“Nope. We’re good.”
I take a deep breath and let out my words on exhale. “Are you good?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, Joey.” Joey. When she calls me that, just like Andy, there’s an innocence about her and an affection toward me I can feel in her voice. “I am.”
“Okay.” I relax my shoulders. “Good. See you later.”
I hang up and crack my knuckles as I ride down the highway toward the sun as it dips ever closer to the horizon.
It’s the best I can do for Maggie for now. If I had the money to send her back to rehab, I would. She could stay another three months and see if she feels any stronger then. Any more prepared to face the real world and its real challenges so I can stop doing it on behalf of us both.
And now I can focus on the apology.
I turn on the radio, and the classical station plays a beautiful symphony. I try to clear my mind and focus on my gratitude for a second chance. For financial stability.
Orrick’s words ring in my mind. The client was upset but hopes I can assure him I’m trustworthy.
I have to prove I’m an asset. That I’m not threatening their security—Tackman’s or Locke Industries—in any way. It’s like I’m playing dead, and it’s not far off from how I feel.
I pull onto the dirt road once more, and a faint glimmer of hope lingers in the dust and dirt kicked up by the tires I leave behind me.
Maybe this will be the last time I have to come here.
Maybe I really can move on and up, like Orrick suggested, and maybe things aren’t as bad with the rest of the company as Katie and Billy made them seem.
I park behind the red Camaro once again, and as I approach the white front door. It opens, and Carver steps out onto the front path. I slow my step, and he speaks before I reach him.
“I’m sorry for the other day,” he mumbles quickly, staring somewhere past me down the driveway before turning around and walking back inside.
Real genuine.
I walk inside and close the door behind me as Carver approaches the study and knocks on the closed metal sliding door.
“She’s here,” he calls.
“You can do better than that,” Tackman calls back, an edge to his tone.
Carver’s shoulders droop, and he turns around to face me once again, running his fingers through his hair. He must do that when he’s nervous or feels guilty. “Seriously, I’m sorry for putting my hands on you the other day.”
I give him a blank stare. I can’t muster up the energy to accept an apology I still don’t believe. I have to save my energy for my own apology for something I really shouldn’t have to apologize for.
“Better,” Tackman calls.
Carver shoves his hands in his pockets and waits, as if I’ll say something, and when I don’t, he ambles down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The sliding door to the study opens, and Tackman stands there in worn jeans and a fitted black t-shirt, the most dressed down I’ve seen him, and nods to me. “Come in.”
I follow him and linger by the door. “Should I close it?”
He waves me off, and I stand in front of his desk as he rounds it, but before he can sit, a ringtone fills the room. He reaches into his pocket, checks the screen, and clicks a button so the noise stops before setting it on the desk and taking his seat. “Please.” He gestures to the wooden chair across from him.
I sit, crossing my feet by the ankles and take my purse off my shoulder, tucking it against my side and the chair.
Do it just like Orrick Locke said.
“Mr. Tackman, I apologize for the way I handled our business the other day.”
He frowns and seems to consider this for a moment before standing and pacing slowly behind his desk with his arms crossed.
He’s not buying it? I have to do a better job of selling it.
“I want to reassure you once again, I’m the right person for this job, and keeping your business confidential is of the utmost—”
His cell phone rings again, and as he peers over at it, his fists squeeze into balls as he stares, letting it ring.
“I’m sorry, did you want me to give you some privacy?”
He grabs the phone and holds down a button until it chimes.
Did he turn it off?
He clutches it while turning around and facing the front window. It’s getting dark out, and I squint to make out the tree line on either side of the driveway where he seems to be staring. The monitors can see everything outside with night vision, but I don’t even know where he had them installed after I left.
“Are you really sorry?” he asks, his back turned to me.
This is my last chance. If I can’t keep the client, I won’t be able to keep my job. I lose my job; I lose the apartment; I lose stability for Andy and Maggie.
I lose them—I lose everything.
“I’m very sorry for upsetting you or making you feel like you couldn’t trust me. This job is very important to me.” My voice shakes, and I try to control it, but it doesn’t help. “And I want to do whatever it takes to keep it.”
He runs his hand over the stubble of his chin and releases a huff of breath. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. We do. I do.” He turns to me, staring me straight in the eyes. “I’m sorry Carver grabbed you. He feels terrible about it, even if it doesn’t sound like it. He felt trapped, like there was nothing else he could do, and I know it’s not an excuse, but I’m sure you’ve felt like that at one point or another.” He knows I do right now. “I’m sorry I had to call Cathrine, but I needed to be reassured of the confidentiality we agreed upon after you left last time… And now, they’ve told you you had to come and apologize, and you did it, but it’s not for me. I won’t accept it because you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I don’t know if I understand.”
He shakes his head and walks back behind his desk. “There’s a lot you wouldn’t understand about my business, but if you take your obligation to my security seriously, we shouldn’t have any other problems.”
I nod and stand, facing him. “Understood.”
