Secrets, Lies, and Scandals

by Amanda K. Morgan

  Cade pushed himself out of the chair and followed Ted. He hated this. He really, really hated this. He’d thought he was done with stupid, probing questions.

  Apparently he wasn’t.

  Dr. Ainsworth smiled when she saw him. It was her doctor smile—practiced and smooth and completely inoffensive, just like her sensible pants and her too-loose blouse. Her hair was drawn back into an efficient bun, and not a single strand of hair was out of place.

  “Cade Sano!” she said, a small note of professional pleasure in her voice. “Come in. Sit down. It’s been too long.”

  Cade tried not to frown. Was that something that your shrink was supposed to say? If a patient wasn’t there, maybe it was because he was actually doing well for once.

  But then he had to mess up and accidentally kill someone. And his stupid, all-knowing father just had a gut feeling something was off. And now . . .

  “Hi,” Cade said. “You got new chairs.”

  They were brown and poufy, unlike the old black leather chairs that had graced her office. Cade had picked at the peeling bits of the black ones when he hadn’t wanted to answer questions.

  The chairs were the only pieces of her office that had changed. Her Harvard degrees still hung on her wall. Her collection of small glass kittens decorated her bookshelves—although maybe she had few more, now. And the same ceiling fan still spun lazily overhead.

  “Do you like them?” Dr. Ainsworth asked.

  He sank into one. It was nice, actually. “Sure.”

  “So, Cade. Since it’s been so long, why don’t we start by you telling me what you’ve been up to lately. Tell me about your family.”

  “No.” Cade’s reaction was immediate . . . and a little too loud. He softened his voice. “I don’t talk about my family anymore.” He wasn’t going to let her run this show. He wasn’t a child. And no matter how many degrees she had on her wall, he was smarter than she was.

  He was in charge.

  Dr. Ainsworth considered him. She had to know what had happened. Everyone knew. “Maybe just your father, then. I think it would be good for you to talk about him. How is it, now? With just the two of you?”

  “You know my dad.” Cade lifted both his hands. “He’s a dick. Not much has changed in the past few years. Maybe he needs therapy.” He smiled, just a little. Let her believe he was engaging.

  Dr. Ainsworth laughed, a “ha-ha” that was a little less therapist and a touch more human. Rare, for her.

  “From what you’ve said, I could recommend a few sessions for him. But Cade, you’re the one who’s here. Not your father.”

  “I know that.”

  Cade remembered why he hated therapy so much. What was just talking ever going to change?

  Dr. Ainsworth took a leather folio from her desk and opened it. Her eyes searched the page, but her face was smooth and expressionless. It betrayed nothing. She was good. But he was better.

  “I understand you’re taking a class this summer?”

  “Psychology.” Cade smiled again, ignoring the way his heartbeat quickened. “Ironic, right?”

  “Important.” The doctor looked at him for a moment, her eyes big. “How is your class going?”

  “Why is that important?” Cade started to cross his arms over his chest, but stopped. Dr. Ainsworth would say it was a defensive gesture, and he couldn’t act defensive right now. He was in control. Not her.

  Dr. Ainsworth paused. “It seems like a significant part of your life, Cade.”

  “School isn’t as big of a deal as everyone says.” Cade looked away from Dr. Ainsworth, but then focused back on her. He didn’t want to seem shady. And he couldn’t avoid questions about this. He shouldn’t.

  “Some people can be a little overly obsessive about school and grades,” she admitted. “But indulge me. How’s the professor? Are you getting along?”

  Of course she’d remember that Cade didn’t have the best record with his former schools. And maybe there’d been an incident where he’d spat at someone. Or an incident where he’d followed his teacher home and recorded her dancing to the Frozen sound track in tube socks and a corset.

  So this question was natural. Normal.

  He flinched inwardly, but forced himself to speak. “He’s missing.”

  Dr. Ainsworth leaned forward. “Missing?”

