Keep No Secrets

by Julie Compton

  "I can't believe you came back here, of all places."

  She waves his concern away. "Once they checked and didn't find me here, I knew they wouldn't come back. And if they did, a hundred dollar bill to the night clerk goes a long way." She sits on the opposite bed across from him, her hands tucked between her knees. "So, tell me, how'd you figure out it was Celeste?"

  "Michael admitted it." He explains how he first saw mention of a "juris doctor"

  plan in Michael and Celeste's text messages, but didn't connect it to Jenny until, during Michael's testimony, Earl wrote the initials "JD" on a note to Jack.

  "He was asking me if it was okay to ask Mike about you, but when I saw the letters on the note, I thought 'juris doctor' and it dawned on me that the words might have been their code for Jenny Dodson. At the break, I confronted Mike, and he confessed."

  "So that's why you thought you saw me on those tapes you mentioned."

  He nods. "From the post office where the letters were mailed." She doesn’t need to know he never actually saw the tapes.

  "How would she have known where to mail them?"

  "Mike said she researched everything online. It's not hard to find an address. I guess she took a chance on them being forwarded. It's not like she had anything to lose if they weren't."

  Jenny rises and crosses to the suitcase.

  She stands mere inches from him as she carefully digs through the neatly folded clothes. Her movements release the familiar fragrance. She pulls out the plastic bag containing the letters and hands it to him. "All yours." Their fingers touch as he takes it. "How will you explain how you got them?"

  He holds her gaze as he tucks the bag into the inside pocket of his suit coat.

  "Are you going somewhere?" He tilts his head slightly toward the suitcase.

  He sees wariness cloud her eyes as if she's dropped a veil over them. "I may go home soon."

  "'Home' being Chicago?"

  "For now."

  "Why don't you come forward, tell them you didn't know about Maxine until after your arrest?" The question, he sees, catches her off-guard. Brian apparently didn't mention to her he'd told Jack.

  "Wouldn't you like to return to your real home?" he adds.

  "They wouldn't believe me. And the timing wouldn't be great for you, would it?"

  He ignores the second half of her answer. "You could take another lie detector test."

  "Why do you care, Jack?" The tone hints at her irritation at being questioned.

  "I guess I don't understand why you wouldn't want to be cleared, once and for all."

  She smirks. "I thought I was cleared."

  "Except you don't act like it, do you?"

  She whirls to turn away from him, but he grabs her wrist. A mistake. The line separating his competing urges is much too fine.

  She tugs, but he holds tight. "Do you remember our agreement?" he asks.

  "Yes."

  "Remind me. What was our agreement, Jenny?"

  "That I'd tell you everything."

  "Yeah. Except you've told me virtually nothing. I risked my neck, I helped you when you asked me to, I got the

  information you wanted, and yet all you've done is lie to me. Why?"

  "I haven't."

  "You have. You let me believe you were in Chicago when you weren't. You didn't tell me you'd gone to Mark's house.

  You didn't tell me you were meeting with Rebecca Chambers." At the name Rebecca Chambers, her eyes flicker toward her suitcase. The action was almost

  imperceptible, but he caught it. If she wonders how he knows the name, she doesn't ask.

  He pulls her closer, back to where she started. He flips her hand to reveal the scarred wrist.

  "You never told me why you did this."

  "I didn't answer when you asked because it's none of your business, but I didn't lie to you."

  She tugs again, and this time he

  releases her.

  "Why won't you tell me?"

  "What? You think I did it because I murdered Maxine? Is that what you really think?"

  His anger begins to yield to her

  questions. It isn't what he thinks. At least, it's never been what he wanted to think, but she's given him too many reasons to doubt her and not near enough to trust her. Would Claire say the same about him?

  "I don't know what to think." His voice softens. "You've kept so many secrets from me."

  She drops onto the other bed and

  lowers her head into her hands. Her hair falls forward, blocking her face. He almost reaches over to touch it, to see if his memories of the texture are accurate; other memories stop him. He thinks again of Brian's comment. She's protecting you from a lot of things. What burden does she refuse to share?

  He slips the key from his pocket and hides it in his closed hand. He has no idea if the key has anything to do with the fourth letter, but he's about to find out.

  "Why'd you come back, Jen?"

  She whips her head up. "For exactly the reason I told you!" she pleads.

  "The letters?"

  "Yes."

  He holds up the key. "Then why didn't you show me the fourth one?"

  The passion in her expression slips away, her cheeks go pale. She stares at the key, he sees her swallow. She blurts, "I think I'm going to be sick," and springs from the bed toward the bathroom. He follows, thinking only to help her somehow, but she slams the door and locks it.

  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.

  He returns to the bed to wait, and to ready himself to listen.

  She sits on the toilet lid with her head hanging between her legs, trying to slow her rapid breathing and racing mind. She should simply demand he leave. She should threaten to call the cops and see if he calls her bluff. She doubts he would, not in the middle of his trial. He'd leave and come back later unannounced to try again. By then, she could be in Chicago.

