Dirty Secrets (3 page)

She’d held back the tears until that moment, but smelling his woodsy cologne was somehow worse than everything else. The dam had broken then and Will’s sweater became a crying rag. Kate had raced to her side and held her through the torrent and when the weeping had passed, Kate pressed a hot cloth to her face and popped aspirin down her throat to take the edge off the resulting headache. But the headache was long gone now, in its place a . . . peace, a relief she’d long seen in the clients she’d counseled over the years as they too had come to grips with their loss, with having to refind their place in the world without that special person.

Kate gripped her hand and squeezed hard. “But you needed to do it, Emma. I couldn’t stand watching you hide any longer. This is your home. You need to live here, not in hotels or in New York. You needed to grieve.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Emma said thoughtfully, fixing her gaze out the attic window where snowflakes were silently falling. “I know you think I hadn’t grieved Will because I wouldn’t come home.” She shrugged. “I didn’t think I had either. But I did, in my own way. Every time I went to bed alone in a strange hotel, I missed him. Every time his favorite show came on TV or I heard one of his favorite songs on the radio, I missed him. But every day it got a little easier. Eventually, I stopped reaching for him in the night. I stopped listening for him to call my name in a crowd. Friday night was the first time I’d slept in our bed since he died. And . . .” She drew a breath. “I missed him. But it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”

Kate’s eyes were shiny. “I’m sorry, Em.”

“So am I.” She sighed and crawled back to the box of books she’d been cataloging. “I found the newspaper clippings, by the way. Clever, hiding them in with the bag of peanut M&M’s you brought with you.”

Kate bit her lip. “I was half-hoping you would find them and half-hoping you wouldn’t. I didn’t know if you’d kept up with the case.”

Emma stared down in the box of books, controlling a sudden rush of grief and helpless rage. “I checked the
Post
online every day from wherever I was. And the detective called when the trial started.” The trial of the nineteen-year-old that had walked into a convenience store with a loaded gun and changed her life forever. “I was ready to come back if they needed me to testify, but the store video gave the police all the evidence they needed. The police were really wonderful. They faxed a letter to me when I was in LA last year. It was from the mother of the little boy Will pushed out of the way.” Will had saved the child, putting himself in the path of the robber’s bullet instead. Emma’s voice softened, trembled. “The mother was . . . very grateful.”

“She testified,” Kate said quietly. “The mother, that is. She was a very convincing eyewitness. She had the jury in tears when she told how Will saved her little boy.”

Emma blinked at Kate. “You went to the trial?”

“Every damn day. I figured it was the least I could do for you.”

Emma’s eyes stung. “Oh, Kate.”

“I cheered when they sentenced the bastard to life without parole,” Kate said forcefully. “He’ll never touch anyone else.”

“Which is justice, but small consolation.” Emma pulled Will’s books from the box, needing to change the subject before she started crying again. “I wonder how much the used bookstore would pay for these?”

Kate’s eyes narrowed, but she went along with the subject change. “Not much. You might do better to donate them to the library or to the Salvation Army along with his clothes.” She scooted to another pile of boxes. “What’s all this?”

Emma cocked her head. “No idea. Open it and see.”

Kate ripped the tape off the box flaps and laughed out loud. “Lookee here. It’s your old high school yearbooks. This one’s from 1989.”

Emma groaned. “My junior year.”

“What was your maiden name?”

“Kate, please . . . Oh, hell. You’ll pester me until I tell you. It was Wilson.”

Kate flipped pages and let out another laugh. “Look at you. Your glasses were bigger than your whole face. Here, look.”

“I don’t want to.” Emma shuddered. “I remember keenly. I was a nerd.”

“You were not. You were cute. What’s this?” Kate waved a folded sheet of paper.

Emma glanced up from yet another box of Will’s books. “I have no idea. Read it.”

“Oh my,” Kate murmured. “Oh my, oh my. Emma, you never told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That you’d had a torrid romance in high school.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “Because I didn’t. Will was the first man I ever dated and I didn’t meet him till college. What is that?”

