Keep No Secrets Page 2

  "What's the worst case you've ever been involved in?" she asks.

  He tries to read the meaning of the question. It's an innocent question; after all, her family didn't even live in Missouri back when the Barnard case—and then Jenny's case—was news. But still, he wonders how much she knows, if Michael has told her anything.

  "Um . . ." He takes a long time to answer. He can't think about the Barnard case without thinking about everything else that happened afterwards. Jenny charged with the murder of Maxine Shepard, a prominent client at the law firm where Jenny practiced law. Jack her alibi, because he happened to make the worst decision of his life on the same night Maxine was murdered. This fact set Jenny free, but it changed Jack's life forever.

  He shakes his head as if to dust the cobwebs away and tells Celeste about the Barnard case. "It was this case, a little girl named Cassia Barnard had been abducted and murdered. I mean, I've seen a lot of bad things happen to kids, but . . . I don't know . . . this one was harder for some reason."

  "Why?"

  "A lot of reasons, I guess. For one, we were pretty certain she suffered a lot.

  He'd raped her, really hurt her. Then he left her in the woods to freeze to death."

  Celeste winces. "But we didn't ask for the death penalty, and a lot of people thought we should have and were angry that we didn't. Angry at me. At the end of it all, I almost thought we should have, too, and I'm opposed to capital punishment.

  That's how bad it was."

  She looks down at her hands. "I'd like to do what you do, I think."

  "Really? Why?"

  "I don't know." She shrugs. "What you do makes a difference, you know?"

  Jack tenses, remembering a

  conversation between Claire, Jenny and his brother Mark, back when Jack was an assistant prosecutor. He was trying to decide whether to run for DA. The three of them had been discussing whether Jack should run despite his opposition to the death penalty. What had Jenny argued? To get into a position to make any difference, you sometimes have to compromise. The comment had made Claire mad, though she'd restrained her anger. He makes a difference now, she'd said. The conversation now seems as if it took place in another lifetime.

  Jack laughs a little, regretfully. "I did make a difference in that case, I guess. I'm just not too sure it was the difference people wanted."

  "But it seems like you really care about what you do," Celeste argues. She doesn't understand. Can't understand. "I don't think many adults care much about what they do."

  "Yeah," he agrees, softly. "I do care about what I do."

  They're both quiet for a moment, and then he asks, "Do you really mean it, that you'd like to be an attorney?"

  "Yes, but not the kind that sits at a desk all day. I'd like to be a prosecutor, like you, and be in a courtroom all the time."

  Jack grins, suppressing a laugh. He's about to tell her that even prosecutors often sit at a desk and some other types of attorneys also go to court, but then she adds, "I want to protect people."

  The statement gives him pause. He thinks again of the fear she expressed earlier. Maybe the two are unrelated, but his instinct tells him otherwise.

  And this is when he makes his second mistake. In that instant, almost without realizing it, he decides he's going to cover for her, just as she's asked.

  "Celeste?" Her big eyes look up at him.

  "If you mean what you say, don't make it harder on yourself, okay?"

  "What do you mean, Mr. H?"

  "College and law school are tough enough without a kid in tow."

  It takes her a minute, but then he sees it sink in. She's silent for a long time.

  Then, so softly he has to strain to hear her, she says, "Okay." She nods vehemently and says it again. "Okay."

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHEN JACK GETS home, Michael is

  flat on his back, asleep on the couch. The clock on the microwave in the kitchen announces that it's almost three a.m. Jack sits on the coffee table and studies Michael's sleeping face. It's one of the few times he sees it in a relaxed state, free of the pent-up anger Michael normally wears in his father's presence.

  Michael's eyelashes are unusually long.

  Both his and Jamie's are. Jamie still has the rounded cheeks of a baby, but Michael's face has grown strong and angular as he left childhood behind.

  Peach fuzz still covers his jaw and chin—

  it'll be a while before he needs to shave—

  but still, he's more man than child. Claire says he looks just like Jack; everyone says that, really. Michael chafes at the comparison.

