The Assistant's Secret

by Emerald O'Brien

  “Yeah,” he says, “the last time I took Sandy out, they were leaving with a man.”

  “A man?” Maggie’s date. She’s introduced him to Andy already? Even as a friend, that’s so careless. What is she thinking?

  “Yeah, tall fella.”

  The breath deflates from my lungs. “Tall?” I choke out. Something doesn’t sit right.

  Carver? No.

  “Was he blond? Shaggy haircut?”

  He nods, stepping into the elevator.

  How?

  “Did she get in a black truck with him?”

  “Oh, I can’t say. I was coming up as they were making their way down.”

  “Did they look distressed? Scared?”

  He shrugs as the elevator door closes over, and I race back to my apartment, unlock the door and rush to the table, grabbing my phone. I dial Maggie’s number, and it goes straight to voicemail.

  I could be wrong. It could be someone else. But all the hairs on my arms are up.

  They know. They know I went into the room and saw the hostage. I break into cold sweats, clutching my cell phone, my heart in my throat.

  Tackman threatened this. He said if I didn’t mind my business and keep his secrets, he knew where I lived, with my family.

  My phone vibrates in my hand.

  Tackman’s number, still unassigned to a name in my phone. I answer, pressing it to my ear, my heart thudding fast and heavy.

  “I’m texting you an address,” he says in a cold, removed tone. “Meet me there.”

  “My family,” I blurt out. I could be wrong. I want to be wrong. I can’t give myself up. If he didn’t know, he’d have no reason to hurt them.

  “They’re with me.”

  “Why?” I blurt out, covering my mouth with my hand.

  I have to think first before I speak. These are killers.

  “Meet me at the address. Right now. Come alone.”

  “Please,” I whisper, but he’s already hung up.

  I grab my purse and run out the door without locking it behind me, take six flights of stairs two by two, and practically stumble out the door. I get in my car and add the address to the GPS on my phone.

  It’s a building I don’t recognize in the rough side of New Gilford. A bad part of town. Is the building shut down? Did he take them to an abandoned building?

  I wish I’d found the gun by now. That I had any other way of protecting myself.

  They’ll kill a man, but would they hurt a woman? A child?

  The broken glass with pink lipstick in the kitchen flashes through my memory as I drive out of the lot in the direction my GPS points me.

  The bloody, tattooed arm from beneath the tarp.

  How does Tackman know what I’ve done?

  His key card. He knew it was missing, and he did something. He checked and found out somehow.

  After almost half an hour of driving, I turn onto the street, guided by my GPS, and pass a large field with a rundown playground full of children playing on it, and I tear up.

  Andy. He’s got to be so scared. He doesn’t deserve this.

  I’ve done this to him. He’s in danger because of me.

  I pass the park and pull into the lot of the brick building down the road with no sign out front, but a red Camaro by the backlot. I park and jump out of the car with my keys in hand, scanning the lot for anyone.

  The front door to the building by the road opens, and Tackman steps out in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, staring at me. The doors close behind him, and he stops, waiting for me. I can barely breathe as I rush across the lot, stopping just out of arm’s reach.

  I should have let someone know where I am—but I have no one.

  Maggie and Andy. They’re all I have. I can’t let anything happen to them.

  “Where are they?” I blurt out, tears clouding my vision as I turn from him to the building.

  “Walk with me.” He strides in front of the building on the dirty boulevard by the street I just drove in from.

  Is he going to push me in front of a car? Will Danes or Carver drive by and abduct me?

  I walk behind him slowly, my heart thudding in my ears, scanning the area for cars as we approach the corner of the building. He turns the corner and walks around to the other side of the building lined with a few dumpsters and stops in front of a metal door.

  The distant laughter of children in the park could fade as we walk through that door, and the screams of my sister and nephew could replace them—unless they’ve been gagged like Alexander in the white room.

  I picture them like that, stopping several feet away from Tackman.

  He faces me, his calm demeanor taunting me.

  “Where are they?” I can’t conceal the edge to my voice anymore.

  “I did some thinking after last night.” He shoves his hands in his jean pockets. “After you opened up to me.”

  I look past him at the metal door.

  Once we go inside the building, I might not come out alive.

  Over my shoulder, all the women watch their children from benches and picnic tables. The urge to scream for help overcomes me.

  “Don’t,” he says, and I turn back to his intense gaze. He’s read my mind, and if I’m not careful, he’ll hypnotize me into letting my guard down like he has before. “Listen to me carefully. You opened up to me, and I know that was difficult for you. It was for me too. Being vulnerable has certain drawbacks, doesn’t it?”

  I stare up at him, tears sliding down my cheeks.

  “Don’t move,” he says in a soft, low tone, his gravely timbre warm once more. “ Just stay with me...but turn around.”

  I inhale a deep, shuddering breath and turn around, muffling my cries with my hand over my mouth, pressing my fingers against my lips. What’s going to happen to me?

  He steps up behind me, and I feel the warm shield of his body as he extends his arm by my side and points over my shoulder at the park.

  I follow his finger and see my sister first, laughing and talking with a few other women by an old, rundown picnic table. Then I hear it. Andy’s laughter. He’s one of the children running across the field with a kite in his hands.

