This Secret Thing

by Whalen, Marybeth Mayhew

  “They didn’t tell you at the school?” Mr. Sheridan asked.

  She shook her head. “They just said that my mom had run into some legal trouble and I had to go home.” She turned her gaze back to the pumpkin, ignoring the man standing beside it. She wondered who could carve it if her mom wasn’t there to help. She doubted she could do it by herself. “Is she in trouble with the IRS?” she asked. “Did she get audited?” Her mom talked a lot about the IRS and audits. As far as Violet knew, it was her biggest fear.

  “Sons of bitches,” Mr. Sheridan said. Then he remembered who he was talking to and apologized.

  “I go to high school,” she said. “I’ve heard worse.”

  Mr. Sheridan grinned and clapped her on the shoulder like a buddy. The man on the porch motioned for them to come in. “They need for us to get a move on,” he said. “So why don’t you pack your things and then we can talk more.”

  “So my mom’s not here?” she asked again. She asked it even though she knew the answer. For some reason, she needed to hear it.

  Mr. Sheridan, attorney specializing in criminal defense, shook his head, his expression grim. “No, honey, she’s . . .”

  She needed to hear it, but he couldn’t say it. So she said it for him. “In jail.”

  He squeezed her shoulder, just a light squeeze, meant to be a comfort, though nothing could be at that moment. “Yeah, honey. She’s in jail.”

  They started to walk toward the porch, and that big-ass pumpkin, and the man who was waiting for them there. But she stopped one more time because she had to know. “Why is she in jail?”

  Mr. Sheridan closed his eyes, thinking, she knew, of how he would answer. He looked just like his daughter did when she was mustering the courage to jump off the diving board. He opened his eyes again. “I might as well tell you, because you’re going to find out anyway. What with all the social media you kids have these days.”

  She nodded encouragingly. She needed the truth, not some kid-friendly bullshit.

  “She was arrested this morning on charges of money laundering and illegal prostitution.” He said it like he was saying, She got a ticket for running a stop sign.

  She squinted at him. It was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. It was so ridiculous it was laughable, though laughing seemed wrong at a time like this. They had the wrong person. This would get straightened out in no time. She probably didn’t even need but one change of clothes, because she would be back home that soon. Back home with her mom.

  “My mother isn’t a prostitute,” she corrected him, straightening her back and giving him her bravest smile. “She owns her own marketing firm.” She thought of all the times she’d written that on her school forms, on the line designated for “Mother’s Employment”: “Owner, Ramsey and Associates.”

  Mr. Sheridan didn’t argue. He just started walking, expecting her to fall into step beside him. After a second, she did. The man on the porch got closer and closer with each step they took. He closed the file he was looking at—probably a file cataloguing all the accusations against her mom. Violet’s eyes met his, and she narrowed hers. He gave her a little smirk. He was the enemy, accusing her mother of something she most certainly had not done.

  Prostitutes do drugs and live in bad neighborhoods. Prostitutes wear hooker heels and leopard prints and push-up bras and hang out on street corners. Prostitutes have men hanging around all the time. Her mom was the boss of her own company, and other than Stanley, their lawn guy, Violet had never seen a man around. In fact, she had scolded her mother about it, told her she should go out on a date once in a while. Her mother was a beautiful woman, far more beautiful than Violet thought she, herself, could ever hope to be.

  And her mom always answered the same way. “Honey, I’ve had enough men in my life. I don’t need any more.” Then she would smile and tickle her and suggest a movie they could watch or ask if they had any ice cream in the fridge. What the man on her porch and Mr. Sheridan and anyone else who would hear the news didn’t know was, her mother was perfectly happy with her life. She wouldn’t screw it up by doing something illegal. She would never do something that could take them away from each other.

  Nico

  Nico hated to be kept waiting, but he hated what he was waiting on even more. The scene on the sidewalk was clear: Norah Ramsey’s attorney breaking the news to her daughter. Nico stood by and watched as the life the kid had known got blown to smithereens. His heart heavy, he tried to look at anything else but the girl, who looked a little like his own daughter, Lauren—same light-brown hair, same hazel eyes, same slim frame. One day she would be a beauty, but she didn’t know it yet.