  She tells herself she owes him nothing, but she knows that isn't true. If not for his willingness four years ago to take a fall for her, she might be sitting on death row next to Alex. Or instead of Alex. Jack could argue Jenny owes him her life.

  Brian would argue she owes him more than that.

  Take your chances and tell him.

  Brian has always felt the secret was not Jenny's to keep. He believed Jack was entitled to know everything, regardless of the consequences to him, to his marriage, to Jenny. Any decisions Jack made, Brian argued, should be based on a full knowledge of the facts. Jenny, on the other hand, believed Brian's opinion to be clouded by his desire to protect her. To her way of thinking, she had no right to cause further pain to a family that has already had enough. On that she and Brian agreed: full knowledge would equal pain. Much more pain, to everyone involved. When she pointed this out to him, he shrugged and said, "What did C.S. Lewis say? The happiness I feel now is the pain I had before?" She never bothered to tell him he had it backwards.

  She hears the exterior door open and close, and she lifts her head. Has he given up and left? She waits until she's sure.

  When the door opens and closes once more, she curses herself for not going out the first time to lock it.

  After a few more minutes of careful listening, she opens the bathroom door and braces herself for the inevitable confrontation. He may hold the key, but she holds the power over the box and its contents. The bank will never allow him access without her at his side. Perhaps, someday, that time will come. But not today.

  He waits in the same spot she left him, but something is different. Her suitcase.

  The lid has been flipped closed.

  "I brought you a present," he says.

  She approaches hesitantly until she sees it. Her mint suit, the one he used to tease her about, peeks out from the gap between the lid and the base. He called it her "Crest toothpaste suit" to make her laugh. She lifts the lid and sees he folded the suit carefully and set each piece, t
he skirt and then the jacket, on top of the other clothes she had already packed. She smiles as she lifts the jacket, but her smile fades quickly when she sees what he placed underneath. The manila envelope.

  He searched her suitcase and found it.

  He stands, and suddenly her face is cupped in his hands. His hold on her is stronger than it needs to be. "Jenny, I didn't open it, and I won't force you to tell me anything you don't want to tell me. But please, just tell me why you won't trust me anymore." Without releasing her, he uses a thumb to wipe a tear about to fall. "You used to trust me with anything."

  She closes her eyes, willing him to just leave, but he whispers, "Please look at me," and she can't deny him. "Why don't you trust me anymore?"

  All the things she wants to say catch in her throat. She wonders what happened to the woman who waited for him to wake up that morning four years ago. She gave the best argument of her career that morning, when she convinced him they'd done nothing more the night before than satiate their sexual appetites. She ridiculed all his talk of soul mates and love, and sent him away confused and broken. She didn't believe her own words, but he did, and the verdict was hers. But now, on appeal, she's forgotten how to do it.

  She looks into his eyes and understands why the juries love him. He's always argued from the heart. "Say something,"

  she says quietly, "just one thing, I can trust in."

  His confusion at her request is fleeting; she sees recognition dawn on his face, followed quickly by regret. He can't give her what she wants. Not now. Probably never.

  But then he surprises her by echoing the words he overheard her speak at Mark's house.

  "Okay. This: if there's one thing you know, it's how I feel about you."

  She nods, over and over. It's the best he can do, and it'll have to be enough.

  "Do you trust me, then?" he asks.

  "It's not about trust."

  "Tell me then. What is it about?" When she doesn't respond, he says, "I'd like to know what's in the envelope, what you're so afraid for me to know."

  Suddenly, she realizes that he thinks whatever was in the safe deposit box is now in the envelope. In that instant, she decides if giving him the envelope will keep him at bay, she's prepared to do it.

  Even though it, too, will hurt him. "Be careful what you wish for," she says.

  "What's in it?" he repeats as if he hasn't heard her warning.

  "Nothing you want to see. Believe me."

  "Do you remember what I said to you when I first visited you at the jail?

  "You said a lot of things."

  "I told you I could never hate you, even if you'd murdered Maxine."

  "You think the envelope has evidence I murdered Maxine?"

  "I don't know. Does it?"

  She shakes her head, laughs sadly at the irony. He might not hate her once he sees the contents, but he still might want to kill the messenger.

  "Okay, Jack. You win." He drops his hands from her face. "But I don't want to be with you when you open it. I think you'll want to be alone when you see what's inside."

  At the door, he stops as if he wants to say something more. She stands stoically with one hand on the doorknob. Now that she's made the decision, she can't get him out fast enough. Her palms sweat and her stomach feels as if it's in her throat.

  She knows what he thinks he will find.

  She knows what everyone believed about her back then. That she's a liar, that she's manipulative. That she planned

  everything from the very beginning. He tried not to believe it, she knows he did, but he always had his doubts, too.

  "Thank you," he says, lifting the envelope. "For this. For trusting me."

  "You may want to reserve your gratitude until after you open it."

  He studies her, taking his time as if he's afraid to leave. His sad eyes say what his lips don't: he knows a big change is coming. She wonders if she'll ever see him again.

  "I'm sorry," she says. "I am so, so sorry."

