Keep No Secrets (7 page)

She believes everything he's told her so far. She wonders what else Jenny said to him, and if she should ask for the rest.

But she knows herself, too; she knows she interrupted his story for a reason.

She rises and slips the silk camisole at the end of the bed over her head.

She also knows what she needs to do.

"Jack?"

The sound of Claire's voice pierces the dark. She's coming down the stairs. How long has he been sitting there, he wonders? He pulls the blanket tighter and whispers, "I'm on the couch."

The blue moonlight shining through the tall Palladium windows illuminates her figure. They both loved those windows when they first bought the house. She's wearing her camisole, the soft pink one that looks so good against her skin. He holds the blanket open to signal her to join him underneath it.

When she's settled in, he takes her left hand and holds it. He plays with the rings on her finger, the one he presented when he asked her to marry him, and the one he slipped on in front of 150 people. It's cold in the room, so they're loose, and he twists them, around and around. She watches silently. He lifts the hand gently, then, and places it against his lips. He breathes in and inhales the scent of her lotion. It smells like rain.

"This is all that matters to me. This. Us.

I'll do whatever you want me to."

She's quiet for a long time, as if she didn't hear him. A hoot owl whistles in the backyard; it's taken to hanging out in one of the Maple trees towering over the back deck.

"I believe you," she says finally. The nerves in his stomach relax ever so slightly. "But there's something else that matters to you, too, I know."

He leans back to see her face better, to protest, but she shakes her head.

"No, no, I'm not talking about her, not in the way you're thinking." She brings her legs up, pulling her hand away to tuck her knees under the camisole. "What I mean is, the truth also matters to you.

About her, and about Alex." She pauses.

When he doesn't respond, she says, "Am I right?"

"I don't know." But he does because what she said is true. It does bother him, not knowing if Alex was wrongly

convicted. And more than anything, it bothers him about Jenny. That he simply doesn't know. That he may never know.

"Jack?"

He meets her eye.

"I won't tell you to stay away from her.

If you think she's the path to the truth, then you have to follow it."

Jack doesn't quite believe what he hears. She sees the disbelief on his face.

"I don't have any choice, do I? What am I going to do? Tell you she's off limits?" She laughs softly, sarcastically.

"You'll do what you have to do, no matter what I say. If you say you're over her, then I have to trust you. I have to believe that you can find out what you need to know without betraying me again.

But if you're not, then it doesn't matter what I say, anyway. Because I can't control what you feel."

"What I feel is angry," he whispers.

"I've felt angry since the moment I saw her in the tunnel."

"Good. I hope you continue to feel angry. I hope you remember what she did to us, and whether she's innocent or not, I hope you realize what she's doing to us now, by coming back."

"I do."

"I hope you remember what
you
did to us."

They sit in the moonlit dark, listening to the owl. He continues to rub her hand but he's barely aware of the action.

"Let's go to bed," she says finally. She starts to rise; the blanket slips off her shoulder.

"Claire?" Jack holds tight to her hand to stop her. Her face is wet with tears he didn't even hear her cry. "I
do
remember.

I'll never forget, and I'll never forgive myself." She nods and bites her lip. She believes him, and he loves her even more for it. He only hopes she believes the next words out of his mouth, too. "You can trust me."

CHAPTER SIX

THE MORNING AFTER Jack's

confession, the mood in the house reminds Claire of how it felt when he first moved back in three and a half years before. She'd gained a sense of power she didn't necessarily want, and his attempts at normalcy made everything more

awkward. But there's a difference between now and then, she's noticed. The first time, they waited for Jenny's front-and-center presence to go away. This time, she's with them in the house again, but she's lurking in the wings, and both Claire and Jack are left to wonder when she'll step back onstage.

Jack's secretary, Beverly, peeks her head into his office and says, "Chief Matthews is on the phone."

"Hey, Chief," Jack says good-naturedly.

Jack and Chief Gunner Matthews aren't the best of friends—their politics are too different—but they both do a pretty good job of convincing the city that they make a good team.

"Jack."

Something in the Chief's voice causes Jack to sit straighter in his chair. Have they discovered that Jenny is back?

"What's the matter, Gunner?"

"I'm wondering if you might have time to come over to the station. There's a matter we need to talk to you about in person."

We?
"Sure, Gunner. I always have time for you. When are you thinking?"

"Now would be best."

When the receptionist interrupts Claire's lecture, the worry on the young woman's face makes Claire think something must be wrong with one of the kids. Once Claire steps into the hallway, the receptionist advises her that two police officers want to speak with her. Her gut twists and for an instant, she has to consciously resist losing her lunch.

A man and a woman, both in uniform, wait for her outside the Dean's office.

"Are my children—?"

"Your children are fine, Mrs. Hilliard."

She shakes their hands as they

introduce themselves. For reasons she can't explain, she immediately dislikes the man. "Please, let's go to my office to talk."

As she starts down the hall, she turns back to the receptionist and motions in the direction of her classroom. "You probably should just dismiss them for me."

At five minutes before the last bell rings, Michael's chemistry teacher taps him on the shoulder and whispers that he should stop by the front office before heading to basketball practice. When he asks why, his teacher shrugs.

At the station, the Chief greets Jack and leads him in the direction opposite his office. As they enter the corridor that houses all the interrogation rooms, Jack gives the Chief a look, as if to say
Why are
we going this way?
The Chief ignores him and keeps walking. He stops outside one of the rooms and motions Jack in. Three cops are seated inside at a table. The Chief follows Jack in and closes the door.

"Jack, please, take a seat. Would you like something to drink?"

Jack eyes the Chief warily. It's the first line they always give to certain types of suspects.

"No, thank you, I'm fine." He scans the faces of the other officers and tries to read them. To the Chief, he says, "What's going on? What do you need to talk to me about?"

