himself trying.

  Not for a minute, though, did he think her behavior that morning had to do with anything but him. Even after he learned she’d been arrested for her client’s murder, he rejected the thought she might be guilty. Despite the mounting evidence against her, he dismissed it all as circumstantial. It wasn’t until after she ran away and he found out about Maxine that he finally decided he’d been duped.

  He felt like a fool, but it made it easier to let her go, and with her, his absurd fantasies of a life at her side.

  And then she came back.

  He stares at the bed. Turn around and leave. Nothing good can come from entering this room.

  He steps in slowly. Despite his

  memories and the lingering scent, or maybe because of them, her absence up here is more pronounced than

  downstairs. The picture of her murdered little sister is gone from the dresser; so is the jewelry box and cologne bottle he remembers. A few books and a piggy bank remain, but otherwise the top of the dresser, like the furniture downstairs, supports nothing but dust. He lifts the piggy bank and is surprised to find it heavy with coins.

  The stereo on top of the tall chest of drawers in the corner is still there, but there are no CDs in sight. She probably has an iPod now, he thinks. He opens each drawer of the chest and the dresser, but except for a few slips and some pantyhose, all are empty.

  He moves to her closet and gasps

  slightly when he opens it to find all the suits he's ever seen her wear. He sees no jeans, T-shirts or sweaters. Only suits.

  There must be at least fifteen of them, most black or gray but with a few browns and navies thrown in. They hang patiently under clear plastic dry cleaning bags, one to each suit. Beneath them, assorted pumps and sling backs are lined up like soldiers on the hardwood floor.

  At the end of the row, he spots the mint green suit he always liked. She called it her "lucky suit." Even bringing up the rear, it stands out among the more somber colors, refusing to blend in. No one but Jenny, with her striking black hair, her dark skin and long legs, could pull it off. He wonders if he'll ever see her wear it again.

  He looks up at the shelf and notices the family photo album she showed him is gone, too.

  The desolation of the room suddenly saddens him and causes him to reconsider all of his conclusions about her. Despite his suspicions about her failure to show him the fourth letter, he begins to think she really didn't leave of her own accord.

  She was run out of town and forced to leave the largest chunk of who she is behind. She was convicted of nothing, but she was punished nevertheless. She'd loved the law as much as he did—for different reasons, he knows—but the law had let her down.

  Had he let her down, too? And with his relentless doubts, is he continuing to do so?

  "What does it mean?" he'd asked.

  "What does what mean?"

  "The name. Ayanna. What does it mean?"

  She hadn’t blinked.

  "Innocent."

  The bed creaks when he sits on the end.

  He resists the desire to lie back and let his memories take him even deeper, to a place he might not be able to leave.

  Instead, he looks around the room. His gaze rests for a moment on the large casement windows, and then, on the piggy bank again. If she was worried about money, why didn’t she take the change inside?

  He jumps up and grabs the bank.

  Turning it over, he tugs at the rubber stopper until it pops out. Coins trickle from the hole onto the bed and he shakes it to help them along. Once it empties, he paws through the pile. His efforts are quickly rewarded. Hidden among the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters is a small silver key. He inspects it. From the cuts he suspects it’s the key to a safe deposit box; the box number on one side of the head confirms his suspicion. On the other side the letters SG—for the manufacturer Sargent Greenleaf, he knows—are imprinted above a seven-digit code of numbers and letters.

  He pockets the key, scoops the coins back into the bank, and replaces it on the dresser in the exact spot he found it. He quickly leaves the bedroom, but on the stairs he hesitates. He returns to retrieve one more thing.

  He's about to call Dog to ask if there's any way to trace the key code when his cell phone rings with an unknown

  number.

  "Hi, Jack."

  His pulse speeds up at hearing Jenny's voice for the first time in three months, but when he speaks, he tries to disguise his sense of urgency. "I'm surprised to hear from you."

  "Brian said you were looking for me."

  "I am. But you knew that from my call.

  The one you didn't answer."

  "I didn't get any call from you."

  Silence, then, "Oh, you mean to my other phone." She laughs lightly. "That phone's at the bottom of the Mississippi River."

  It takes only a moment for Jack to understand her meaning. Under the Poplar Street Bridge.

  "Where are you?" he asks.

  "Why?"

  "I want to see you. I know who sent the letters."

  "So you finally believe it wasn't me, sending them to myself?"

  "I finally believe you." About that, at least.

  "Maybe I don't believe you. Maybe you're just saying that, to convince me to tell you where I am. For all I know, you'll show up accompanied by a squad car.

&nbs
p; You told me if you contacted me again, it would be at their behest."

  He glances at his watch and sees it's nearing three. "I doubt it, seeing as they're probably looking for me right now, too."

  "What do you—?"

  "I cut out of court." And Earl won't be happy about it.

  "The trial was recessed until Monday.

  That’s what the news said, at least."

  This surprises Jack, but he's relieved.

  He needs to take a different approach if he wants her to agree. "Jenny, please. I believe you. If you trust me to tell me where you are, I'll believe everything you tell me from now on."

  She laughs bitterly. "The words of a desperate man. What's changed, Jack?"

  "I told you. I know who sent the letters, and I know it wasn't you."

  "So tell me who it was."

  He decides to take a chance. "Celeste. I need to get the originals from you, for fingerprints. We want it to be airtight when we take it to the judge." When she doesn't speak, he says, "Jenny?"

  Finally, in a voice choked with relief, she folds.

  "I'm back at the motel. Come on over."

  She surprises him by laughing as she opens the door, and by her playful comment, "This time you're the wet one,"

  an obvious reference to their run-in at Mark's house. Her mood is a hundred times lighter, and it causes mixed emotions in him. He's missed that laugh, which once came so easily, and her fearlessness, but the return of both confirms his suspicions. She has, in fact, been withholding some sort of

  information from him, and now that she's learned the letters were a hoax and assumes Jack doesn't know about a fourth one, she no longer fears disclosure.

  Until he has the original letters in hand, he doesn't intend to correct her.

  She takes his overcoat and then grabs a hand towel and tosses it to him. He hastily wipes his face and dries his hair, feeling her watching him the whole time.

  "Here, sit." Her open suitcase has reclaimed its spot on the extra bed, and she drags it to one end to make room for him. He notices it's packed.