  He checked the file he held in his hands, just to give himself something else to focus on while he waited. He flipped to the info about the daughter. Violet Ramsey was fifteen. His Lauren was thirteen, but looked fifteen. Violet Ramsey wore nondescript clothes—jeans, T-shirt, sneakers—ducked her head shyly if you looked at her, and her only makeup was some mascara and lip gloss. His Lauren thought “more was more” where makeup was concerned, wore loud colors to attract attention (preferably from boys), and encountered the world with her eyes wide and her chin jutted defiantly.

  Nico tried not to think about Lauren, or his wife, Karen, or his son, Ian, for that matter, focusing instead on the job he was there to do. And that job was to first clear the scene so a proper search could be conducted. He was leaving nothing to chance, nothing that Norah Ramsey’s attorney could use later. He’d been at the helm of this investigation for months, waiting anxiously for this day to come. And now it was here. He just had to get the kid in and out of this house quickly so they could get on with it.

  She would need her things, and he was going to personally catalogue every item she took with her, making sure she took nothing but necessities and nothing that might possibly be evidence. Though the kid looked shell-shocked and completely daunted, she could’ve been coached. Her mother could’ve told her what to take with her if something like this ever happened. He’d seen plenty in his years with the force; nothing surprised him anymore.

  He noticed movement in his peripheral vision, closed and lowered the file. They were on the move finally, the attorney guiding Violet Ramsey toward the house, her gait slow and wary. When their eyes met, the girl glared at him. Nico gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though he doubted he had the power to reassure her. He was there as the enemy, the marauder. He understood that. He didn’t like that part of his job, but he also didn’t like what Norah Ramsey had done. For a moment his brother, Matteo, flickered through his mind, but he banished him from his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to think about anyone from his family—his wife, his kids, or his brother—at this moment. It would only distract and weaken him.

  As the pair climbed the porch steps to meet him, Nico rested his foot on a huge pumpkin that was there, an attempt to strike a casual, nonconfrontational pose.

  “Don’t do that,” the girl said, then clamped her mouth shut.

  He quickly removed his foot from the pumpkin and tucked the file under his arm. “My apologies,” he said, feeling foolish. Violet Ramsey nodded once, then looked down.

  “I’m Detective Rinaldi,” he said. The girl nodded again but didn’t look up.

  Before going inside, Nico explained what was going to happen: He would walk with her through the house as she packed. He would make a list of each item taken, just for their evidential records. Jim Sheridan, the attorney, was welcome to be with them every step of the way. Violet Ramsey looked to Jim Sheridan, her eyes silently imploring him to do just that. He nodded obligingly. Nico wondered if the girl already knew Jim Sheridan and made a mental note to look into this. Just how much did this kid know? Nothing? Everything?

  Nico kept his eyes on Jim Sheridan so he didn’t have to look directly at the girl. She probably thought he was heartless. She probably assumed he was enjoying this. While he would enjoy putting an end to Norah Ramsey’s business—and the people she was involve
d with—he did not relish evicting a child from her home. With any luck, he’d have the scene cleared quickly and she could return home. But with whom there to care for her? Because if he had anything to do with it, it would not be her mother. Surely there was family somewhere who could step in. He reminded himself this was not his problem. Norah Ramsey had put her daughter in this position because of choices she had made. He was just there to do his job. Because his job was all he had left.

  Violet

  After the detective from the porch followed her around her own house and watched her pack her things—even her underwear, so embarrassing—Mr. Sheridan drove her to Nicole’s house, which was exactly seven houses away from her own. So it wasn’t like she needed to be driven. But he insisted. He said he’d promised her mother. She thought of what her mother was accused of, thinking that—if it was somehow true, which it wasn’t—Mr. Sheridan should be careful being associated with her. People might get the wrong idea about him. His wife might get mad.