  They’re safe. Happy.

  My chest heaves as I turn back to him and sputter, “I don’t understand.”

  “I know you’re struggling—that your sister is struggling—so I wanted to bring her to a group I work closely with. Recovering addicts who are mothers, mothers of addicts here and gone, supporting each other. It’s a weekly meeting.”

  I shake my head, and he stops. “What?” Is this really why he called me here? “Why didn’t you tell me about it? Why would you scare me?” This doesn’t feel right. “No, they wouldn’t have just gone with Carver.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Tackman says, and Carver walks from the broken chain-link fence around the field by the road toward us.

  He was watching them, my sister and Andy. He waves to Maggie, and she waves back with a smile.

  As he gets closer, an anger burns from within.

  She wouldn’t go somewhere with a stranger. Not even if they said they knew me.

  Carver is the new man she’s dating.

  They’ve set this whole thing up, and Maggie has no idea who this man is because I’ve been lying to her. Because I haven’t listened to her.

  “How could you?” I shout as Carver reaches us, glancing at Tackman before stopping before me. “You’re pretending to like her?” I spit. “Set it up so she thinks you met by chance, but really, you were spying on me? Keeping tabs on me. Getting closer to her to use her.” And hurt me.

  Carver shakes his head, but Tackman holds his hand up. “Carver already knew your sister.”

  “What? How?” The world is spinning before me, feeling like it’s about to close in.

  “Maggie came into my life on New Year’s Day.” Carver’s chest heaves.

  I hate how he says her name. She’s my sister. “She’s not your pawn!”

  How? How could they
know each other? What do they have in common, living almost an hour away?

  Drugs. She O.D’d for the last time around New Years.

  “Were you her dealer?” I hiss, my whole body shaking, searching for any small movement in his face as confirmation. That stupid thing he does, fussing with his hair when he’s nervous or guilty.

  Tackman steps between us. “I didn’t know she was your sister until Cathrine assigned you to the contract and I did a background check.”

  I hold up my hand to him and turn to Carver. “Were you her dealer?”

  If he says yes, I’ll attack him right here for what he did to her.

  If he says no, how can I believe him?

  “I wasn’t her dealer,” Carver huffs, already tired of defending himself, but we’ve just gotten started.

  I shake my head in disbelief, and Tackman steps between us again, blocking my view of Carver.

  “What is this?” I shout, stepping back so I can see them both. “Why are you doing this? How dare you use my sister when I’ve done nothing—” My words get stuck in my throat, and I heave, trying to catch my breath as tears burn my cheeks. “Haven't you done enough? Don’t you already have enough on me?”

  Carver shakes his head. “We aren’t using your sister. You are. You use her as a crutch, an excuse for why you don’t have what you want in life—”

  “Enough.” Tackman turns to him. “Carver, you can go. Wait for them and take them back home.”

  “No.” I step toward him, but Carver’s already walking toward the field again and doesn’t turn back. I turn to Tackman. “I’m taking them home.”

  Tackman runs his fingers over his beard, and his chest heaves as he stares down at me. “I brought you here because I wanted to help you. Not scare you.”

  “How does he know her?” I shift my weight from foot to foot, my toes digging further into the tips of my heels, but I feel no pain—or all of it—and it doesn’t matter. “Tell me right now.”

  “The last time your sister O.D.’d, he’s the one who brought her to the hospital.”

  I scoff. “What?”

  “Her on-again, off-again boyfriend, baby daddy, whatever he is, he left her, and Carver came across her while we were doing our rounds and took her to the hospital.”

  “Rounds?” I scoff, trying to keep all the new information at bay because the timelines are lining up, and it’s all possible, but it still doesn’t make sense. I can’t accept that it was a coincidence. Not with these men.

  “We bring warm clothes to the homeless and less fortunate in the winter, and that’s when he found her.”

  I give him a dirty look. “You’re drug and arms dealers, murderers, and you want me to believe you do charity work during the day?”

  He shakes his head and rubs his hands over his chin. “I’m not a good guy. I do what I can for my community. And you can believe what you want.”

  “What’s the point in helping your community if you hurt them too?”

  “I protect them.”

  “From what?”

  “Sometimes each other. Sometimes from outsiders, gangs, new dealers wanting to claim this as their territory. Sometimes from themselves. After my brother passed away, I wanted to do something that honours him. I want to protect my community in a way I could never help him. That’s why I started that group with my mother, for my mother, after Nico died.” He nods to the park, and I turn, watching Andy show Maggie something on his kite.

  I turn back to him, and his eyes are glossy with tears.

  Nico. His brother.

  So, what, Tackman’s this bad guy who has a heart? He’s a killer with a conscience? He can threaten people, hold them hostage in his house, have them killed, and then run a community group? Hand out warm clothes to the homeless? Rescue women who’ve overdosed?

  “And now,” he takes a step closer to me, “I want to help you.”

  The wood and citrus fragrance washes over me, and I remember our night by the pool. The tequila. How we opened up to each other.

  And the man in the white room, tied up, scared for his life.

