The Third Secret

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “Do you mind if I ask a question?” Erin said. She should have all the details, just in case. And to be prepared for anything that might come up later, during Clyde and Laura Jane’s upcoming trial in divorce court. But she also just wanted to know…

  “’Course not. You’re my lawyer. Ain’t you s’posed to ask?”

  “Is there another woman?”

  Clyde’s wrinkled face was impassive as he looked her in the eye. “No, ma’am, never has been.”

  Erin sincerely hoped that someday that would change.

  “To infinity and beyond!” Sitting upright on the sleeper sofa in Steve’s two-room apartment, Rick stared at the large-screen television he’d purchased for Steve the year before.

  It was dark out. Past nine. He really should go. But the weight of Steve’s head against his shoulder as Steve slept, worn out and happy from their day, was not an unpleasant thing. Somehow that pressure, Steve’s presence, put everything else in perspective.

  Funny how it had taken him a tough and finished career and thirty-some years of living to figure that out.

  “You! Are! A! Toy! You aren’t the real Buzz Lightyear! You’re—you’re an action figure…”

  You had to love Woody. He had things in perspective, too. Maybe that was why A Toy Story was Steve’s favorite movie. They’d watched it so often, Woody’s and Buzz’s words often played in Rick’s mind, obliterating the other messages there. Lord knew he could recite the entire script in his sleep. It was actually kind of…relaxing.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were still here.” Angela Markham, the night caregiver in Steve Miller’s nonmedical assisted-living wing, poked her head in. “I saw the TV flashing through the window and thought he’d fallen asleep with it on again.”

  “I’ll get him into bed before I leave,” Rick assured her. Angela was only in her twenties, but Rick had confidence in her.

  Which was more than he could say about some of Steve’s other caregivers over the years.

  “I worry more about you than I do about your friend here,” the frizzy-haired young woman said, nodding her head to punctuate the words in a way that reminded him of a teacher he’d had in grade school. “You spend far too much time in this place.”

  “He might be just my childhood friend, but he’s still my responsibility.”

  “And you’re a young man. You need to get a life.”

  Rick almost chuckled. Almost. If only she knew. He’d already lived more lifetimes than he had a right to. “I’m thirty-seven years old,” he told her. “I’ve been around.”

  “It’s none of my business,” Angela said, backing out the door, “but I want you to know that you don’t have to worry about him. If you need to take some time for yourself, go on vacation or something, we’ll take good of care of him for you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “He’ll still be here, still be…Steve…when you get back.”

  Because there was never going to be any improvement. Steve was who he was—exactly who he’d been since he’d climbed up on that roof thirty-four years ago, trying to rescue three-year-old Rick, who’d run away from him.

  Did Angela—did any of them—think he didn’t know that? Did they think he was hoping for some change? Did they think he spent all this time with Steve because he was hoping that someday Steve would come back, whole once again?

  “Steve isn’t a burden to me, Angela.” He felt compelled to speak tonight, where he would normally be silent. “The time I spend with him is all the vacation I could need, or want.”

  It wasn’t hard to read the pity in the other woman’s eyes as she pulled the unlocked door shut behind her.

  But he didn’t take it personally. She didn’t get it. Didn’t understand him. She was just like everyone else.

  And Rick was fine with that.

  3

  “So what do you think? Should I tell Mom and Dad that I got the scholarship? Or do I just let it go?”

  Sitting in her house on a cliff overlooking Lake Michigan, wearing the sweats she’d changed into after work, Erin studied the beautiful young woman on the couch beside her. Caylee Fitzgerald was the youngest of nine children in the close-knit Irish-American Fitzgerald family. Noah had been the firstborn, Caylee’s oldest brother.

  He’d also been Erin’s college sweetheart, her lover for several years and her fiancé for six brief months.

  “You’ve been awarded a full scholarship to Yale?” Erin repeated what she’d just been told, smiling at the girl who was the closest thing to a baby sister she had—while she scrambled for the right words to answer Caylee’s question.

  “I know. I can’t believe it, either.” Caylee grinned back. Her attempt to contain her excitement was starting to fail. “I mean, I applied, but I didn’t think I had a snowball’s chance in hell. I’m from Temple, Michigan! Welfare and redneck capital of the world. Who’s even heard of this place?”

  “Hey, Temple’s a great town! With the lake, it’s like a resort.”

  “Like a resort if you could access the lake from here.” Caylee snorted. “You have to drive forty-five minutes to Ludington to be able to do that.”

  Not everyone had to jump right into the middle of something to appreciate it, or be blessed by it. Though she’d never touched a drop of its water, the lake was one of Erin’s closest companions. Every single time she woke up in the dark of night, Lake Michigan was there, splashing against the rocks down below, reminding Erin that she had sources of strength outside herself. And when she couldn’t fall back to sleep, or couldn’t find peace on a lazy afternoon, she’d gaze out at those waters and see boats sailing assuredly in the distance—or maybe just see the lights bobbing out there—and it was as if she and the lake shared a secret.

  The lake was filled with life. Many kinds of life. And filled with answers, too. Answers about what was real and what wasn’t, about what was permanent and what would prove to be merely ephemeral.

