The Assistant's Secret

by Emerald O'Brien

  She has nothing to gain with me from her flattery and kindness. If she’s being genuine, it’ll make me feel so much better about that first impression I’d be agonizing over later. Maybe it wasn’t so bad having an audience.

  I grab one of the rungs of the metal gate and ease some of the weight off my heels, still beaming through the pain.

  John makes his way toward us, stopping at the gate and staring at me. He has sweet, round features that will likely sharpen like his father’s as he grows older.

  “Liv,” he says, “can we go back inside now? I want to tell Dad that I finally beat that new level.”

  “Sure.” She pats his head. “I should get back inside. It was so nice to meet you. I hope we’ll cross paths again.” She steps back but stops. “Oh, and...good luck working for The Lockes. It sounds like we both may need it.”

  “Thanks for keeping me company.” A sadness coats my tone. “I’ve worked at Locke Industries for three years, and this is the first time I’ve been to their home. I’m really not sure if I’ll see you again, but if I don’t, if my opinion’s worth anything, I think John’s lucky to have someone nice like you looking after him. It takes a village. I hope they see the value you bring to their family.”

  Olivia gives me a slight smile before walking back up toward the house, catching up with John.

  I wish I was going with them, into the house, feeling part of it all.

  Orrick wanted me to go in, but Cathrine didn’t. This is her fault.

  Cathrine.

  Oh, no.

  Dread washes over me as I remember why she had me here in the first place. I was supposed to call when Orrick arrived.

  I scramble for my phone from my purse and hover my finger over her name.

  If Orrick’s already in there, I’ll look so stupid, and how could he not be inside already? I’m so late.

  I tap her name and press the phone to my ear as it trills several times before sending me to her full voicemail service.

  I can’t go in, could I? No, not at the risk of making her more upset. I screwed something so simple up.

  Pacing the fence, I see the black town car before I even hear it.

  All I can do is apologize, and what’s the worst that can happen? Orrick came in, and someone else let her know he was there? No one let her know, and he walked up to her without warning? It’s not even that bad.

  The gate opens, and the car pulls through, stopping in front of me. I open the door, and my cheeks are hot as I slide inside beside Cathrine.

  Such a rookie mistake.

  “Ms. Locke, I apologize for not alerting you when Mr. Locke arrived.”

  “Not now,” she says, her timbre sharp as a whip.

  Humiliation rolls over me, followed by the familiar heavy tingle of dread. I’ll have to wait to discuss this with her. She’s punishing me by keeping me in suspense.

  As we roll forward, the black van drives behind us. Maybe they got everything finished, then. Maybe she’s not even that upset.

  After the short drive back to work, the driver pulls up to the curb, and an eerie silence fills the back of the car.

  “I can’t believe it.” Cathrine whispers, shaking her head, and raises her voice. “I don’t have to tell you how disappointed I am in you, do I?”

  “No, Ms. Locke.”

  “I brought you and had you stay at the gate because I thought I could trust you.”

  The disappointment weighs on me like dirt on a grave, the one I’ve dug for myself. I swallow back tears and muster up the courage to speak. “I’m sorry—”

  “You want to show me you’re sorry? You build back my trust by taking care of your client. You never let anything like that happen again. You want to be treated like a respected businesswoman? Show me you can think like one, behave like one. No one respects a fool, Josephine.”

  The words burn through me as she exits the car, and I scramble to follow her. Philip opens the door for her, and she walks through without acknowledging him, pressing her phone to her ear.

  “I’m back… No,” she says, and suddenly, I feel like I’m following too close behind her. That she doesn’t even realize I’ve left the car yet. “If she can’t handle this, how could she possibly handle a client installation? Or anything, for that matter.” She strides by the deskman as he nods to her, but she ignores him. “I was wrong, Fern, and you know how rare the occasion is I’ll admit that.”

  I stop at the desk as the conversation turns to something else.

  The installation. I need to be there in an hour.

  Chapter Seven

  Broken Glass

  Clouds roll across the dark gray sky over Copperfield as I make the turn down the dirt road, past the tree line, merging onto Tackman’s driveway. Both black trucks and the Camaro are here once more, and I park behind them.

  Tackman. Danes. The tall guy.

  An Escalade sits parked on the other side of the driveway, and a black van with the Locke Industries logo on the side is parked in front of the garage.

  The technicians are early. I’m early. Perfect. One less thing to worry about.

  Danes stands by the white front door, and I nod to the technicians, holding up a finger as I pass them. “Hi guys. Just a moment.”

  “Sure thing,” one of the men says. “Ready when you are.”

  “Good afternoon.” I stop several feet in front of Danes. “We’re here for the security installation.”

  His face seems softer today, less threatening. “You guys can go ahead and start.”

  “I need to know where Mr. Tackman would like the monitors set up inside.”

  He frowns. “It doesn’t say in the contract?”

  “No, we leave that up to the homeowner to decide. We can set up them up wherever he wants.” I know the one place he won’t want them.

  “Do you need to know now?” He purses his lips and stares me down.

  “No. They’ll install the security cameras first—”

  “Then you can wait. He’ll be out to see you.”