“It fell out of the yearbook.” Kate waggled her brows. “It starts with `Emma, my love’ and ends with “All my love, Christopher.’”

Emma carefully put down the book she’d pulled from the box. “Excuse me? Did you say
Christopher
?”

“I certainly did. ‘Emma, mi querida.’” Kate looked up, her eyes twinkling. “That means ‘my love.’”

“I took six years of Spanish in junior high and high school, so I know what ‘mi querida’ means,” Emma said impatiently. “What else does it say?”

“‘I’ve sat next to you for two years and only now have the courage to tell you what’s in my heart. We danced last night and for the first time my dreams became real.’”

Emma closed her eyes, remembering both Christopher Walker and that one dance. “It was our junior prom and we’d gone together. As friends.”

Kate hummed. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s true. That’s what I thought at first anyway. But that night he asked me to dance and . . . I wondered.” Emma bit her lower lip. “He was my best guy-friend. We were lab partners in chemistry and we took Spanish together, too. Our seats were always assigned next to each other, since both our names started with W. He broke up with his girlfriend the week before the prom and I’d never had a boyfriend, so we decided to go together.”

Kate tapped his yearbook photo. “He’s cute with all that curly brown hair. Nice eyes, too. Kind of skinny, though.”

“He was six feet tall and all arms and legs,” Emma said fondly, then paused and frowned. “Well, is there more, or does he stop there?”

Kate blinked. “You mean you’ve really never seen this letter? Holy Moses. Okay. Here’s the rest. `When I held you in my arms I let myself hope that you might feel the same way. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but if you let yourself, you might find we have more in common than you realize.’” Kate lowered the letter, brows raised. “You argued with him?”

“About everything. World politics, movies, football . . . Sometimes I’d stand on a chair to argue with him nose to nose. I never knew . . . never dreamed he felt that way.”

“I’d say that’s a given.” Kate shook the notebook paper dramatically. “But there’s more. `I think we could have something special. I love your mind and your heart. But above all else I treasure your friendship. I haven’t said anything before now because I’ve been terrified I’d lose you. If friends is all you want us to be, then that will have to be enough. If you say nothing, I’ll know you just want to stay friends. But if you want more, I’ll be waiting. All my love, Christopher.’” Kate let out a breath. “Oh my, oh my.”

Emma clasped her hand to her heart, felt it beating hard. “Oh, Kate, I never said a word. I must have hurt him so badly. How could I have missed this letter?”

“It fell out of two pages that were stuck together. Emma, you look like I hit you.”

“I should be hit. Kate, I broke his heart.”

“I’m sure he’s recovered by now,” Kate said wryly. “It’s been seventeen years.”

Emma shook her head, her thoughts spinning. “You don’t understand, Kate. I sat next to him in Spanish class the next year. I never said a word and after a few weeks, he dropped the class. Said he wanted to take band. Play the trombone of all things. He must have been so mad at me.”

“Emma, this was another lifetime ago. You can’t change this.”

Emma frowned, picked up Will’s old college book. “
This
was another lifetime ago, Kate.
This
is what I can’t change. I can’t bring Will back. But I can change how Christopher feels. How he remembers me and himself. I can’t go on letting him think he was rejected all those years ago, or worse, that I was too cruel to acknowledge his feelings. Hell, I thought I felt a spark when we danced that one time, but I was so inexperienced, I didn’t know how to pursue it. And when he dropped Spanish, I thought it was because I’d danced too close that night. I compulsed about it for weeks.”

“You? Compulsing about something? Say it isn’t so.”

“This is serious, Kate. I have to do something about this.”

Kate looked worried. “Like what? Find him?”

“Maybe.” Emma sat up straighter. “Maybe I will.”

Kate also sat up straighter and bumped her head on the attic roof. “Bad idea, Em,” she said, rubbing her head. “Really, really bad idea. Maybe he’s married. You don’t want to barge in on his marriage. Old flames make current wives very mad. Trust me.”

“Then I’ll hire a private detective to find out. If he’s married, I’ll leave it alone. If he’s not, I’ll have the detective ask him to call me. If he does, great. If not . . . well, the decision will be in his hands this time.”