  Tackman decides who he wants to hurt and who he wants to help.

  Who he wants to release the true, primal wolf in him to, and who he can be a sweet puppy for.

  “Why me?” I spit. Why am I both of those kinds of people to him?

  He just stares down at me, his eyes searching mine.

  “Leave my sister and nephew alone.” I turn back to the park.

  “Josie.” The way he says my name, like he knows me well, like he’s desperate for me, makes me want to step back, into his arms.

  “What?” I ask with my back still to him.

  “Your debt to the rehab facility has been paid.”

  My jaw goes slack, and I twist around, staring at him, wide-eyed. “Is this a joke? Are you playing games with me again?”

  He shakes his head. “You can check. It’s all paid off.”

  I believe him, but, “Why?”

  “Because I can.” He lifts his chin, and the golden light of the sunset screens his skin a golden brown.

  Standing there like a hero, like I asked for a handout, when he’s a cold-blooded killer.

  “I told you from the start,” I clench my jaw, “I don’t want your money.”

  “Well, it’s done.” He shrugs and smiles at me with his eyes.

  The anger boils inside me for the debt I wasn’t able to handle on my own. For the way they’ve inserted themselves into my life, my business. For the way he pretends to care, but really, he’s buying my silence. Why? He has the gun with my prints.

  He’s half the cause of all my troubles. He’s the bad guy.

  And if he’s not—I don’t know who he is at all—and that scares me.

  I need to know.

  “Who killed that man?” My chin quivers as the breeze sweeps my hair across my face. From beneath it, I watch him press his lips together and stare past me, to the park.

  I push the hair from my face, and he’s staring at me, his eyes finding mine and burning through me. “Who killed that man in your house?” I raise my voice, and he grabs my arms, tucking them into his chest, still looking past me.

  I weep in his arms, so scared of the answer, but I need to know. There’s a chance it wasn’t him. There’s a chance I could believe in him. Trust him. “Who killed the man in the tarp—”

  “I did,” he says, his voice soft, his face hard.

  I push away from him and step back, shocked at his admittance.

  He’s no safe place.

  He’s a wolf in wolves’ clothing, and I’ve been looking for a sheep like an idiot since that night at the pool.

  “Your good deeds can’t save you,” I mutter as I walk past him and march away, back to my car, and as soon as I jump in and slam the door behind me, I burst into tears.

  He paid that debt, I know it, and the relief washes over me in heavy waves of guilt, and shame, and disbelief.

  It’s not my burden anymore. But I didn’t pay for it.

  The debt collectors will stop calling. But because of a killer with ulterior motives.

  And the realization of Carver’s words washes over me.

  Who am I, if not a martyr? Who am I now without that burden of debt, twisting me into the person I’ve become? The woman I can barely stand to be.

  Carver saved Maggie? Because of him, I have a chance with her? How is this possible? And they knew about that connection. They’ve known since the beginning.

  What would they have done if I’d told the police about the drugs and guns?

  About the body.

  I can’t trust them, but the swirling emotions inside me are a nameless confusion, a battle within myself to understand and accept what’s happened.

  And what do I do now?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  What You Deserve

  When Andy bursts through the door, I stand from the kitchen table. He runs into my arms for a big hug and smiles up at me. “I flew a kite t
oday!”

  “That’s great.” I rub his back before he lets me go and grabs a drink from the fridge.

  “Sorry I’m a bit late. I went to a meeting.”

  I nod.

  “No really, I did.” She pushes her curly hair from her face.

  “I believe you.” I smile and nod again as she studies my face.

  I’ve decided I won’t tell her what I know. That I can’t tell her anything that’s been going on, but we can talk about us. I don’t want secrets between us and people, dangerous people, weaseling their way between us, into our family’s life. She needs to feel like she can be open with me, and I have to do the same.

  Thinking something could have happened to them today pushed me over the edge.

  She sets her purse down, and I approach her with open arms, hugging her. She hugs me back and lets out a gentle laugh.

  “We haven’t done this since… I don’t know when,” she whispers.

  I pull away with an awkward grin. “And I’m sorry for that.”

  “Andy,” she turns to him, “would you go work on your kite in our room until dinner?”

  “I’m making a kite!” he says, waiting for my reaction.

  “Awesome, Andy. You learned how to make a kite?”

  “Nope. I’m teaching myself.” He wanders back toward their room.

  “I’ll help later,” Maggie calls.

  After he disappears into the room, we sit opposite each other at the round kitchen table. My nerves are shot from the afternoon, and the calm of being debt-free has already changed the way I live.

  No debt collectors calling. No worries about my next paycheck being swallowed whole by a debt payment.

  And a future, unburdened by the past, that I can’t even picture yet—that I don’t want to picture without having Maggie to dream it up with me—right there within reach.

  “So,” she says, her finger tracing the knots in the wood of the tabletop. “You wanted to talk.”

  “I wanted to apologize.”

  She frowns but lets me continue.

  “Since you’ve been back, better, I’ve been very controlling. Judgmental.”

  “Angry,” she says, and I nod. “And you have every right to be.”

  I sigh. “But I don’t want to be.”