  Waiting outside again. It’s been my place my whole life. Why would I expect it to change because of a promotion? The important thing is the money. I’m here making the money we need.

  “Fine.” I wave to technicians and call, “You can begin the installation, and then give me a call when you’re ready to set up the monitors, please.”

  The man who spoke before nods to me. I think he’s on most of Cathrine’s clients’ installations and service calls, but I’ve never formally met him. They open the back doors of the van, ready to unload their equipment. “Josephine Oliver.” I extend my hand, and the man shakes it with a smile.

  “Casey. Nice to officially meet you.”

  “You too. How long should this take?”

  “One hour,” he says. “Not a minute more.”

  “Great, thank you, Casey.”

  I turn back to Danes as he walks toward me, and I take a step back.

  He smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll be with them.” He points to the men.

  I guess he’s the manager of this installation. Maybe it’s better this way. I could just sit in my car until Tackman wants to see me.

  “Mr. Danes, this is Casey, our lead technician.”

  Casey shakes his hand as the front door opens and someone shouts something from inside. Danes swivels around, his sharp reflexes faster than I’d have guessed for his size.

  “Cami, wait.”

  Is that Tackman’s voice? It’s hoarse, and as I turn, a woman strides toward me. Her long, dark hair flies in the breeze she’s created behind her. I step out of her way as she rushes to the black Escalade. Tackman rushes out the door in jeans and a leather jacket over a crisp white t-shirt.

  He turns to me, and his harsh expression twists into confusion or surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting to see me. Or more like wasn’t expecting me to see whatever this is.

  He passes me and calls to her again, “Stop.”

  Both technicians stare, and Danes
sighs. When he catches me staring, he squints at me. “Best you wait inside now.”

  I follow him to the house as I hear the woman, Cami, shouting something about he has no right, or it’s not his place, and Tackman’s unable to get a word in.

  Danes opens the door for me, and I walk inside, expecting him to follow, but he only leans in. “Carver,” he shouts. “Security lady’s here. I’ll be outside. Wait with her.”

  Which more likely means watch the security lady.

  When did I become “lady”?

  “Yeah, fine!” Someone shouts from down the hallway, and Danes shuts the front door behind him.

  I turn around and peer out one of the long glass windows beside the door, squinting to make out Tackman and Cami’s figures near the Escalade. She’s dressed in jeans and a tight tank top, with heels much higher than mine. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but she’s jabbing her finger in his direction, and he keeps shaking his head.

  Danes follows the technicians around the other side of the house. I guess they’ll begin in the back to give them privacy.

  Who is Cami? His girlfriend?

  “You’re back.”

  I jump, clutching the fabric of my blouse at my chest, and turn around.

  The tall, lean man from yesterday stands right behind me, staring at me. No, past me, outside.

  Carver.

  “He know you’re here?”

  “I’m waiting to see where he wants the monitors, and he may have some questions for me.”

  I don’t know why else he’d insist I be here if one of his men is already watching over the technicians.

  Carver purses his big lips and nods, running his hands through his long, golden blond hair. “He’ll probably want them in his study.” He turns to the emerald green room behind the metal sliding door. “Actually, maybe the—never mind. He’ll tell you once he comes back. You want to follow me?”

  I follow him, past the study, down the hallway, past the room filled with guns and drugs as my stomach tenses, toward the kitchen.

  I won’t have to be back here again for a long time, if ever, and the thought settles my twisted stomach.

  Just focus. Please the client; please Cathrine.

  Carver grabs the broom leaning against the kitchen island and sweeps at clear, broken shards of glass on the white tile, the bristles dragging through a clear liquid.

  “You can have a seat or whatever.” He clutches the broom with both hands. “But be careful of the glass. There’s a broken one over there too.” He uses the broom to point to the table. Shattered glass with pink lipstick on a large piece of it lays scattered around the leg closest to the head of the table.

  Cami was wearing pink lipstick, wasn’t she?

  So, they fought, and it got heated. That much seems clear.

  The technicians appear around the back with Danes close behind. They set their ladder up against the wall, pointing to the roof. Carver takes one look at them before he continues to sweep at the glass, making a big mess of the liquid.

  It smells strong and reminds me of Cathrine’s office on Fridays.

  Vodka martinis.

  I clear my throat and break the awkward silence. “You should pick the glass up and then mop the rest.”

  He cocks his head to the side and raises his pierced brow as he turns to me. “You want me to tell you how to do your job?”

  “No,” I huff. “I didn’t know you were the custodian, though.”

  He smirks and scowls at me, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or offended.

  “You don’t need to know anything, Ma’am.” He shakes his head and continues to sweep. “Just chill out and wait.”

  Believe me, I’m trying. I want to get this done as soon as possible.

  Once I’m finished with this, I can try to get another client, and the bonus could cover the debt even sooner than planned.

  “You’re not going to sit?”

  My feet are killing me, but I’m too antsy. “I don’t want to step on glass.”

  He purses his lips. “Fair enough.”

  “Could I use the washroom, please?”

