The Third Secret

by Tara Taylor Quinn

The place smelled like…home. Flowers and chocolate chip cookies. After showing her identification and signing in, Erin followed the directions she’d been given, walking down a hallway that reminded her of her college dormitory, to the numbered door she’d been told to knock on.

  A man wearing a khaki shirt and pants stood just outside the door. His hands were clasped, one over the other. He nodded as she approached but didn’t move.

  And she realized that Rick had someone guarding Steve’s room. Rick’s guard had already arrived.

  “I’m Erin Morgan,” she said. “Rick’s expecting me.”

  “Can I see some ID?”

  She’d just shown it at the front desk, but Erin pulled her weekend purse—little, black, embellished—from her shoulder a second time and produced her driver’s license.

  Surprised by the relief she felt when Rick Thomas opened the door, Erin worried that her smile was maybe a little too warm. Too familiar.

  It was just good to see him. Standing there in his jeans and flannel shirt.

  And not in jail.

  And then she saw the man just behind him, huddled up to her client, with his big hands on Rick’s back, peering over his shoulder.

  “Erin, this is Steve,” Rick said, not moving as she stood in the doorway, not stepping back to welcome her in.

  “Steve Miller?” she asked, looking directly into the other man’s eyes.

  “She knows my name.” The words took her aback, unusual because of the contrast between their childlike accusative tone and the deep, masculine voice.

  “I told her all about you,” Rick said. He reached behind him and held the other man’s hand. “I explained that, remember?”

  Steve nodded. Stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment, and then slowly appeared from behind Rick Thomas.

  The man was gorgeous. And had drool in the corner of his mouth as he gave her a wide grin.

  With an eye on Steve, who was sitting on the floor by the blaring television playing an interactive video game, Rick stood just inside Steve’s bedroom, facing his attorney.

  Jill had freshly baked brownies in the kitchen if he needed them to distract Steve. So far the game was working.

  As long as Steve could keep Rick in sight. Which was fine with Rick. He wanted Steve in sight, too.

  “Your guard got here quickly.” Erin started the conversation.

  He’d never seen her in anything but suits and much preferred them to the form-fitting jeans, black sweater and black heeled boots she was wearing this morning. She looked completely different. Too approachable, warm. Sexy. And beautiful.

  A distraction he couldn’t afford.

  “He’ll have twenty-four-hour surveillance until further notice.” Rick had confirmed the presence of the private security company on his payroll as of that morning.

  “Won’t that upset him?” She was watching Steve, but didn’t seem put off by him.

  “Not if he doesn’t realize the man is there because of him. As long as the guards don’t talk to him or upset his routine, he’ll be fine.”

  “I spoke to Sheriff Johnson. Halloway was here with his authorization at the request of the county attorney’s office.”

  The prosecutor was using Steve to try to build her case?

  “Steve’s protected by the same laws that protect underage children. He can’t be questioned without custodial consent.”

  “I know. The sheriff apologizes for that and wanted me to assure you that no one will be coming anywhere near Steve again. Halloway was only supposed to confirm Steve’s identity and verify that he actually lives here. He wasn’t supposed to speak with him.”

  Rick met her gaze. Held it. And saw more than he’d bargained for. He saw a person. Feelings.

  He also saw honesty.

  And that was why he’d had to see her rather than just speak with her on the phone.

  “Halloway—he’s going through some hard times. Sheriff Johnson’s been limiting his duties, but doesn’t want to make him go on leave because he needs the money. He’s used up all his vacation time and paid leave. He thought this morning’s assignment was a no-brainer. Truly.”

  Rick believed her. And, overall, the news was good.

  Great.

  Whoever was after him hadn’t found Steve. Christa Hart had traced him through the bail money.

  She didn’t know about Tom.

  Because she sure as hell wouldn’t need Steve if she did.

  He could handle having someone out to get him. Having someone after Steve was another matter entirely.

  “So…do you want me to press charges?”

  “What?”

  “Against the sheriff’s office? Did they upset Steve? Compromise him in any way? We can press charges….”

  “Hell, no.” Rick frowned at her. Steve’s name was not going on any court document. Until now, no one else, except for Sarge, had even known that Steve existed.

  “I can get an emergency injunction from the judge, kind of like a restraining order, until we can face them in court on Monday.”

  “Do you believe the sheriff’s assurance that Steve won’t be bothered again?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then that’s good enough for me. I just want them to leave us—me and Steve—alone.”

  “Done. I asked the sheriff about Paul Wagner, the husband of Cook’s lover. The guy hasn’t been home or shown up for work all week. His wife hasn’t heard from him. They’ve got an APB out on him and they’re in the process of getting a warrant for bank and credit card statements and phone bills.”

  Today was a good day, after all.

  Rick heard the downward spiral of music that signified the loss of a round in Steve’s game. Steve glanced at the two of them. Rick started to nod reassuringly, but Steve wasn’t looking at him.

  He was smiling.

  At Erin.

  And when he turned, Rick saw her smiling at Steve. That smile made Rick’s heart jolt in a way he didn’t recognize. He’d never seen anyone look at Steve with such softness. Such compassion. Such…acceptance.