  “Besides,” she finally added, “they don’t give full academic scholarships to Yale based on where you grew up. Those are based on merit.”

  Caylee’s expression, while still sparkling with excitement, had sobered considerably, the girl’s amber hair and green eyes an exquisite complement to her creamy, freckle-free complexion. Erin tried to find a resemblance to Noah. His image was fading now. Where once Caylee had reminded Erin of him, now, when she looked at the young woman, all she saw was Caylee. “So what should I do?”

  You have to go. The obvious answer sprang to Erin’s mind. But she didn’t voice it.

  “What about Daniel?” Caylee’s boyfriend since ninth grade. A boy who, like Erin, had become as full-fledged a member of the Fitzgerald family as was possible without actually being born into it.

  “He doesn’t even know I applied,” Caylee said. “Honestly, Erin, I didn’t think anything would come of it. I was just in a mood the day the counselor visited school and I filled out the forms. But that was it. I’d forgotten all about it until they called me up to the guidance office today.”

  “What do you suppose Daniel would say if he knew?”

  “He wouldn’t understand. He thinks we’re getting married as soon as we graduate. He’s going to work for his dad full-time at the farm and wants to build us a place out there. His dad already told him he’d give us the land. Eventually the farm will be ours and Grady’s. We were going to tell Mom and Dad on Mother’s Day. We thought it would make the day a little easier for Mom.”

  It had been more than four years since Noah’s death, but time had not healed Patricia Fitzgerald’s grief. From what everyone said, the woman was a shell of the person she used to be, though Erin hadn’t met her long enough before Noah’s death to know that for herself.

  There was an immeasurable weight adding to Caylee’s dilemma. Her leaving town could very well be another nail in her mother’s coffin.

  “Does Grady know his father’s dividing the farm between the two brothers?”

  Grady, older than Da
niel by two years, had been working full-time at the family dairy business since he’d graduated from high school.

  “Yeah. He suggested it.”

  “Engleman’s Dairy is hugely successful,” Erin offered. “You could do a lot worse.”

  “I know.” Caylee didn’t look happy. “And I love Daniel, so much. I’m absolutely certain there’ll never be anyone else for me but him.”

  Erin left Caylee with her seventeen-year-old wisdom on that one.

  “But?” she had to ask.

  “But I…I feel so trapped in this town. Been there, done that. The thought of spending the rest of my life here, never experiencing more out of life than Temple, Michigan, and having to drive forty-five minutes to get to the nearest mall… Knowing only these same people all my life and doing exactly what I’ve been doing since I was born— It scares me, Erin. Like why am I even alive if this is all there is?”

  Erin wanted to remind the girl about having babies, raising a family, loving her soul mate, having him beside her every single day—but couldn’t.

  “You said you applied on a lark. Do you really want to go to Yale? Or is this just hard because it’s a free ride out of town and something a lot of people would give anything to have?”

  “Oh, I want to go. More than anything. I wanted to go when I applied. Studying at Yale has always been my dream. But I never, for one second, really figured I’d have a chance. It’s one of those things you fantasize about, like owning a yacht or finding a cure for cancer, you know?”

  Caylee was so mature for her age, and so young, too. Such a contrast between owning a yacht and curing cancer. But she didn’t point that out.

  “You’ve got your answer,” she said instead.

  Caylee’s brow creased. “I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “Think about everything you just told me, and you’ll know.” Erin’s father’s words came back to her. She couldn’t even remember the question she’d brought him during that visit, but she’d never forgotten the words, or the earnest look on her father’s face as he’d gazed at her through the Plexiglas at the Illinois prison visiting booth.

  Never forgotten, either, the sincerity in the apology that had followed.

  It had been the last time she’d seen him alive.

  After a few minutes of silence, Caylee’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t know, Erin. I keep going around in circles. How can something so great be so wrong at the same time? How can the happiest day of my life be something I can’t tell anyone about? Except you, of course.”

  With a sigh, Erin squeezed her hands into fists and wished she had the wisdom everyone seemed to think she had. “Life isn’t easy, Caylee. Choices, answers, they aren’t always clear-cut. And sometimes the best choice is the hardest one to make.”

  “If I go it’ll kill Mom.”

  “You aren’t responsible for your mom.”

  “I know that. But I can’t just think of myself, either.”

  “No, but her inability to let Noah go, to move on with her life, is her issue. Her challenge. And, in a sense, her choice. That might sound harsh, like I don’t care, but you know I do care, very much. And what I said is true. Noah’s gone. You can’t sacrifice your life because of that. Then there’ll be two lives lost. Besides, he’d be really pissed if he knew that’s what you were doing.”

  “So I should go?”

  “I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is that you can’t live other people’s lives. Not Daniel’s. Not your mother’s. If you try, you’re going to end up half-alive.”

  Please, don’t let me be making a mistake.

  “But I love them.”

  “Of course you do. And you want to spend your life with them and that’s a great thing, but you still have to be you, or what do you really have to give them?”

  “So what should I do?”

  “What do you think you should do?”