  He sighs and rests the broom handle against the island counter again. “Come on.”

  I follow him through the hallway once again, through the foyer, into the seating room, and down another long hallway with a narrow floor-to-ceiling window at the end. “That door there,” he points. “Then come right back.”

  The washroom has a beautiful, simple layout, and it’s as big as my bedroom. All white tiles, sink, counter, and towels. I bet this washroom never even gets used. I finish my business, and as I walk out into the hallway, Danes stands on the other side of the long window, watching one of the technicians set up another ladder.

  There won’t be a piece of property Tackman won’t be able to see if they do their job right.

  Danes notices me, and I turn away, back down the hallway and through the seating room to the foyer. I sneak a glance out the window by the door again, and I can’t see anyone, but the Escalade’s still out there. Tinted windows. Maybe they’re inside.

  I walk past the study again. A thud comes from the other side of the wall, and I stop. I take a few steps back and scan the study. It’s empty. Is Tackman back inside?

  I peer down the hallway, and Carver’s back is turned to me. His whistle echoes in the kitchen and carries down the long hallway as he sweeps up the glass. I step into the study and scan all the books. Encyclopedias on one shelf. Leather-bound books without writing on the spines on another.

  A thud comes from the other side of the room.

  Close to the desk.

  I walk around it, Carver’s faint whistle still carrying down the hallway, and listen near the bookshelf. Is it one of those trap ones?

  Another thud comes from somewhere close. Somewhere below me?

  It’s from the basement. Maybe a laundry room?

  “What are you doing in here?”

  I turn on my heel as Carver lingers in the doorway. “I thought I heard something.”

  He frowns and rolls his eyes. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Uh huh, okay, let’s go.” He waves for me to follow him to the kitchen, taking out his phone and typing something on it before shoving it in his pocket.

  A thud comes from below us again, and he stops before the kitchen, turning to me, his eyes wide with shock. “Go outside, now.” He pulls out his cell phone and pushes me along with him toward the front door as he presses it to his ear. “Danes, get in here now,” he says behind me.

  A pounding from the direction of the seating room startles me, and I stumble, reaching out for the front doorknob, checking over my shoulder.

  A man with pale skin in a wrinkled, dirty t-shirt with black and white tattoos covering his arms, skirts out of the hallway toward the foyer and stops, staring at Carver. Carver pulls a gun out from behind him, aiming it at the man.

  I scream, yanking the door open. I need to get out.

  Danes stands on the other side, scowling at me. “Get inside,” he shouts and pushes past me, slamming the door shut behind him.

  I turn around and back up against the window by the door. The man in the dirty shirt remains frozen with his hands in the air, red scratches and rashes on both his wrists.

  “Take him back down,” Carver says, keeping the gun aimed at the man.

  Danes approaches him and as he blocks the line of sight from the gun, the man tries to run. Danes takes a few steps, reaches out, and grabs the back of his shirt. The man almost trips, but Danes grabs his arm, yanking it behind his back and tugging his hand up toward his neck. The man cries out in pain as Danes guides him back down the hallway. Carver walks across the foyer with his gun, following them.

  What the hell is this? I try to move, but I can barely turn to the door. I twist the knob.

  “Hey,” Carver shouts from behind me.

  I freeze, shaking, scared his gun is now aimed at the back of me.

  “
I have to check on the technicians.” My voice shakes, and I press my lips together as tears pool in my eyes.

  Please let me go.

  “We sent them off on a break until Tackman’s ready for them,” Carver says.

  No. I’m alone?

  The work van is gone. The black Escalade is gone too.

  “I have to get something from my car.” I open the door.

  He grabs my wrist and pulls me back in.

  I stumble on my heels as he shouts, “You have to get back inside, now.”

  Anxiety erupts within me.

  It’s now or never.

  I jab my sharp elbow against his chest and pull my hand out of his while he gasps in shock. I make it to the door again, but he grabs both my arms and hauls me into the house, right off my feet.

  My stomach and vision swirl as the door slams behind us.

  Chapter Eight

  Quiet

  “Put me down,” I shriek, kicking to gain traction, hit him, connect with the ground—anything to stop it.

  He stumbles back to the middle of the foyer, and I kick my heels right off as his grip loosens.

  What’s he going to do to me?

  “Stop,” another voice commands, calm and even, from the hallway.

  Tackman.

  Carver sets me down, and I stumble with my bare feet against the cold tile, catching my footing, gasping for breath. Carver reaches out for me, and I swat him away, turning to Tackman standing in the hallway as Danes shuffles up from the other hallway across from us.

  I’m stuck in the middle, trapped between them with tears in my eyes.

  What’s happening? Who was that man in the dirty shirt?

  I feel powerless, embarrassed, my heels strewn across the foyer and tears spilling down my hot cheeks. They all just stare at me.

  “He grabbed me,” I huff and push my hair from my face, wiping my cheeks as I stare at Tackman.

  He remains stoic and turns to Carver. I take a step away from Carver, keeping my eye on him too.

  “She saw some things she shouldn’t have.” His voice is defeated, and he stares at the ground in front of him.