  Jill cared about Steve. Angela and the others did, too. But Steve was a job to them. Always a job.

  It had to be that way or they wouldn’t be able to do their work.

  Rick understood that.

  He just hadn’t understood that there were other human elements Steve was missing by living in a place like Lakeside and associating only with caregivers and other mentally disabled people.

  “Can I go again, Ricky?”

  “Sure, sport.”

  With both hands already on the controls, Steve turned back to the game.

  Ricky. Erin held back tears. And swallowed.

  “If you aren’t going to press charges, I should go,” Erin said. She’d assumed she was there to get Rick’s signature so she could proceed with a complaint against the sheriff’s office.

  “Would you mind waiting just until he finishes this round? He’ll cry if he doesn’t get to say goodbye, and it’s easier if you don’t interrupt him once he’s focused.”

  “Especially if he’s doing well?” Erin asked, thinking of Noah’s brothers and their addiction to video games. She’d learned a lot about boys in the past five years as a member of the Fitzgerald family.

  “Yeah, he hates to lose.” She wasn’t sure what Rick’s pointed stare meant; his expressions changed through the course of conversations, but none of them gave much away.

  They moved into the sitting room and watched Steve’s game. The man was proficient. He made it through several levels, his tongue sticking out of his mouth the whole time, before he finally lost.

  And then, with the exuberance and short attention span of a young child, he flung away the controls and, standing, spun to face them.

  “Are you leaving?” he asked.

  “Yes. It was nice meeting you Steve.”

  “But…” His face started to crumple.

  “What is it, sport?” Rick asked, his voice kind, but without coddling.
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  “I didn’t get to be her friend. Only you did.”

  “Erin’s a busy lady, Steve. She has other people to see today and you and I are going to—”

  “Can’t she have lunch with us?” Steve interrupted. “Please? I thought she was going to have lunch with us. Can you?” He looked at Erin.

  “Well…I…” Erin glanced at Rick.

  “You told Jill we might have a guest for lunch,” Steve blurted. “That’s why she’s bringing it here, ’member, Ricky? Salads, you said, except I get a peanut butter sandwich, ’member?”

  Rick looked uncomfortable and Erin smiled. “Since it’s already been ordered, I’d be happy to stay for lunch,” she told Steve, hoping she wasn’t annoying her client. The truth was, she wanted to stay.

  Steve asked to play another video game and while they waited for lunch, Erin sat on the couch and watched as Rick and Steve raced cartoon cars over trails on the television screen. The expressions both men wore were concentrated, engaged.

  They were like two little boys sitting there.

  And were equally matched as they played.

  “Got you, Ricky!” Steve whooped when the round finished. And Erin laughed out loud.

  She’d never been in the room before that day, never met Steve before, and yet she felt as though she belonged. As though Rick and Steve were hers. As though she was at home.

  She felt that way for a split second. It was almost like…being in an alternate universe. Or experiencing a moment of insanity.

  Until she crashed back into reality.

  Yes, Rick was hers. Her client. And today, Steve had become a person of interest to her because her client needed her to help protect him from any of the fallout of Rick’s arrest and subsequent charges.

  That was all.

  By the time lunch arrived and they were seated, she and Rick on the couch leaning over the coffee table, and Steve on the floor, his food on the other side of the table, she had herself firmly in hand.

  “You gonna be our friend?” Steve asked, peanut butter from his sandwich smeared on his face.

  “I hope so,” Erin said when Rick didn’t speak up.

  “We’re best friends, huh, Ricky?”

  “That we are, sport,” Rick said, nodding at the other man. “Very best friends.” And then Rick turned to her as he continued. “I already told Erin that, didn’t I?” His look was expectant. Intense.

  “Yeah, you did,” she said, holding his gaze.

  Lunch was almost over and Rick had survived. As a matter of fact, sitting there in Steve’s room, with a guard outside the door and his attorney next to him, eating freshly prepared food and watching the smile on Steve’s face, Rick felt pretty good. As relaxed as he ever got.

  “You’re pretty,” Steve said. He’d been staring at Erin, but she didn’t seem to mind. Or seem the least bit uncomfortable with the attention.

  “Thank you.” She smiled again, an expression that seemed to convey personal caring. Warmth.

  “Your hair’s like that other lady,” Steve was saying.

  “What lady?” Erin glanced at Rick, her eyebrows raised, but he shook his head. Could be anyone from an actress on TV to the nurse giving flu shots a week earlier.

  “From before. When I lived with Dad. You remember her, huh, Ricky?” Steve’s nose wrinkled as he spoke to Rick.

  “I—”

  “’Member? You got all mad ’cause I told you my dad told me to take off my clothes and she liked my pee-pee and—”

  “Steve.” His voice wasn’t harsh. Or loud. But it brought immediate silence to the room. “I remember, buddy,” Rick said, his tone softening. “But nice guys don’t talk about certain things in front of women. You know that.”

  “Like pee-pees.”

  “Right.”

  Steve’s head dropped. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Steve.” Erin touched Steve’s hand on the table and Rick was…envious. “Rick said you grew up without a mom just like he did.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Me, too. I grew up without a mom. It was just me and my dad, so I got used to the way guys talk.”