  Jack wonders if Michael will ever let it go, if he'll ever forgive him. When Jack first moved back into the house—after a four month absence during which he hadn't seen his son but for one miserable Christmas visit—he tried to talk to him.

  Even Claire tried to talk to him. He claimed he wasn't mad, but anyone can see that he is. He carries his resentment like an invisible shield, always holding Jack at arm's length.

  For a brief moment, Jack considers waiting until morning, letting both of them get some sleep before they have this conversation, but he decides it shouldn't wait.

  He touches Michael's shoulder once, lightly, and then a second time, giving him a little shake. He can't remember the last time he touched his oldest son, and just thinking about it makes his throat tighten. Two more years and Michael will be gone. Jack resolves right then and there to start hugging him again whether he likes it or not.

  When Michael opens his eyes and sees him, he rolls to his side, giving Jack his back.

  "Michael, wake up. Sit up." He doesn't say it harshly.

  Reluctantly, Michael complies. He keeps his head down, though, his elbows resting on his thighs. He rubs his face with his hands.

  "I want to talk to you about tonight."

  Suddenly Michael jerks his head

  toward the clock in the kitchen as if he just remembered why he's sleeping on the couch and his father has a coat on.

  "Where have you been?" Michael asks, finally meeting Jack's eye. He says it as if he's the parent and Jack's the child.

  "I took Celeste home, remember?" Jack regards him warily. Maybe he hasn't slept off his buzz; maybe he's disoriented. He's been known to sleepwalk. Jack wonders now if he's even fully awake yet.

  Michael grunts and rolls his eyes. "She doesn't live in Wentzville."

  Jack leans back slightly, understanding now that, yeah, he's awake, and his comment was an accusation. Wentzville, on the opposite side of the Missouri river, is nowhere near their home in West County. The calming effect of the talk with Celeste in the car quickly begins to erode.

  "What's your point, Michael?"

  Michael lowers his eyes and doesn't respond. Maybe he's realizing he's already in enough trouble.

  "How much did you two drink

  tonight?" When Michael just shrugs, Jack adds, "You must have an idea."

  "I don't know, a few shots each, I guess." He still won't look at Jack.

  "What's 'a few?'"

  "Two or three."

  Jack is certain it was more. "Where'd you get it?"

  Michael is silent.

  "Were Jason's parents home?" Jack asks, trying another route.

  "Yeah, they were home." Jack is about to express disbelief that Jason's parents would let kids drink at their house—he knows these particular parents—when Michael adds, "We didn't drink it at Jason's house."

  Jack is silent. Michael understands he's waiting for more.

  "About six of us left early. We went on the trail. We built a fire and partied out there for a while."

  He's referring to one of the trails in the woods at the top of the street. The developer didn't raze that part of the land when he built the neighborhood because the bluffs in the middle made it

  impossible to build on. The bluffs split the woods into two, one upper level and one lower level, and the neighborhood kids have forged winding trails

  throughout, even
a treacherous one that leads from top to bottom and requires a hiker to hold onto tree trunks and boulders on the way down. By day, the young kids play hide and seek and ride their dirt bikes on the upper trails; at night the teenagers hang out on the lower level, out of sight and under cover of the noise of the bubbling creek that runs alongside the bottom trail.

  Michael knows he's not supposed to be there, but Jack has enough issues to deal with tonight to bust him for that, too.

  "Where'd you get the whiskey?" he asks again, coming back to the earlier question that Michael avoided.

  Michael fidgets on the couch. He's no longer looking down, but he's not looking at Jack, either. He stares into space.

  "Michael."

  "I'm not one of your frickin'

  witnesses," he mumbles.

  Fed up, Jack stands quickly. Michael flinches as if he's about to be hit. Jack has never hit either of his kids and he never would. Yet Michael believes, after what he's done tonight, Jack might.

