Anything worth doing is worth doing right.
When I arrive at the apartment, my hand holding the key to the building shakes, and I can barely get it in the hole. I burst through the doors and run for the elevator, but it’ll take too long. I stumble up three flights of stairs to our apartment, rush to Don’s door and knock three times. The door flings open, and Andy smiles up at me, wrapping his arms around my leg. Has he been waiting right by the door, eager for someone to collect him from this stranger?
“Thank you,” I tell Don, grabbing Andy’s hand and pulling him toward the apartment.
“Okay then.” Don shuts the door quickly so his Maltese pup can’t escape.
How could she do this to him? My muscles tense, and I loosen my grip on his arm before it becomes too firm.
“I couldn’t get back in, Joey,” his voice shakes, and my legs crumple as the fear in his voice sinks in.
I bend to meet his eye level.
Sweet, innocent Andy, abandoned again.
Nothing like the first time; he wouldn’t have been old enough to remember, but I was the one who found her. Especially not like the second—after which I decided to take Andy into my care when Maggie and Andy’s dad became homeless.
But scary, nonetheless. He can’t rely on his only present parent, and I’ve made the wrong choice. I’ve pulled him out of proper care I trust to put him back with the woman who has betrayed us both for most of our lives.
I sweep my fingers from his sweaty forehead up his stiff, gelled hair he proudly styles each morning and force a smile on my face. “That must have been scary, but I’m here now.”
He shrugs with a pout and runs his hand over the same spot of hair, smoothing it down. “I’m not a baby.”
“I know.” I squeeze his bony shoulder as my apartment door swings open.
Maggie steps out into the hall, clutching the towel wrapped around her. Her wet, shoulder-length hair drips as her wide eyes narrow in on her son.
“Andy! There you are. Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Joey.” She reaches out for him, but he doesn’t move. The tears pooling in his eyes send me over the edge.
“Andy, go on back inside and put a game on, okay?” I whisper.
He nods and rounds his mom without looking at her. Her gaze follows him as I lean in toward her and hiss, “Are you kidding me?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but I cringe, staring at her, and she shuts it again. I don’t even want to hear her excuses anymore.
I check my cell phone. Fifteen minutes behind, and when I leave here in a rush, Maggie will be feeling guilty, like a burden, and I can’t let that happen again. When she feels like that, she uses, ever since we were teens. It’s her pattern, and despite the signs she might have broken it this time, the odds are more likely she’ll break us again instead.
“I’m going to be late for that meeting I told you about.” I lick my lips as I try to even out, take a breath, and relax my tone. Don’t let her feel all the anger. “Let’s make sure this doesn’t happen again. Make sure the door’s locked properly, and he knows he can’t leave without either of us.”
She nods, her eyes full of hurt, but I can’t afford to apologize. She needs to understand how serious this is. My job. Taking care of Andy. I did it all at the same time while she was in rehab, and she can’t even handle just watching him.
“I’m so sorry, Joey. I promise it won’t happen again.”
I nod. I don’t believe her one bit, but I can’t stand here and talk to her like this. Not right now. I’ve jeopardized my career enough for her. I won’t let Andy down. I never thought she would either. We, of all people, know what it feels like to be abandoned by our parents, and the pain that never goes away.
Don’t say it. Save the lecture for later.
I shake my head, buzzing with anger, crossing my arms over my chest as I walk away.
She knows how important it is to Andy to have her here, but if she can’t take care of him, I can’t leave him in harm’s way again. Not on my watch, and regardless of the fact she’s around, it’s still my watch. They both are.
I burst through my building doors and dash toward my car.
I’m never late. Why did this have to happen today?
Maybe Mr. Tackman won’t be a stickler for time.
Maybe the client won’t even notice I’m late.
Chapter Two
The Client
After exiting the bumper-to-bumper highway leading from New Gilford to Copperfield County, the hard rock song I screamed the words to ends, and I click through the radio stations until the violin from a beautiful classical piece fills my car. It’s the same music Cathrine listens to after returning from rough meetings, and it seems like such a refined way to relax. I press my back against my warm chair and take deep breaths, letting the music wash over me before I squint at the time.
Eleven-twenty.
“Nothing to do about it now,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel and peering over at the GPS. “Can’t control the time. Only the way I react to it.”
“Take the next left,” the voice from my GPS says. “Then carry on for one half mile. Your destination is on the left.”
I make the left turn onto a secluded road surrounded by fields of dirt and forest farther behind them. The sun dips behind the clouds, and a blanket of gray is cast over the wheat fields I pass.
I know this company. I know the services we offer. I know how to do this. I’ll do it just like Cathrine. Clients never say no to her.
WWCLD? What would Cathrine Locke do?
“You have arrived at your destination.”
I crane my neck back as I pass a long dirt road and ease my foot on the brake, checking my rearview before backing up on the empty road and turning left onto the next one, if you could call it that.
My wheels kick up dirt, and I drive through the clouds of dust until I reach the tree line. Just beyond, nestled into the top of a hill, a large, white, modern build comes into view. Giant windows line half the walls, providing what must be an amazing view of the trees and surrounding area.