  Rick wanted to know more. And needed to know less.

  Jill came to pick up Steve for the ice cream social they were having for all the residents of his hallway, and Rick watched as the guard he’d hired followed them down the hall. Steve jumped every second step.

  He was happy.

  Which was all Rick wanted or needed.

  “I really like him.” Erin’s voice reminded Rick that he had to get rid of her. Before Steve came back. He’d cry if he had to tell her goodbye.

  Even more than that, Rick had to get rid of her before he could spend any more time with her. Get to know her any better. Like her any more.

  But her purse was still inside the room. Rick followed her back in and stood, waiting for her to grab the bag and leave.

  “His dad abused him, didn’t he?”

  “Neglected him is more like it.”

  She was standing there, her forehead drawn, looking at him. Not grabbing her purse. Not leaving. “And the woman? The one he still remembers after all these years?”

  What would it hurt to tell her the truth? That was what she wanted from him. The truth.

  “She was his father’s girlfriend. It was while I was in the army. I came home on leave and knew something was wrong the second I saw Steve. He was twenty-four at the time. And as you can see, he’s a good-looking guy. At twenty-four even more so. His dad had him doing manual labor. Anyway, the two of them had been using him for a threesome.”

  “His own father?”

  “The old man didn’t do anything but watch.” Watched and laughed.

  And if he hadn’t had to keep himself out of jail to make money so he could get Steve away from that bastard, Rick would have killed him. Without remorse.

  “Did she have sex with Steve?”

  “Yeah. In every imaginable way.”

  “Oh, my God.” Arms crossed over her chest, she asked, “How was Steve with it all?”

  “He was Steve. Took it in stride because his dad was there. It wasn’t like he got any real pleasure out of it. Steve’s like any five-year-old kid.” Rick didn’t spare her, almost as though to punish her for her nosiness.

  Any other reason, like the fact that he’d never had anyone to talk to about such things before, was irrelevant, he told himself.

  “He can be stimulated, he can get it up, but that’s about as far as it goes. There’s no mental process to take him any further.”

  “So she used him and that was it.”

  “Pretty much.”

  The guy had wet dreams sometimes. But not often. Thank God. They upset the hell out of him.

  Rick felt he needed to wash his mouth out with soap, speaking to a woman of Erin’s caliber like this. It wasn’t anything he’d done before. Ever.

  “If Steve was twenty-four, that would make you twenty-two.”

  “Right.”

  “Which was when you left the army.”

  “I needed to make more money.”

  “To take care of Steve.”

  She was astute. “Yeah.”

  “What about his father? Is he still alive?”

  “Nope.” The bastard died right after Rick had made him sign over legal guardianship.

  “How’d he die?”

  “He was in the truck with my father and brother, just as drunk as my old man was when it hit that tree. He was the neighbor mentioned in the article. The one not named until next of kin could be notified.”

  “Right.”

  “Was your brother drunk, too?”

  “No.”

  Time for confession was done.

  22

  Chandler, Ohio

  Saturday, October 23, 2010

  Maggie and I were in her room, painting the walls, when my cell phone rang. For the past ten years, I’d welcomed my phone ringing on Saturday. Welcomed being needed.

  Now the intrusion made me
tense. I needed to answer the call. And I needed to spend uninterrupted time with my new daughter. Maggie deserved to come first with me.

  “You’d better get that,” the girl said, a blotch of butterscotch-colored paint on her cheek. She refilled her roller and continued covering the largest wall of the room that, by that night, would be butterscotch and off-white.

  Those four words—“You’d better get that”—were the first four words the girl had spoken since we’d opened the can of paint twenty minutes before.

  I’d chatted. She’d grunted.

  Politely. But still just grunted.

  I let the phone ring.

  “Maggie, you don’t have to live here, you know.”

  The girl turned, calm as always, but I was pretty sure I’d seen fear in her eyes. “If you want me to go, I understand.”

  My phone beeped, signifying that I’d just received a voice mail.

  “I don’t want you to go,” I said, standing there in sweats and a T-shirt. “I want to be your permanent guardian, just like we talked about. But not if you don’t want that, too.”

  The teenager looked me straight in the eye. “I do want that.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I’m…” She held her roller suspended, her expression less confident than I’d ever seen it, even during our counseling sessions in the weeks preceding her entry into my personal life.

  “You’re what?” I asked, but I was worried about the answer. I wasn’t making it as a mom. I knew that.

  “I’m… I don’t understand… I’m nothing, Dr. Chapman. A poor kid whose mother’s in prison.”

  “You are everything, Maggie,” I said, the words easily finding life. “You’re a living, breathing human being as worthy as the president of the United States of everything this world has to offer. You aren’t defined by your mother’s choices. You’re a product of her environment, but only inasmuch as you let it control you.”

  Maggie was listening. But I wasn’t reaching her. And I slowed down. Struggled to be what she needed me to be. A parent. Not a counselor. The biggest challenge of my life—one I cared about more than any other I’d ever faced—and I couldn’t seem to find my way.

  “What is it you don’t understand?” I finally asked, feeling about as desperate as she looked.