  Cade lifted a shoulder. “One day, he just didn’t show up for class. Now, we have Dr. Angelo, who is this super-old lady. She doesn’t make us do anything, and she didn’t even grade the tests we took.” Cade forced a smile, and it felt funny on his mouth and stretched his cheeks. “So much for learning.”

  Dr. Ainsworth tapped her pen against her lips. “Tell me your thoughts on why he disappeared.”

  Cade didn’t hesitate. “Wherever he went, he was in a hurry.”

  “Interesting. And why do you say that?” The shrink leaned forward in her chair.

  She was so calculated in her movements. Her actions. Unlike Cade, she knew what everything meant.

  He wished he could see into her head.

  “Because he didn’t take our tests with him. Kip Landers says he thought he saw him walking across the back parking lot.”

  “Did you see him?”

  Cade frowned. Why was she asking so many questions? Was she cross-examining him?

  “No.”

  “Do you . . . care for the professor, Cade?”

  “Hell no.”

  Dr. Ainsworth seems startled. She pushed at her glasses. “Would you care to expand on that?”

  Cade laughed. “The guy is a total douche bag. I’ve never seen anyone crueler, or take more delight in failure. And that includes my father.”

  “Really?” The doctor scribbled something else in her folio. “Does he have many enemies?”

  “Do you want me to name them?”

  “Please try.”

  “Let’s start with everyone who ever met the guy, period. He was a straight-up horrible person. If someone out there actually liked Stratford, they’d have to be a masochist.” Cade leaned back in his chair. He could talk about Stratford all day. That was the trick: stay as close to the truth as possible. That way, you had fewer lies to remember. “If one single person legitimately enjoyed his company—well, they could use some quality time in your new chair.” He patted the arm.

  “So he is someone who does not enjoy his job as a teacher? Interesting.” Dr. Ainsworth paused, and she took off her glasses and carefully set them on her hulking wooden desk. “What do you think happened to Dr. Stratford, Cade?”

  Cade hesitated.

  He’d never expected to be asked this. He wanted to seem honest. He needed to seem honest.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he just left. Just peaced out. He was weird. I mean, he hated everyone. But then, everyone hated him, too.”

  “So you think something bad happened.”

  “I just told you, I don’t know.” Cade gritted his teeth. He couldn’t let what his therapist called his “anger issues” show. He’d worked on those. He was supposed to be better.

  Dr. Ainsworth stood and circled around her desk. She sat down next to him, and did something he had never seen her do before.

  She reached out and put her hand on his arm.

  “Cade,” she said, her voice quiet and low, “I need you to listen, and I need you to be very, very honest with me. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Cade drew out the word. “What is it?”

  Dr. Ainsworth took a moment to collect herself, smoothing out her already perfect jacket. She reached over the desk and retrieved her glasses.

  “Cade,” she whispered. “Did you have something to do with his disappearance? Because if you did, you need to tell your father and me now. You need to let us protect you.” She gave his arm a little squeeze.

  Cade stared at her hand. At the perfect cuticles. At the pearlescence of whatever translucent polish she was wearing. At the pinkie nail on her left hand, where she’d chipped it, just slightly.

  “Did my f
ather put you up to this?” Cade asked. His throat felt cold and dry.

  Dr. Ainsworth, for the smallest sliver of a second, dropped her head. And then she was back. She removed her hand from his arm and sat, still and straight, like a guilty animal.

  In the background, Cade listened to the same sound he had since his childhood: the clock on the wall above her bookshelf. Ticking his session by. Audibly slow.

  But never more painful than today.

  “I’m doing my job, Cade. I need to figure out what’s bothering you. I need to figure out how to reach you.”

  Translation: guilty.

  “What if I don’t need help?” Cade snapped. “What if I’m perfectly normal, but my father keeps trying to put a finger on the pulse of what sick, psycho shit is lying in wait? And what if, sooner or later, it makes me snap?” Cade clenched his hands into fists and leaned forward on the desk.

  Dr. Ainsworth sat very still. “People want to help you, Cade. That’s all. They just want to help.”