Three vehicles, two black trucks and one red Camaro, sit in front of the three-car garage, and I pull up behind them, over to the side, providing me enough cover to read the rest of the first page of the client profile. I unzip the binder and scan it as I dig through my purse for perfume. Cathrine always smells like exotic flowers, and I purchased a similar perfume to emulate hers.
Raymond Tackman... entrepreneur named one of New Gilford’s forty under forty most eligible bachelors…
I spritz the perfume on my neck and wrist as I read, and a little mists onto the page. Considering the demographic of the potential client, that’s not a bad thing.
Car collector… made a generous donation to the city’s hospital…
Quite the resume.
… security needs include outdoor surveillance cameras with an indoor monitoring system…
I have to get in now. I double-check my reflection in the visor mirror before grabbing the red folder and my little black purse and stepping out of the car. As I turn to the house, a large man with a tattoo covering the left side of his neck and his hands shoved into his baggy jeans pockets stares me down. His legs are spaced farther apart, in a guarded, intimidating stance, and his boots are clean.
What kind of business are they in?
I stride toward him. WWCLD? Head up, shoulders back, and smile.
But he doesn’t smile back.
He purses his lips and shakes his head. “Name.”
I stop two feet away, and he’s a bit taller than me in my heels. His height would make it easy to give him direct eye contact, but his attitude doesn’t.
“Josephine Oliver from Locke Industries, here to see Mr. Tackman.”
He smirks and tilts his head back slightly, revealing more of his tattoo—a clock with roman numerals around it and two blue birds in the middle.
“Follow me.” He takes slow strides to the large white front door with long clear glass
panes on each side, opening it for me.
I enter a foyer in the middle of one large room. To the right is a seating area with leather couches and wingback chairs, all black furniture. To the left is a study with a sliding metal door open and hallway before it. Everything is modern or industrial, with straight lines, fresh white walls, and a black tiled floor.
The large man walks around me with a swagger to his step. “Wait here.”
I tuck the folder to my chest and clutch my purse as he disappears past the study, down the hallway. Emerald green walls line the study, interrupted only by overflowing bookcases wrapping around the room behind a mahogany desk in the middle that reminds me of Cathrine’s.
A scuffling down the hall brings my focus back.
This is it. Land the client.
WWCLD? She doesn’t try to convince the client why we’re the right security service for them. She lets the company’s reputation speak for itself, because our clientele comes from word of mouth from the highest profile businesses in New Gilford and the surrounding areas.
The large man appears in the hallway and lifts his chin, turning back around. I follow him down the white hallway into a bright and open white kitchen with no wall on the backside, only a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a long outdoor pool and the surrounding forest.
He stops before the large white island, stepping aside to reveal a man in a black, button-down shirt, his chiseled features prominent and slightly hidden under a well-maintained beard and mustache. His dark eyes stare at me from beneath his furrowed brow. He stands behind the island with a burger in his hands and fries on a plate in front of him. His thick, dark, crew-cut hair is a bit longer on top and suits his facial hair.
He rests the burger on the plate and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, the one most visible, toward the corner of his mouth. His dark, smoldering stare stops me behind the large man, and I wait for someone to speak.
“Josephine Oliver here to see you, Mr. Tackman,” the large man says with levity to his tone.
Is he laughing?
“Thanks, Danes.” Tackman’s gravelly timber is warmer than I imagined his voice to sound.
Danes walks past me, back down the hallway, leaving us alone in the giant kitchen.
WWCLD?
She wouldn’t just stand here like this.
“Mr. Tackman,” I say in a loud voice, too loud, and walk across the room, extending my hand. “Nice to meet you.” I almost call him “sir,” but he’s closer to a contemporary than an elder, and it didn’t feel natural.
He smiles and shakes my hand with a polite but firm grip. Soft hands. Doesn’t work with them. “I hoped you’d be here at eleven-thirty, so excuse me, but I had to go ahead with lunch.”
“Oh, of course.” He drops my hand, and I wrap it back around the folder. “My apologies.”
“Did you miss the road in?” He cracks a charming smile.
I break into a genuine smile for the first time and nod.
“I picked the right place, then.” He picks up his burger again. “Nice and secluded.”
I nod, turning to the window wall, barely able to take my eyes off him, but the landscape captivates me once I do. Coniferous and deciduous trees of different kinds sprawl across the back of the property, creating a false sense of privacy.
Privacy. Right.
I turn back to him, and he’s staring at me. “Hungry?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine thank you.” So fine, I haven’t stopped smiling, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Well, I went ahead and made you one.”
He takes a bite of his burger, and I point to it. “Of those?”
He nods to the modern, white marble table where two settings are placed on opposite heads. A plate with a burger and fries sits at the far end. I follow him, stopping beside the chair until he extends his arm. “Take a seat.”
I sit across from him, and he follows, picking out a fry and biting it before setting his plate down and grabbing a napkin. He wipes his hands and stares at me.
“How did you hear about our services, Mr. Tackman?”