  In the kitchen Jack throws his coat over a barstool. He turns on the small light over the stove and opens the cabinet where Claire keeps the liquor. He paws through the bottles—vodka, tequila, gin, the rum that she uses in recipes—most of them have been untouched for months, some even years. The only liquor Jack ever drinks, in the rare instances when he drinks something other than beer or wine, is Jack Daniel's. The bottle is gone.

  He turns back toward the family room.

  The kitchen and the family room form one big space, and the stove light allows Michael a clear shot of Jack.

  "What? You figured we'd never notice?

  Is that it?"

  "No. I just didn't really care."

  Jack is glad for the distance between them, because at that moment he feels as if he just might violate the "no hitting"

  policy. He wants to ask Michael if he knows how lucky he is, if he realizes how many fathers would break their sons' jaw if spoken to like that, or take a belt or worse to them. But he doesn't. Michael knows. No matter how much he provokes his father, he knows Jack would never lay a finger on him.

  "Well, I care." Jack returns to the family room and sits on the arm chair at the end of the couch. "And Mom will care. And she'll care even more about what's going on with Celeste." It might not matter to Michael what Jack thinks, but he most definitely cares about what Claire thinks.

  Michael laughs sarcastically. "Yeah, Mom will care. She's gonna want to know why it took almost two hours to take Celeste home."

  Celeste's resemblance to Jenny has never been directly acknowledged by any of them. Not by Jack. Not by Claire. Not by Michael. Michael's statement is the closest anyone has come to saying it out loud. If Jack takes the bait, if he tries to turn it back on Michael, match his sarcasm and ask "Why would you say that?", then he'll start down a road he's not sure he wants to travel—a road where there'd be no going back. But does Michael really think the resemblance between the two women—the woman

  and the girl—would cause Jack to do something even more stupid than what he's already done? Because if Michael really thinks this, if he honestly thinks his dad would mess with a sixteen-year-old girl, then Jack might as well give up now.

  "It took two hours because she begged me to give her time to sober up. She'd already texted her dad, told him your car had broken down and that she'd be late."

  "Oh, right. And you agreed?"

  Michael's skepticism is justified. Jack's still a little surprised that he agreed, too.

  "Yeah, I did. You know why? Because she was deathly afraid to arrive home even a little tipsy. It wasn't just that she didn't want to get yelled at or grounded.

  It was something more."

  Michael's shoulders relax slightly; he believes this. Maybe he knows what Celeste wouldn't tell.

  "Do you know why she's so afraid of her dad?"

  "He's really strict."

  "'Really strict' doesn't explain her panic when I told her I was going to talk to him. She's hiding something."

  Michael shrugs, looking down. If he knows, he's not telling, either. Does he think by keeping her secrets he's protecting her somehow?

  "Michael?" Jack speaks gently. It gets Michael's attention. "If he's hurting her somehow, it doesn't help her to keep silent."

  He shakes his head. "You're crazy, Dad. You think everything is evidence of child abuse." Despite the apparent insult, the anger has left his voice. "He's not hurting her."

  Either he believes what he's saying, or he's simply not giving anything away.

  "Okay, fine, he's not hurting her. But I felt like something was up, so I waited a while before taking her home. We had a good talk until she thought she was okay and could deal with him."

  "What did her dad say when you dropped her off?"

  "I didn't talk to him." Jack hesitates.

  "He thinks it was you dropping her off."

  "What?" It's difficult to tell if he's angry or just surprised by this, too. "I thought for sure you'd—"

  "Look, I hope it wasn't the wrong thing to do, but once I decided to cover for her . . ." Jack shakes his head, wondering all over again if she snookered him. Part of him doesn't think so; her fear was real. But deciding to go along with her story protected Michael, too; Jack is well aware of that. Is that why he so easily agreed to her request? "I don't know. It just seemed worse to talk to the man and have to lie outright to him, you know?

  Because it was either that, or tell him everything. And if my instincts are right and I did tell him everything . . . well, I didn't want to risk it."