"Please, take a seat." Gunner grabs a chair for himself and lowers himself into it. Jack is the only one standing now, so he finally complies.

"What's this about?" he tries again.

"We need to ask you some questions."

"Okay."

"Something's come up. We're sure it's probably a simple misunderstanding, but we're obligated to follow up, and—"

"What are you talking about?" Jack's voice is slightly louder than it should be, but something about this whole scenario is wrong. It's making him crazy that Gunner won't just get to the point.

The Chief turns to one of the officers.

"Tommy?"

Tommy leans forward a bit in his chair.

"Mr. Hilliard, can you—"

"Jack."

"Jack." He nods. "Certainly." He breathes in. "Can you tell us where you were on Saturday night?"

"I guess that would depend upon what time on Saturday night you're referring to." He's being smart, and they know it.

He stares at the Chief. "What's going on, Gunner? I'm the DA. Are you

interrogating me? Because if you are, I think you'd better damn well tell me that's what you're doing, and why."

Claire sits behind her desk and motions for the officers to sit in the chairs on the opposite side.

"Mrs. Hilliard," the female officer starts. Officer Caruthers, she said. She's petite but projects a confidence that probably results from years of having to prove herself. "We're so sorry to disturb you at work like this, but we need to ask you a few questions. Please understand that you're not in any trouble."

"Okay." Claire notes that the woman talks to her the way cops talk to laymen, as if she's forgotten Claire is a lawyer. But she isn't about to remind them.

"It's about Saturday night."

Claire tenses. She thinks of the incident with Michael and wonders if he lied to her and Jack. Did Michael and Celeste do more than just hang out in the woods and come home late? Was he even with

Celeste
at all
that night? She really doesn't know for sure, not for a fact.

"We're wondering if you can tell us where Mr. Hilliard was that night."

Officer Caruthers speaks softly and her gentle hazel eyes regard Claire with sympathy. And even though Claire knows exactly where Jack was, she's suddenly furious with him. But for him, she'd never have to be in another's presence and maintain the charade that neither remembered what her husband had done four years before. Has she forgiven him?

She thinks so, but she'll never be able to forget. Because no one else does.

She glances at the other cop. He eyes her coldly, his notepad in his left hand and a pen poised to write in the other.

Claire thinks he looks a little too eager.

"Are you referring to Jack? Or my older son?"

"We're asking about your husband, ma'am," the man says, deadpan. "The DA."

Claire is certain he didn't vote for Jack.

"He was at home with me. Why? What is this about?"

With a mere glance, Caruthers shoots a dagger at her partner. But her voice is still warm when she speaks to Claire. "Was there any point between, say, after dinnertime on Saturday evening and before breakfast on Sunday morning that he might not have been at home with you?"

An image of Jack flashes through her mind, sitting in the chair at the end of the couch in street clothes. In the middle of the night. She thinks of Jenny being back.

Did he see her even before the two instances he told her about?

She stands. She feels tears coming, but she's not sure why. She rifles through a folder on her desk, avoiding their eyes, feigning busyness. "I have to ask you to leave unless you tell me what this is about."

The two whisper together. When Claire looks up, she sees they do not enjoy being partners. Caruthers finally raises a curt hand as if to say:
Let me handle this
.

"Mrs. Hilliard, please," she says. "I apologize. If you'll just take your seat again, we'll tell you what we can."

When Michael steps into the lobby of the front office, two cops are waiting for him.

Staff and students turn to stare. The cops introduce themselves but their names don't register with Michael.

He follows the men into a small

conference room next to the row of guidance counselors' offices. The room is small, barely large enough to

accommodate the round table and four chairs. As one of the officers fights with a chair to move it away from the door, Michael eyes the side arm at his waist.

When the man finally gets the door closed, his face is flushed.

"Michael, thank you for agreeing to talk to us."

He looks at the other man who's

spoken. He's much taller, with thick eyebrows that remind Michael of a caterpillar. He wants to say
I didn't agree to
shit
, but doesn't. He doesn't say anything.

He knows not to talk, his dad has drilled that into his head for as long as he can remember, but Jack would also expect Michael to be polite.

"First, we want to make it clear that you're not in any trouble. Please don't misunderstand."

Michael simply nods.

"It's about Celestina Del Toro," says the officer who battled the chair.

Suddenly, Michael is incapable of considering what Jack would expect.

"What do you mean?" he asks anxiously.

"Is she okay? She hasn't been at school."

He doesn't add
and hasn't answered her
phone or responded to any of my text messages
since Sunday afternoon
.

The officer hesitates. "Yes, she's . . .

she's fine. We need to ask you a few questions, but unfortunately we can't tell you much at this point. There's an ongoing investigation that—"

"You're investigating Celeste?" His eyes dart from one officer to the other.

"No, no, please." The man with the bushy brows raises his palm. "Celestina's not in trouble with the law. And neither are you."

Relieved, Michael falls back into his chair.

"She told us she was with you at a party on Saturday night, and that the two of you had some whiskey afterwards. Is that true?"

Michael lowers his eyes.

"You're not in trouble, remember?

We're not here to bust you for underage drinking, okay?"

"Then why are you asking this?" he mutters.

"She said that you couldn't drive her home, that your father had to. Is that right?"

Michael stares from one officer to the other, trying to understand. "He didn't
let
us drink, if that's what you mean. He didn't even know until we got to my house. He freaked when he found out."

"Of course. Any father would. Did he drive Celestina home because you were impaired?"

Michael nods but looks away from the two men. Through the window he

watches students cross the campus toward the bus ramp.

"That's good. You were smart not to drive after you'd been drinking. Do you have any idea how long it took him?"

What are they getting at? Is his dad in trouble for covering for Celeste? For not letting her dad know what happened?