I turn to leave, and he steps out from behind the desk once again, stopping a foot away. He doesn’t speak, just stares at me.
“Is there something else?”
He rests his fingertips on the desk, leaning against them as he stares down at it. “Why did you come back?”
“I told you. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my job.”
“Do you think that might have been why you were given it?”
Cathrine knows how hard I work. That’s why she gave me the opportunity. But she knows about my family too—and my debts. She knows how desperate I am. Maybe he’s right. He knows more about me than I do about him, and I bet I know more about him than most already, with the guns, drugs, and hostages.
I bet no one else knows about that last one, besides Carver and Danes.
“Maybe,” I mutter. “I don’t know anymore, and it doesn’t matter.” He raises one eyebrow, and I continue. “I’ll do my job to the best of my ability. Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?”
He rubs the stubble on his chin again, considering the question. “That’ll be it. Unless there’s a security issue, you won’t have to come here again.”
He says it like he knows it’s some sort of consolation. He knows I just want far away from here, and he’s granting me some small relief, but he continues to stare, locking me in his gaze. He steps toward me, dragging his fingers across the desk until they fall away, and he’s so close, he could reach out and touch me.
“Don’t apologize to anyone anymore when you don’t mean it.” He licks his lips and shakes his head. “It’s a waste of breath, and it gives someone the upper hand on you, like you owe them something. Admitting when you’re wrong is fine, great even, but otherwise, you’re handing over your power.”
“Ha,” I laugh without meaning to, but when he looks at me, I keep the sad smile on my lips and shake my head.
“I know you’re doing what you need to do for your family, and it doesn’t bring me any pleasure to know the situation you’re in, but you’re not powerless.” He takes another step forward, and I smell his cologne again. “No more apologizing,” he says in a hushed tone, just above a whisper.
“Easy for you to say.” The words are out before I can stop them, but his expression doesn’t change. His eyes keep searching mine.
“Is it?” he whispers, “I just apologized to you, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” I let out a hiss of air with my “s” and avoid his gaze.
“Well, let me say it again: I’m sorry you’re in this position, and if I can help it…” He reaches out toward my hand. I keep it still, close to me as his finger grazes my wrist and glides down the rest of my hand, onto my pinky finger, lifting it slightly in one smooth motion. “I won’t put you in this position again.”
“Hey,” Carver calls from the door of the study, and we both turn around, his spell broken. He’s holding up a phone. “Call’s for you.”
“Tell them I’ll call them back.” Tackman lifts his brow, staring at him, still so close to me, I’m warm by his side.
“It’s Cami.” Carver leans against the door frame. “And she’s called me five times in the past five minutes. I thought you’d want to know.”
Cami. From the day before.
Anything I felt moments before washes away with her name as jealousy replaces it, and Tackman runs his hand over his chin. He steps away from me and joins Carver at the door, leaving me cold.
“See her to her car,” he says, and Carver nods as he hands him his cell phone.
Tackman looks down at it, turns back to me, and walks away. Just like that. He’s letting me go.
Carver leads me to the door, and I stop beside it. “I can see myself out.”
“No can do.” Carver opens the door.
I follow him out to my car, and he scans the front, stopping at my hood. I pass him and walk between the Camaro and him, around to the driver’s side as a cell phone rings. He takes his phone out of his pocket and presses it to his ear, his eyes still on me. “What?” he asks. “Yeah, fine. She’s just leaving.”
I open my door as he holds up a hand to me. Is he telling me to stop?
“Drive safe,” he says in a tone I’d almost call warm, and in reflex, I give him a small smile and nod to be polite.
Goodbye, Carver. For good.
He jogs back to the dark house, closing the door behind him.
Just as I’m about to duck in the car, I realize I’ve forgotten my purse.
As I scurry up the driveway to the door, a light in the foyer flicks on, and movement on the other side of the narrow window by the door catches my eye. In the bright foyer, Danes and Carver each bend and pick up the sides of a dark blue tarp with something wrapped inside.
On instinct, my body knows—it’s not something.
Someone.
Chapter Fourteen
Bloody Hands
I take a step back, still in view of the window, with the sense that whatever I’m seeing is wrong.
As they shuffle toward the door, an arm falls out of the blue tarp. A bloody arm, dripping down to a hand covered in blood.
A dead body. They’re carrying a dead body.
I cover my mouth and turn back, running to my car, panting as I reach it and stop, but I’m unable to catch a proper breath as my heart pulses in my ears. I duck inside, but I don’t have my keys.
They’re in my purse. In the study.
I stare at the front door in horror, covering my mouth once more, waiting for it to open. For them to come out and see I’m still here.
The garage light flickers on.
What do I do? I need my purse, my phone, or I can’t leave.
I have to go to the door and make some noise. Let them know I’m still here. If I wait too long, they’ll think something’s up. Why would I just be waiting out here without my keys?
Do I have a spare in the glovebox? I open it, and a bunch of napkins fall out onto the seat as the garage door slides open.