“Em, this is your grief talking. Don’t do this.”

“Maybe it is my grief. All I know is that I feel something besides lonely for the first time in a year. As luck would have it, what I feel is shame. I broke a boy’s heart and I never even knew. Look, Kate, what harm could it possibly do to have a private detective poke around? God knows I can afford it. Between Will’s life insurance and royalties on
Bite-Sized
, I have more money than I’ll ever need.”

Kate sighed. “If he’s married, you walk away. Promise me, Em.”

Emma raised three fingers. “Promise. Scout’s Honor.”

* * *

St. Pete, Monday, February 22, 2:40 p.m.

Detective Wes Harris hung up the phone with a thoughtful frown.

“Well?” His captain perched on the edge of Harris’s desk. “Walker must have had something pretty important to tell you. He’s left five messages since nine a.m.”

“He said that they’d had a break-in last month. Some samples were destroyed that belonged to the Roberts kid. Apparently the female grad student, Tanya Meyer, had her ID stolen. That’s how the vandals got in the lab.”

“Coincidence?” Captain Thomas asked.

Harris shrugged. “Maybe. Unlikely.”

“Walker? What about him?”

“He’s got a solid alibi. Besides, my gut says he didn’t do it. I was there when he told the mother. He cried right along with her and if it wasn’t genuine, the Professor deserves an Oscar. His grad students I’m not so sure about. On one hand, they’d know how not to goof the cyanide concentrations of the stomach and cup. But then again, they might have purposely made the mistake thinking it would shield them from suspicion. I’ll watch them.”

“Any video cameras around?”

Harris sighed. “Yep, but somebody had turned them off. I’m looking into that, too. I’ve got the lab checking out the kid’s notebook. It all looked like Greek to me, but they’ll be able to read it. All of their alibis check out, although Nate Bass’s girlfriend sounded a little too rehearsed. I did get the printout of the key card reader. Nobody besides Darrell Roberts came in or out of the lab between the time Tanya Meyer left and Walker showed up. Whoever came in, Roberts opened the door and let him in.”

Captain Thomas stood up. “Find out who else is a player here. Check out the kid’s family, his friends outside of school. Let’s get a few suspects on the board, Wes.”

Chapter 3

St. Pete, Wednesday, February 24, 5:30 p.m.

“Daddy.” Megan’s voice lifted over the quiet strains of Bach. The sober music suited his mood. “The phone’s for you.”

Christopher opened one eye and looked at his daughter standing in the doorway of his study, still wearing the black dress she’d worn to Darrell’s funeral. She was a good girl, he thought, pride mixing with the sadness that hadn’t given him a moment’s peace in a week. She’d stood by him today, her hand in his, even though at thirteen she’d started pulling away from such public displays of affection.

“Can you take a message, honey?”

Her brown curls bounced as she shook her head. “It’s that private detective again. He’s called four times since yesterday afternoon. Maybe you should just talk to him so he’ll go away.”

Christopher pushed out of his easy chair with a sigh of extreme irritation. “Him again? I’ll take it in here.” He switched off the stereo and picked up the phone at his desk, turning the ringer back on. He’d turned it off to have some peace and quiet, but it didn’t look like he was going to find either. “This is Christopher Walker,” he said briskly.

“Dr. Walker, my name is Richard Snowden.”

“And you’re a private investigator,” Christopher responded impatiently, pulling his tie off. “You’ve called me five times, harassed my daughter, my staff, and my boss’s secretary.” They’d told him so today, at Darrell’s funeral.

“I didn’t harass your boss’s secretary or your staff, Dr. Walker,” Snowden said mildly. “I merely asked them if your biography listed your hometown and high school.”

Suspicion prickled at the back of Christopher’s neck. “Can you please state your business, sir? Because this is really not a good time.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Walker. I understand condolences are in order. I’m sorry for the loss of your student.”