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  Michael nods slightly. "Dad?" His voice is smaller, reminiscent of the little boy he used to be. "I'm sorry. I’m sorry we put you in this position."

  The tension in Jack's shoulders melts upon hearing Michael's apology. Despite how young he sounded when he made it, it's the most mature thing he's ever done.

  Jack stares at him for a long time, even though Michael can't bring himself to meet his eye. It's not just tonight's tension that begins to dissolve, but four years'

  worth.

  "Okay. I appreciate that. I do. But it doesn't let you off the hook."

  "I know."

  "I can't punish her, and maybe because of what I did she's getting off scot free, but you’re my son and I'm still

  responsible for what you do." Michael doesn't respond, just continues to nod—

  more with his eyes than his head—and listens. Jack breathes deep, not wanting to ask the next question. "Do you at least use birth control?"

  Michael shifts on the couch and pushes hair out of his face.

  "Oh, Jesus, Michael." It doesn't occur to Jack that, in his own moment of stupidity, he didn't think about birth control either. And really, the potential consequences were much more

  devastating. "What are you thinking?"

  "She says she can't, you know, because she's Catholic. But we make sure—"

  Jack grunts in disbelief. "Yeah?" he interrupts angrily. "Well, then she's also not supposed to be" —he almost says fucking around— "having sex, either, is she?" Jack can't believe he's having this conversation with his son. He can't believe Michael would let some girl convince him not to use birth control.

  "What about STDs? Did it ever occur to you that if she's sleeping with you, she might have slept with others?"

  The sound of creaking floorboards above their heads interrupts the

  conversation.

  "Jack?" Claire's sleepy voice floats down the stairs. "Is that you?"

  "Please don't tell her about Celeste, Dad," Michael whispers. "Please." His desperate tone is similar to Celeste's in the car.

  "Yeah, it's me and Michael."

  "Michael?" She flips on the hall light at the top of the stairs and starts down.

  "What's Michael doing up?"

  "Dad, please. Tell her about the drinking if you have to, but not about the other. Please."

  When Claire reaches the bottom, she's still fussing w
ith the tie of her robe. She stops when she sees them. "What's going on? Why are you guys down here so late?"

  Michael looks at Jack, wide-eyed and scared. Suddenly, he's eleven again. He'd been playing with a Nerf gun and had accidently knocked over a porcelain figurine heirloom of Claire's. There'd been some historical significance to it.

  Had it been snuck out of a European country by her ancestors during some war? Jack can't remember. But he knew how devastated she'd be. Even though Michael didn't fully grasp the importance of the heirloom, he understood it meant a lot to her. He became hysterical at the thought of her knowing what he'd done.

  Everything he did, every achievement, he did for his mother. He couldn't bear the thought of disappointing her. It broke Jack's heart, seeing his son so upset. He hadn't planned it, but when Claire walked into the room, asking "What's going on?"

  just as she did tonight, Jack stepped up and took the blame. Before Michael could confess, Jack claimed they'd been roughhousing and he'd been the guilty one. She didn't doubt his explanation; there was no reason to. She simply assumed Michael cried out of sympathy.

  Jack became Michael's partner in crime that day, and by extension, his hero.

  A little over a year later, he'd become Michael's villain.

  Jack turns to Claire. And this is when he makes his third mistake. "I heard him come in. He broke curfew," he glares at Michael, "by about three hours."

  Claire sinks into a chair. She holds her body close, her shoulders hunched a little, her hands in her lap, as if she's cold.

  "Where were you?" she asks Michael. For now, she's more confused and

  disappointed than angry.

  Michael hesitates. "I, um—"

  "He told me he had trouble with his car," Jack says, "but when I pressed for details, he finally admitted that after he and Celeste left Jason's party, they hung out on the trail with some friends for a few hours before he took her home."

  He sees the flicker of a question cross Claire's face as she takes in the fact that Jack is fully dressed.