  Caylee’s grin was weak, but genuine. “You sound like a shrink.”

  “You’re a wise young woman, Caylee. Impressively wise. If you slow down, get outside yourself for a second so you can see the whole picture, you’ll know what to do.”

  With her head bowed, her thumbs playing some kind of game with each other, Caylee held Erin’s gaze.

  “I have to talk to them,” she finally said, conviction growing in her voice. “If they’re going to be part of my life, if I’m going to be wholly in theirs, then they have to know about the scholarship.”

  Erin nodded.

  “And they have to be part of the decision,” Caylee added. “One way or the other.”

  Not quite the angle Erin would’ve taken, but assuming Patricia Fitzgerald and Daniel loved Caylee enough, Noah’s little sister would be on her way to Yale this fall. Considering how much it meant to the girl, anything else would be criminal.

  Most of the drive up the coast from Steve’s place back to Temple was state highway—the two-lane kind that wound through the dark, wood-lined landscape with no signs, no homes, no lights.

  The kind of road that was like Rick’s life.

  That thought crossed his mind and went on its way as he made the trip back Thursday night. Rick was who he was. Steve’s guardian.

  He had everything he needed or wanted. Peace. Enough money. And proximity to Steve. He owned his own home—a small place that had been trashed and in foreclosure, which allowed Rick to pick it up for half its original value. He’d paid cash for it. He’d fixed it up exactly as he wanted it.

  Not that he had to rush home. He could’ve spent the night on the sleeper sofa in Steve’s apartment. That was why he’d bought that particular couch. But Steve cried whenever Rick left—unless he left when the older man was down for the night.

  The tears didn’t last long, or so he’d been told, but he hated being the cause of them. Why upset Steve’s generally happy morning routine just because he was a little tired for the drive back to his place?

  What a hell of a day this had been. Charles gone. Death didn’t usually faze Rick a whole lot. It wasn’t something he feared. Or thought much about.

  But finding Charles that morning…in Temple. It didn’t figure.

  Who would want the man dead? And why? Charles was as close to under-the-radar boring as any man could be. A nice guy. But completely ordinary.

  It didn’t make sense.

  Which made Rick’s instincts crawl.

  Overactive instincts, he reminded himself, his foot on the brake, arms holding the wheel steady as a deer bolted into the road.

  If the four-legged creature had a death wish, he’d just missed having it granted.

  Rick’s hands still firm on the wheel, his nerves as steady as ever, he drove on. And was just nearing town when he noticed headlights pulling out of some trees behind him.

  Depending on how quickly investigations happened in this town where shoplifting was big news, and on how quickly a crime scene was released, Rick might not be able to work the next day. In which case, he could’ve slept on Steve’s couch. And saved himself this late-night trip.

  The lights kept pace behind him and, as Rick sped up, maintained the same distance. He slowed.

  And the car, a dark-colored sedan, slowed.

  Was someone following him?

  Turning before he’d intended to, Rick watched for the lights. And slowed when the car followed him around the corner.

  In another time and place he’d have pulled a couple of fast ones and lost the guy. But that was then.

  This was now, and if someone had business with him, he’d just as soon get it over with outside of town.

  Still, his good mood diminished as the other car pulled off the road after him. Why would anyone here have business with him? He was a nothing handyman in small-town America.

  Rick saw a man emerge and begin to approach him. The man had taken only a couple of steps when Rick placed him.

  Huey Johnson. The county sheriff. Rick had seen him only that morning. And a co
uple of other times at the local tavern when Rick had stopped in for dinner.

  Huey knew where Rick lived. And, after that morning at EMA, had his cell number, too.

  Why not just call? Or stop by?

  Opening his door, Rick slid out, meeting Huey at the bumper of his pickup.

  “Huey? What’s up?”

  Out of uniform, the other man was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt under a half-zipped quilted vest. And a frown. He had his badge out. And a gun strapped to his hip.

  “Rick Thomas?”

  “Yeah.” Rick frowned, too. What the hell was going on? This morning at the crime scene, Huey had slapped him on the back and thanked him for his help.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Charles Cook. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law….”

  You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you…

  Rick’s brain recited the words silently, in unison with the sheriff.

  Huey’s voice faded and Rick faced him, quiet and unmoving.

  “Turn around and put your hands up on the truck.” Huey’s command wasn’t the least bit friendly.

  Rick turned, lifted his hands and then swung his head back toward the officer. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  He was under arrest? Here? For Charles’s murder? There had to be more to it than that.

  “I just told you. Now get ’em up.”

  Rick complied, mostly to buy himself time to catch up with the situation. He’d let his guard down. The day with Steve. The deserted road and quiet drive…

  “I didn’t kill Charles,” he said, staring at the ground between his outstretched arms as Huey patted him down.

  He’d been with Steve so he wasn’t packing. Thank God for small favors.

  “Evidence says you did.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Arms behind your back.”

  Mind racing, Rick followed orders. For the time being. Until he knew more.

  He gritted his teeth at the weight of steel clasped around his wrists, and he heard the familiar click of the handcuffs closing down on his skin—a repeat performance he could have done without.