“Thank you,” Christopher said tightly. This guy knew about Darrell. The press had been everywhere—outside his office, his gym, even outside the church during the funeral, looking for information about the investigation, which so far hadn’t turned up any leads on Darrell’s death. For two days Christopher had been looking over his shoulder, expecting Detective Harris to jump out from behind a palm tree and arrest him, and his nerves were fried. “Look, if you’re a reporter, you can go—”

“I’m not a reporter, Dr. Walker. I’ll make this brief. I’ve been retained by one of your former high school classmates to locate you.”

Christopher almost laughed. “High school?” After the dark events of the day, even the notion of looking up old classmates seemed annoyingly ludicrous. “You’re kidding.”

“No, sir, I’m very serious. Dr. Townsend has been quite anxious to speak to you.”

Christopher frowned. “You must have the wrong Walker, Mr. Snowden, because I don’t remember anybody named Townsend in my graduating class.”

“She was Wilson then. Emma Wilson.”

It was as if he’d been nailed in the gut by a sledgehammer. Christopher felt his breath leave his chest in a painful huff and he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, his knees like jelly. “Emma Wilson?” Emma Wilson who’d owned every teenaged dream and fantasy? Emma Wilson who’d laughed and argued and brightened every day of his high school existence until one day he’d gotten the nerve to immortalize his feelings in one very ill-advised letter?

Emma Wilson who’d told him she didn’t feel about him as he’d felt about her? Without words of course. She’d ignored his letter, acted like it had never happened.
Like you told her to,
he thought. But still . . . It had been the most traumatic event of his life. Until Mona, that was. Compared to Mona, Emma had been a mere amateur in the pain department. “Did you say Emma Wilson?”

“I did.”

“What does she want?” His heart was beating harder now.

“She wants to talk to you. Face to face if that’s possible.”

The thought of seeing Emma again made his mouth actually water.
It’s pathetic
, he thought.
Worse than Pavlov’s damn dogs
. But it was the reaction he’d had every time Emma Wilson had entered a room, all five-feet-two curvy inches of her. He’d drooled enough over Emma through high school to fill a damn swimming pool.

“Where is she now?”

“Dr. Townsend lives in Cincinnati, but she said she’d be more than willing to meet you in St. Pete. She doesn’t want to inconvenience you, just talk to you.”

Dr. Townsend? He wondered what kind of doctor she was, medical or Ph.D. Either way he was proud of her.
Good girl, Em.
“Why didn’t she call me herself?”

“She didn’t want to put you on the spot. She thought if you didn’t want to see her you’d find it easier to say so to me than to her. And she didn’t want to cause any trouble if you were married.”

Christopher swallowed. Hard. “I’m not.”

“I know. She wouldn’t let me contact you until I’d made sure of that. What should I tell Dr. Townsend? Would you be willing to meet with her?”

Yes. Yes. Yes
. Christopher drew a breath, made himself slow down. “I’m not sure yet. Is she married?”

“She’s a widow.”

Hello
. A jolt of pleasure rushed through him, followed quickly by shame. Her husband was dead. That was no reason for celebration. “Why does she want to talk to me? Now, after all this time?”
It doesn’t matter, idiot. Just say yes
.

“That she wouldn’t say. Well? What should I tell her?”

“Where and when was she thinking?”

“She was thinking you could choose a restaurant. Name a time and place and she’ll fly down to meet you.”

“Just like that? She’s going to hop on a plane just like that?”

“Dr. Walker, do you want to meet with Dr. Townsend or not?”

Christopher sighed.
Of course I do
. “Tell her to meet me at Crabby Bill’s on St. Pete Beach. It’s a fairly well-known restaurant, so she shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”

“Crabby Bill’s. And what day and time, Dr. Walker?”

“Saturday night? Seven?”

“I’ll tell her. She’ll meet you there.”

It was . . . surreal, Christopher thought as he hung up the phone. And the timing . . . On one hand it couldn’t have been better. On the other, it couldn’t have been worse.

“Daddy?” He turned to find Megan wearing a frown. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, honey. That didn’t have anything to do with Darrell or the trouble at school.” He was unwilling to tell his daughter about Emma Wilson’s visit. He’d purposely stayed alone since his divorce. It had been so hard on Megan, he hadn’t wanted to add to the disruption in her life with a parade of girlfriends. So his love life had remained unfulfilled for three years. As had his sex life.