It’s what Cathrine asks on the colder calls, the ones where she doesn’t personally know the client. She sets up the interview from the beginning, evaluating the potential client to see if they’re the right fit for us.
But this time, it’s not about if he’s the right fit. It’s about signing him. My success and freedom from debt depend on it.
“Please,” he says, “eat.” He picks up another fry and takes a bite.
I do the same, taking a bite of the thick fry. The salt dances on my tongue, and my stomach grumbles. I hope he didn’t hear that—he didn’t seem to. I guess I was hungrier than I thought. I finish that fry and pick up another, popping it into my mouth, watching as he eats his burger and realizing he never answered my question.
Don’t seem too eager or talkative.
I pick up the burger and take a small bite. The bright zing of mustard hits my tongue, followed by garlic dill. Pickle. “Mmm.” My favourite.
“You like it?” He raises one eyebrow, and I nod. “I made it myself.”
I relax, smile, and take another, bigger bite. If anything, it’s not improper—it’s like a compliment. Dangerously toeing the line between class and mess, I take another bite. He smiles and watches me.
This is the weirdest client meeting I’ve ever attended, and the best at the same time if it weren’t for the fluttering feeling in my chest when he looks at me and all the pressure weighing heavily on me when I’m not distracted by him. A lump fills my throat as I realize, despite the delicious meal we’re sharing and his content disposition, I’m getting nowhere.
I swallow and try again. “You’re interested in our outdoor surveillance services and indoor monitoring system.”
“I am.” He takes a sip from a glass of water without taking his eyes off me or giving me anything more to go off of.
I sip from my water glass and wash the food from my mouth before speaking. “We can provide you with those services, Mr. Tackman, and may I suggest our interior cameras for the entrances as well?”
“You can suggest it.” He takes a bite of another fry. “But I was clear about what I’m interested in. It should be right in that folder of yours.”
I nod and stare down at the folder. That, and a lot of other information I didn’t get the chance to read.
But the contracts, they are what’s important. “I brought the contract here with all the particulars—”
“I wanted to meet with someone from your company because I need a more—personal touch—for my intents and purposes. I need assurances.” He wipes his hands with the napkin again and balls it up tight in one fist.
“What kind of assurances?”
“I’ve heard things about Locke Industries. You have a reputation for confidentiality, the best in the business, but I need to know, who is monitoring my video surveillance besides me?”
“That would be our security sector. They’re equipped with the technology to protect you and your assets with the fastest reaction time should an alarm be set off, anything suspicious occur on your property, or any other event that would require our security personnel to contact you and dispatch someone from our security sector straight away.”
“Not the police?”
“No, that is not our policy.” As I say it, his gaze seems to lighten. “We have a highly trained team in place to respond to any security issue on your property that should arise. We handle the needs of each individual client, and a contract has been drawn up for you, specifically, to serve your unique situation.”
“My situation?” His pitch rises at the end of the word, and he leans back in his chair.
Have I offended him?
WWCLD?
“It’s all in here.” I tap the folder. Cathrine never hands it to the client to sign. She makes them come to her. “All the needs you made our contact aware of are listed with a detailed plan for security installation, monitoring, and maintenance.
” I unzip the folder and rearrange the papers, setting both copies of the contract on the table. “It’s all here, and if any amendments need to be made, our legal department can draft them and send them over right now. We can sign digitally.”
He pushes his plate away and leans right back against the chair. “Is the surveillance video recorded?”
“You have that option, yes.”
“No,” he leans in over the table, staring from beneath his brow again, “do you record it?”
“Our company keeps our clients’ business confidential—”
He shakes his head and stands, stepping away from the chair. “Will your company have access to my recordings?”
“No.” I’ll tell him the same thing Cathrine always proudly assures our clients: “We do not keep recordings of the surveillance video. That’s up to the owner of the footage to keep or delete. To film or not. The control is always in the clients’ hands.”
And that’s why we’re the best. We stay out of people’s business, and we keep everyone else out of their business too.
He studies me, and his stare drifts off until he walks my way, slowly, with easy, confident steps, past the contracts, stopping beside me. “And the people watching the security footage. They’ve all signed confidentiality contracts?” We lock eyes, and his friendly warmth has disappeared. This is business Tackman.
He’s paranoid. What is he worried we’ll see in his footage of the property?
Keep him calm. Reassure him.
“Yes, of course. It’s standard procedure and all in the contract.” I rest my fingers on the pages but maintain eye contact, staring up into his dark chocolate brown eyes, getting a whiff of his cologne, woody and... citrus? Focus, Jo. “We sent a copy to your lawyer. Did they have any objections?”
He runs his fingers over his beard and picks up one copy of the contract, still looking at me.
No answer. I’ll take that as a no.
He holds it up beside him. “I’ve read the contract already. I’ve spoken to my lawyer.” He sets the contract down again, rests his fingers on it, and leans in toward me. Oak and vanilla? Delicious spice... “I wanted to meet with someone who could put my worries to bed. I’m wondering if you’re that person, Josephine.”
The Assistant's Secret Page 2