  “I can’t believe him. I’m done.” Cade pushed out of the chair and strode heavily toward the door. His father knew. Or at least suspected. But how? And why? Was it just based on what his father had known for a long, long time?

  Cade paused and looked back at Dr. Ainsworth, who had not moved.

  “Next time my father calls, do me a favor?”

  Dr. Ainsworth didn’t say anything. Both of her hands were on either side of his folio. The same one he’d had since he’d started seeing Dr. Ainsworth when he was just a boy.

  “Remind him I’m not my sister.”

  And then Cade was gone before Dr. Ainsworth said a thing to stop him.

  He walked through the waiting room and pushed out the glass door onto the sidewalk.

  His father was onto Cade. He knew he had something to do with it.

  Cade looked up and down the street, and back, over his shoulder. Was his father having him followed? Was that how he knew? Or had he seen it in Cade since the incident?

  Would his father go as far as turning him in? Cade wasn’t so sure. He wouldn’t put anything past the man.

  Cade was suddenly hot-cold, like dry ice had been pressed against his chest.

  He couldn’t go out like this.

  He needed to pin this on someone. Someone who actually could have committed the crime. Anyone but him. Kinley was probably too smart, but Mattie . . . he was kind and soft-hearted. That meant weakness. And for people like Cade, and his father, that meant triumph.

  But there was also Tyler. And Tyler . . . well, he’d been in trouble for everything else. Would it be a leap for people to believe he could be capable of murder, too?

  If he could frame Tyler, his work would be done for him. They’d never suspect Cade again, even if Cade had been the one who . . .

  He hadn’t meant to kill him. Cade was usually more subtle than that.

  He wasn’t going to go to prison for accidentally offing the most evil man in the universe.

  Someone else would have to do that for him.

  Ivy

  Friday, June 26

  “Why did you kill him?”

  Ivy stared across the kitchen table at her brother, her eyes wide. “What?” she asked. Her hands gripped the wood, her fingernails bending against the hard surface.

  “Dr. Stratford. Why did you kill him?” her brother asked, very calmly. Very matter-of-factly. As if they had already established that Ivy was a murderer.

  As if he’d known the entire time.

  Ivy’s whole body started falling apart from the inside. First, her heart began to slow. Then she felt her stomach shrinking in on itself.

  She was going to die. She was going to die right there at the kitchen table.

  The corner of Daniel’s mouth quirked up, and he started laughing. “Geez, Ivy, chill out, okay? I told you! I’m just practicing! I’m going to ask the hard questions, okay? Plus, since you actually knew the guy, you’re good practice.” He winked at her. “You’d be surprised how many supposedly minute details have led to arrests. Real arrests.”

  That’s what Ivy was afraid of. She took a slow breath and hoped Daniel didn’t notice her shaking. She moved her hands from the table and wrapped them around each side of her chair, like she was trying to hold on.

  Maybe she was.

  “I don’t have much time,” she told her brother. “We have class tonight, and I’m trying to get in good with the new professor.”

  “But you already had class with her,” Daniel said, confused.

  “Yeah, twice, but basically all she has done is introduce herself and talk about how sorry she is about Dr. Stratford’s disappearance. Last class, she sipped on an actual glass of prune juice. Seriously, Daniel, if I make her wait she might actually die. She’s that old.”

  The words sounded callous in her ears, now, but they were words the Old Ivy would have used easily. Flippantly, even. So New Ivy had to use them too.

  She hated herself.

  “Hey, I should hook you up to the lie detector sometime. We have an old one down at the station. We’re not really allowed to use them since they say you can fool them now.”

  “Boring.” Ivy pretended to yawn, but her insides were jumping. She could never go there, never do that, because then he’d know. “Is it over? Can I go?”

  “Just sit tight, okay?” Her brother pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of the pocket of his khakis.

  “Really? That’s how you interview a criminal? With a love note from high school? Did someone toss that to you after they got their cell phone taken away?”

  She hated herself even more. But she needed him to leave her alone.