But Emma was coming. He gritted his teeth against a sudden surge of need.
Don’t be a fool
. They’d have dinner. They’d talk. And she’d go home to Cincinnati, her curiosity appeased. And he would remain a single dad, which was his most important priority anyway. He put his arm around Megan’s shoulders and sniffed. “What smells so good? Did you cook dinner?”

“If I did, it wouldn’t smell so good. Uncle Jerry brought a bucket of KFC. Come on, Dad, sit down and eat.”

As Megan’s godfather, Jerry had been “Uncle” since she’d learned how to talk. What a huge help he’d been in planning the funeral. Darrell had been one of Jerry’s physics students, so he’d known him, although not as well as Christopher had. That Jerry brought food was a typically thoughtful gesture. “That was nice of him. Let’s go before he eats it all.” He found Jerry standing at the kitchen window, staring at the channel that flowed past the end of Christopher’s back yard on its way to Tampa Bay. “Jerry?”

Jerry turned, a drumstick in one hand. The sadness in his eyes disappeared as he forced a smile for their benefit. “I got twenty pieces. You can eat it tomorrow, too.”

Christopher moved the bucket to the table while Megan pulled down plates and glasses. “Sit, Jerry. You look as tired as I feel.”

Jerry sat with a sigh. “How is Darrell’s mother?”

“About like you’d think. Some people from her church brought casseroles and cakes, so the boys won’t go hungry, but without Darrell’s salary . . . I don’t know what they’re going to do.”

Then in a moment that he knew he’d always remember, his daughter bit at her lower lip, then shrugged. “I have a little of my own in savings, Daddy, almost fourteen hundred dollars. Give it to Mrs. Roberts.”

Christopher sat still, pursing his lips against the sudden rise of emotion, prouder than he’d ever been. “You were saving that money for a car, Megan.”

“I won’t be able to drive for three years anyway. That gives me time to save more.”

Jerry cleared his throat, his eyes moist. “And who says America’s teenagers are selfish? Chris, I’ve got some rainy day cash set aside. You can have that, too.”

“Maybe we can have a fundraiser,” Megan said, excitement lifting her voice for the first time in days. “All the students can help. Tanya and Ian and Nate. And we can call the students that graduated last year and the year before. I know they’ll want to help.”

“I’ve got a friend at the University TV station,” Jerry said. “He can help you get the word out.”

Megan beamed. “That’s great. We can do a car wash and a raffle.”

Christopher sat back and listened to her plan, but the car washes and raffles began to run together and his mind began to wander. To Saturday night. Emma was coming.

* * *

St. Pete, Thursday, February 25, 2:00 a.m.

“You fucked up.”

He closed his eyes, his stomach liquid and queasy. “I know.” They’d kill him now. Maybe it would be for the best. He’d never be able to live with what he’d done.

“You said they’d think it was an accident.”

“I thought they would.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He stiffened when a rope was pulled tight around his throat. Then loosened, left to lie on his shoulders, taunting him. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it, for God’s sake.”

The rope tightened, leaving just enough space for him to take a labored breath. “I’ll kill you when and if I’m ready. Now I want information. There’s a private detective asking questions about Walker. Why?”

“I don’t know.” The rope tightened and he gave in to reflex and tried to pull it away from his throat, tried to free even a millimeter for breath to flow. “I swear it!” The rope loosened and he drew a gasping breath. “Dammit.”

“Find out why. For now, all roads lead to you. If you’re caught, you take the fall. And if you even consider revealing an iota of the nature of our relationship . . .” The rope jerked tight, then loosened once again. “These ropes come in all sizes.”

Fear iced his heart. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you’ll keep your mouth shut, because you’re smart. If you don’t, you’ll watch the people you care about die one by one. This isn’t a game. We’re serious. We will not be caught, no matter what. Do you understand?”

He nodded, trembling so hard he could barely stand. The rope was yanked from his throat, leaving a strip of red, raw skin. He dropped to his hands and knees and heard the gravel crunch as the footsteps moved away. Then like the cowardly dog he was, he threw up.