  Nicole’s mother must’ve been waiting by the door when they pulled up, because it opened immediately to reveal her standing there, wearing yoga pants and a tank top that showed off her guns, as she liked to say. Nicole’s mom was “practically perfect in every way”—at least that’s what Violet’s mom said about her. She had the perfect house, the perfect husband, the perfect kids. They were the perfect family, and she had the pictures to prove it, which she was only too happy to share on social media. It used to embarrass Nicole. Bess Strickland cooked the perfect meals and wore the perfect ensemble for every occasion. She exercised for the perfect amount of time to achieve the perfect physique. She was a role model, “a beacon of hope for all women,” as Violet’s mom liked to say.

  Once upon a time, Nicole’s mom and Violet’s mom were best friends. Then they weren’t. Kind of like Violet and Nicole, only the thing with her and Nicole was more recent. Violet’s mom and Nicole’s mom hadn’t spoken in ages. She couldn’t believe she had to go there of all places—not with things the way they were with Nicole lately—but Mr. Sheridan said that the arrangements had already been made. She couldn’t stay with her father, because he was out of town. Her father was always out of town. Since he had married her witchy stepmom, he was basically out of her life.

  On the Stricklands’ porch, Mr. Sheridan told her he would be in touch as soon as he had any news. “You have my card?” he asked, and she nodded, patting her back pocket as proof. “OK, good,” he said. “So you can call me with any questions.” He produced another card seemingly out of thin air and handed it to Bess, who was standing there quietly, trying to act normal. “And here’s one for you in case you need me as well.” He and Bess looked at each other for a moment, both uncertain what to do next.

  “Hey, Violet,” Bess said. “Why don’t you wait for me in the kitchen. I put out some fruit and some cheese and crackers in case you’re hungry,” she said. Violet nodded, happy to get out from under their dual gazes. She gave a little wave and headed off to the kitchen, thinking as she walked, Leave it to Bess Strickland to turn this into some wine-and-cheese party.

  She wished Nicole was there so she could say that to her, so they could laugh about it. She wanted someone to talk to about all that was happening, but, though school was letting out in five minutes, Nicole would have play practice and wouldn’t be home till dinner.

  Nicole’s new love of acting was what had caused the silence between them to begin. Last spring, out of the blue, Nicole had decided to audition for the school play. But Violet had terrible stage fright, so there was no hope of them ever having that in common. Lately, Nicole had been opting to hang out with her theater friends more than with Violet. The parting had been gradual but certain. They hadn’t talked about it; they hadn’t said anything at all. If any good came from this, Violet decided, maybe it would be that with her in the same house, she and Nicole would spend more time together. It would bring them closer.

  In her head, she could hear her mom’s voice: Look for the silver lining. There’s always one. Her mom, though gone, was still there. She was in her head and in her heart, and no frowning detective or search warrant or criminal attorney could take that away.

  She could hear the adult voices murmuring from the doorway—Mr. Sheridan’s lower one in response to Bess’s higher one. She half wondered what they were saying, if perhaps she should be listening in. She and Nicole used to spy on her family members all the time when they were kids, she knew all the good listening-in spots in this house. But she was suddenly so tired. She took a half-hearted bite of an apple slice. (Bess had artfully arranged the wedges on a plate.) But the act of chewing it felt too monumental, the chunks of apple in her mouth making her gag. She got up, walked over to the sink, and spit them out, then turned on the spigot and watched the pieces disappear into the disposal.

  She headed back toward the foyer to tell Bess she was going to go up to Nicole’s room to lie down for a bit. As she got closer, she heard Mr. Sheridan: “They’re using intimidation techniques to try to get her to talk. They want that file, and they think they can get her to crack.”

  Bess gave a polite snort, if there was such a thing. “They don’t know Norah, then.”

  When she approached, they stopped talking, both of their heads swinging around in unison as she came into view. They both looked guilty. “I’m pretty tired,” Violet said. “I think I’d like to go lie down.”