  “Ivy, seriously? I’m trying here.” He smoothed the paper out on the table and cleared his throat. “Okay. You have to state your name. So, please state it.”

  “Ivy Katherine McWhellen.”

  Her stomach hurt. Big, sharp stabs of pain. Was this karmic payback? A sign from God, telling her to confess?

  Or just more punishment? Her fall from grace hadn’t been enough. Maybe Ivy had been so terrible to the people in her life that hers needed to be ruined. She imagined herself as Piper in Orange Is the New Black, carving a shank out of a toothbrush and trading Cheetos for shower sandals.

  “Your relationship to the deceased?”

  “Deceased?” Ivy said. “I thought he was just missing.” Her muscles tensed.

  Daniel sighed heavily. “No, Ivy. Seriously, we’re just playing here, okay? Just bear with me.”

  Ivy harrumphed. “Fine. Just hurry up, then.”

  “What is your relationship to the missing man?”

  “Um, he was my professor for my psych class. That’s it.” Ivy studied her brother, but he was hardly looking at her. His eyes were glued to the paper. His hand fumbled for the soda can in front of him, and she pushed it into his outstretched palm.

  “Thanks,” he muttered. “Um, let’s see. When did you last see Dr. Stratford?”

  A flash of Stratford disappearing into the river lightninged across her mental vision, and for a moment she was back at the river, carrying him, her arms straining with his weight.

  Helping to throw him into a watery grave.

  “Um, during the class when we took the test.”

  “The date was?”

  Friday, June 12.

  Ivy scoffed. “Seriously? You expect me to know the date? I don’t even know what today is.”

  Ivy wished she were kidding about knowing the current date. But the more she tried to keep it together, the more everything swam together in a mix of colors and sounds and ideas and nothing made sense anymore. Nothing.

  Not even Garrett—the one person she’d thought she still wanted—had made it right.

  Not for a second.

  But Friday, June 12.

  She remembered that. She remembered it in perfect, clear detail. Every last bit. It replayed in her head, over and over, like a film. It followed her into sleep every night, and was there when she woke up. A shad
ow that clung to her.

  Her brother stood up from the table and started pacing.

  “Are you Good Cop or Bad Cop?” she quipped.

  “I’m asking the questions.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Okay, Ivy. Here’s a real question for you.” He stopped. “Why is Mrs. Stratford outside our house again?”

  “What?” Ivy pushed away from the table and hurried into the living room. She threw aside the curtains and looked out the front window.

  There Mrs. Stratford was, her car idling in the street. Ivy turned back to Daniel, frantic. “Daniel, why is she here?”

  He frowned at her. “That’s a question for you to answer, isn’t it?”

  She peeked out the window again. Mrs. Stratford was just sitting in her car, the engine running and the windows down. Her elbow was perched on the door, and she was smoking a cigarette.

  “I am so done with this!” Ivy shrieked. She tore open the front door and marched out, stopping by the driver’s-side door. “What are you doing here? What do you want?” she shrieked.

  Mrs. Stratford jumped, her cigarette falling from her fingers onto the sidewalk, showering sparks on the cement. She cursed, and then looked up at Ivy. “I wanted to talk to you.” She pointed at Ivy with a trembling finger, swollen and thick with arthritis.

  “Well, I’m here. Say what you want to say.”

  Mrs. Stratford stared at her, her eyes crinkled. “I think you know more than you’re letting on. You and that boy next door. You know something.”

  “Yeah, we know our professor hasn’t shown up to class. We know he’s missing. It’s everywhere. I know my brother’s working on the case to try to help you find your husband. Is that enough?” She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes, daring Mrs. Stratford to say anything else.

  Mrs. Stratford glared at her. “Why were you so weird in the parking lot?”

  Ivy threw up her hands. “Well, the world’s toughest teacher didn’t show up to his own class. Doesn’t that seem a little weird to you, as his wife? I would think that you were the one who wasn’t saying something. What did you do to him to make him leave, huh?”

  Ivy was shouting, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t.