  "Tell me why, Jen. What are you so sorry about? Why don't you want me to know what's inside?"

  She hesitates. "Because what's inside that envelope is going to break your heart."

  At that she leans close, and with the palm of one hand on his cheek, kisses him on the mouth. He closes his eyes. She feels the battle taking place inside him as his lips part slightly, but in the end, they remain frozen, refusing to return the affection.

  Even after he's secure in his car, her scent lingers on his coat. In his hair. On the envelope.

  And her taste. Her taste lingers on his lips.

  He tries desperately to remember how Claire smells, how she tastes, and when he can't, he curses Jenny. She's like a drug to you. No matter how many times he denies it, he can't change facts. He craves Jenny and despises the fact of her existence at the same time. He knows what he's about to find. He knows that he's probably the closest he's ever been to knowing the truth, to seeing the evidence of her guilt revealed. And yet, he can't stop the thoughts running wild through his head.

  The thoughts that tell him to knock on her door, and when she lets him back in

  —because she will let him back in, he knows that, too—to lie down with her one more time. One more time before he destroys her with the information she's given him. Because, above all, Jack knows he will have to destroy Jenny to save himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT MIGHT HAVE taken him forty-five minutes to get to the law school; it might have taken three hours. He has no idea.

  He doesn't remember the drive. He doesn't even remember making a

  conscious decision to go there. But he must have, because here he now sits, in his car in the parking lot just across from the school. It's rare to find an open space so close, especially on such a wet day. It's as if someone saved it for him, as if this moment was inevitable.

  He looks at the new building through the cascade of rain. It's beautiful, and majestic, in a way. Gothic, resplendent in Missouri Red Granite. The law school finally has a home befitting its noble purpose, and one that matches in style and, in some opinions, surpasses in beauty, the other buildings on campus.

  It's nothing like the old Mudd Hall, the boxy building in which he and Claire first met, with its exposed concrete walls inside and out, the rust marks that dripped from the rebar, and the unnatural green hue that trimmed the exterior of the structure. Inside, the carpet was frayed and stained in many spots. Even the library and professors' offices on the upper levels felt as if they were in the basement because of the concrete walls and the stained carpet. Both the old law school, and the matching Eliot Hall next door, looked to be someone's 1970's contemporary architecture project gone horribly wrong.

  And yet, he longs for that ugly

  building. In the same way his throat closed watching the first wrecking ball attack the old Busch Stadium, he felt an acute sense of loss when the university chancellor announced plans to tear down the old law school and build a new one on the opposite side of the campus.

  The new school is beautiful. Claire's office is beautiful, too. But he can't help but think that something more than walls and carpet was permanently lost the day they brought down the old school. He didn't see it happen like he did the stadium. He'd been in trial.

  He steps from the car, envelope in hand. He's not sure why he thinks she'll be in her office, or what he'll do if she's not. Will he have the strength to wait for her? And what if she's there, but someone is with her? Another professor, or a student?

  He walks by reception without

  stopping to say hello as he usually does.

  He takes the stairs to the fourth floor. He doesn't have the patience to wait for the elevator.

  His concerns are unfounded. He

  reaches Claire's office and finds her alone behind her desk. Red pen in hand, she's engrossed in grading the contents of a blue book and doesn't even notice him.

  He stands in her open doorway and waits for her to look up.

  At
some point she must sense a

  presence. She slowly raises her head, her eyes trailing behind as if she's reluctant to stop her activity. She startles when she sees him.

  "Jack."

  Later, when he looks back on

  everything and remembers this moment, he'll understand that she knew the reason for his surprise visit the instant she saw him in her doorway. But just then, even though he sees the clues on her face, he's still in shock and can't interpret them. He thinks he has to tell her. He thinks he has to show her the evidence of her betrayal so she'll know why he came.

  "Earl has been looking for you," she says. "The trial was recessed until Monday, so I thought I'd catch up here."

  He stares at her, unresponsive. Her comments are nothing more than a delay tactic.

  He steps in without invitation and walks between the two guest chairs.

  Leaving the photos in the envelope, he pulls out the papers and places them face up on the desk. They cover the blue book.

  She doesn't look down. "You're soaking wet."

  "Read them."

  She continues to meet his stare. "Jack,"

  she says again.

  "Read them."

  Her lips part as if she wants to speak again, but after a moment she lowers her eyes and begins to read. One hand rests on her lap, but the one holding the pen, the right one, trembles violently.

  Like the ride over, he has no concept of how much time passes. By the time she raises her eyes to him again, thirty seconds might have elapsed, or twenty minutes. He might have been standing there an hour. He simply doesn't know.

  He does know from the look on her face that none of the information comes as a surprise. She knew all along. She probably knew within minutes of her father knowing, and the date on the report from Lee Randolph to her father made clear that Harley Lambert knew almost immediately. For all Jack knows, she's had copies of the photos and report hidden all these years in a drawer at home.

  He remembers her hysterical reaction when she first learned the truth. Or so he thought. Turns out it was Claire, not Jenny, who was the real actress.