  “OK,” Bess said, nodding her head too eagerly. “You know where the guest room is, right?”

  The guest room? When she spent the night at Nicole’s, she had always slept in her room, in the trundle that attached to her daybed. It had been that way since they were seven years old. The only person who slept in the Stricklands’ guest room was their grandmother from Michigan when she came to visit. Bess must’ve seen the confusion on her face, because she rushed to explain. “Since you’ll be staying here over school nights, we thought it would be better for you girls not to be in the same room, so you can both get a good night’s sleep.”

  We? Was this her and Nicole’s dad’s decision? Or her and Mr. Sheridan’s decision? Or, worse, her and Nicole’s decision? Bess and Nicole usually texted all during the school day, so Violet had no doubt Nicole was made aware of what was happening. That familiar feeling of panic she’d been having over the state of her friendship with Nicole came rushing back, but Violet tried not to think about it. She had bigger concerns than whether she and her BFF would in fact stay best friends forever. Concerns like investigation, evidence, and withholding information. If Mr. Sheridan sounded worried, did that mean she should worry, too?

  She picked up the small bag she’d left just inside the front door—she’d refused to pack more than a few days’ worth of clothing—and trotted up the stairs, past Nicole’s sister Casey’s door, which stayed closed all the time now that she’d gone off to college, toward the guest room just across the hall from Nicole’s own bedroom. But first she peeked inside Nicole’s room, inhaling the familiar scent of the place she’d spent so much time in. In this room they’d played Barbies and dolls, My Little Ponies and Hannah Montana. (She’d always had to be Lilly to Nicole’s Miley.)

  They’d made up dances to the latest songs and wore out the karaoke machine Nicole got for Christmas one year. They’d told each other’s fortunes, played video games, and daydreamed about what life held for them. They’d sworn to be there for each other through thick and thin. Now she was in a thin place, and she hoped those little-girl promises would somehow, miraculously, hold.

  She backed away from Nicole’s doorway, walked across the hall, climbed into the unfamiliar bed, and fell fast asleep, hoping her absent mother would somehow come to her in her dreams and help make sense of all that was happening.

  Casey

  She took a taxi home from the airport, feeling very grown up and capable, yet childlike and afraid at the same time. She looked out the window as the cab driver navigated the vehicle through a part of the city she was unfamiliar with. Her life
had primarily been spent in the suburbs, with the occasional trip into the city for various artsy events—a museum exhibit, a play, a concert. But mostly, she had existed within a much smaller space, with a select group of people. She wondered if that was why everything had happened the way it did. If her sheltered, small life had rendered her unprepared for the larger world.

  Slowly, familiar street signs came into view, landmarks she recognized. There was the hotel where her senior prom had been held. (She’d gone with a boy she barely knew, one of her mother’s friend’s sons who had agreed to take her after she and Eli broke up so suddenly, the timing unfortunate with prom being weeks away.) There was the restaurant where they had eaten after graduation. There was the turnoff to the shopping center where she and her mom had bought the things she needed for college, most of which were sitting, abandoned, back in her dorm room. She wondered how she would retrieve it all, who would fetch it. Because it could not be her. She heard the condemning voice in her head, the voice of a sneering, jarheaded drill sergeant like the kind she’d seen in movies: You didn’t even make it two months. You’re a wuss, running home to Mommy and Daddy.

  She felt the anxiety begin to build, tried to do what her roommate had said: Deep, slow breaths, redirect your thoughts. Think of something happy. She thought of her house in the fall, the way her mom made soup once a week and decorated with gourds and colorful leaves, lit pumpkin-spice candles, and put out mums on the front porch. In another few weeks her mom would buy their Halloween pumpkin and they would all carve it together, just like always. They would be together, and they would figure things out together. Yes, she had run home to Mommy and Daddy. But isn’t that the place we’re supposed to go when we’re hurt? And she was hurt. She closed her eyes, blocked the memory of the night before, her embarrassing, very public breakdown, her roommate’s hands pulling her up off the ground.