Now. I have to go now.
I step out of the car and walk calmly up the driveway toward the front door in the dark, as one of their black trucks backs out of the garage. Danes sits behind the wheel, does a double-take out his rearview mirror, and stops beside me.
A dead man’s right beside me.
As he rolls down the window, my stomach heaves, and I point to the house. “I forgot my purse.”
His face twists in confusion.
“My purse is in the house.”
He looks over at Carver and nods to him. Carver opens his door, hops out of the truck, and jogs past me. “I’ll get it.”
“Thanks!” I call out, far too kindly as he disappears into the house.
Danes scratches his chin and rests his arm on the window ledge, staring at me. “Goin’ home?”
I nod.
I have to get out of here.
Carver slams the front door behind him, my purse in his hand, and jogs to me.
“Thanks,” I say in a muted tone, grabbing it.
He jogs around the hood of the truck and back to the passenger’s side as I turn swiftly for my car.
I duck inside and close the door, and they’re still sitting there in the truck in the same spot. Every second I’m here is a second they could catch on to what I saw. Even if they’re a bit suspicious, they could trap me here like they did before. I could end up beside the dead man in the truck. The man wearing the dirty t-shirt from the other day.
Besides blood, the man in the tarp had tattoos covering his arms.
It was him. The hostage.
The hostage Tackman promised wouldn’t get hurt.
My stomach swirls as I put the car in reverse and back down the dark driveway. I turn over my shoulder to check behind me, but turning back, Danes is already backing the truck up.
I said nothing, and now a man is dead.
A hard lump in my throat forms as I pass the tree line and continue on to the road, and by the time I pull out, my mouth pools with saliva.
I’m going to be sick.
Danes pulls out after me and speeds down the road as I follow slowly behind them, my stomach churning. I roll down the window, slow the car down, and just as I pull over, a lump rises in my throat as I open the car door and brace myself against it while I’m sick.
I gasp for breath, turning back ahead to the road, but their truck keeps going further into the distance. Leaning back against my seat, I grab a napkin from the seat and wipe my mouth and chin, grabbing another and rubbing it over my hands until the slimy feeling is almost gone.
How could I let myself do this?
I gasp for breath again and slam my hand against the wheel.
They guilted me into this. Scared me into it. They all did.
I couldn’t really call the police, could I? No, because they’ll do what they did to Billy if I tell anyone what I know. I need to get out of here. I slam the door closed and drive ahead, rocking in my seat, forward and back against the seat over and over to ease away the pain and guilt building inside me.
What have I done? Why didn’t I call for help once I was out of there on Saturday? Why did I have to get Cathrine’s approval to do the right thing?
The silence against my own thoughts keeps me rocking until I reach the highway. I have to drown them out. I have to numb this feeling, or else I won’t be able to drive. I won’t be able to get home.
I turn on the radio, and classical music comes on.
I’m complicit in murder.
I turn the station back to a familiar hard rock channel and crank the volume of a song I recognize as I merge onto the highwa
y. I listen to the lyrics and cry as my thoughts scatter among the sounds of drums, guitar and the voice of a legendary rock singer whose name I can’t remember.
What was that man’s name? The dead man in the tarp. No one will ever know where he went.
I turn the music up more and sob, driving along the open highway until my head throbs in pain.
As I exit the highway and find my way back home, my eyes sting from my tears, and I feel like I’ll never take a real, full breath again. My chest won’t allow it, constricted and tight because my body is punishing me. It knows what I’ve done, and it won’t let me forget it.
I stumble from my car to the building and open the door, stepping inside and walking through the front entrance.
I’m going home to my family, but the man in the tarp will never go back to his.
The vibrating of my cell phone brings me back into focus, and I’m standing in the elevator, but I don’t remember walking to it, never mind getting in.
I reach into my purse and take it out. A reminder my rent is due soon.
A man lost his life so I could pay my rent.
Tears slide down my cheeks as I walk out of the elevator, down the hall, and into my apartment with the familiar sights of Andy’s homework magnetized to the fridge and smells of the herbal tea Maggie never stops drinking.
I can’t stop crying over everything, but I’m so thankful to be home where it’s safe.
I just want to curl up with Maggie and Andy. I want to wrap my arms around them. I want them to hold me. But if they knew what I didn’t do, what happened when my silence was bought, they wouldn’t want to hold me anymore.
I toss my purse and keys on the counter, shuffle toward my bedroom, but still, I’m drawn to theirs.
I don’t deserve it, but I need it. I need their comfort. I need to feel safe because I don’t anymore.
Stifling my cries, I open their door and walk in through the dark. I kick off my heels and slide into bed on the other side of Andy, sandwiching him between us.
My teeth chatter together as I drape my arm over him, and my fingers graze my sister’s bare arm. The touch of her skin and the smell of his hair gel ground me, and I nuzzle up against the cold pillow, a relief for my eyes and cheeks.
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