Keep My Secrets by Elena Wilkes (management books to read .txt) 📕

‘Where are these “people” now? Do you even know?’

‘Don’t you think I feel bad enough, Alex? Don’t you think the guilt and the shame of what I did has stayed with me? I’ve never forgotten the terrible thing I did, never! I’ve had to live with that.’

‘And I’ve had to live with a person I didn’t even fucking know.’ He glares at her. ‘So why couldn’t you have told me any of this, Frankie? What kind of ogre have I been all these years, eh? How terrible a person?’ His narrow eyes glare at her. ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? Not at all. The truth is, I’ve spent fifteen years of my life showering you with love, and support, and protection, and money’ – he spits the word – ‘trying desperately to make up for the appalling start you had in life. I alienated myself from my family to back you up. We moved miles away – miles – from family and friends who sneered at me for being with you. I gave up everything, and now—’ He breaks off. She can see he’s close to tears.

‘Because that’s not the whole truth is it, Frankie? There’s more. Even now at this eleventh hour, I know there’s more.’

She falters for a split second and that’s all it takes.

‘See? And there we have it.’

‘No Martin, it’s not that—’

‘Oh, but it’s exactly that! What is it between you and this offender that’s so special that you’d lie to your husband for the whole of your marriage? You read in magazines about women like you, don’t you? Warped obsession – is that what this is?’

‘Alex—’

‘Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be supportive and understanding of your past “trauma”, aren’t I?’ he sneers. ‘I’m supposed to suggest we sit around in a circle doing bloody counselling and act like a saint – well, y’know what, Frankie? I’m sick of being a bloody saint. I’m sick of trailing around after you being supportive and waiting for you to drop some crumbs of affection. I’m sick of being the understanding good guy in the background while you run off for hours and days “finding yourself”. You’re a selfish bitch, Frankie, and the irony is, you’ve become the person my family said you were – a liar, and a user. Well, well…’ He begins to clap slowly. ‘Go figure.’

Clap. Clap. Clap.

‘Stop it.’

‘Bravo, Frankie! What a performance it’s been! The performance of a bloody lifetime – literally.’ He smiles, chuckling horribly and then the smile falters as his eyes suddenly focus on the middle distance. ‘So… let me get this straight. Me meeting Martin Jarvis wasn’t by accident. This stranger who walked into the centre and presented himself as a vulnerable ex-offender has actually singled me out in order to get to you, is that right?’

Everything she can think of to say just makes this all worse.

‘Martin Jarvis… Matthew Jarrow…’ Alex pauses for several seconds as a whole raft of realisations flood across his face. ‘You let me sit in that police station, worrying myself sick for your safety. You wasted their time chasing some newly-released offender that didn’t even exist! Oh my god! Oh my god!’ The glass swings wildly as he levers himself up to confront her. ‘You and him… It’s been you and him all along… Why the fuck didn’t I get it? Christ, you and Martin must have laughed together this evening. It must’ve been like old times!’

‘Stop it, Alex. Stop it. It’s nothing like that. You don’t understand—’

‘Oh, I understand only too well, Frankie. That’s the whole problem,’ he growls. ‘The ridiculous rose-tinted veil of loving you has well and truly dropped from my eyes. I see you for what you are, now. Finally… Finally.’

‘No, Alex listen, you’re right to hate me but you don’t understand that the child, my daughter is—’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’ His eyes flash with fury. ‘That’s why you wouldn’t talk about having kids with me, isn’t it?’ He starts to laugh, a low bubbling stream of hatred. She watches his face with growing horror; she’s never seen him like this. ‘That’s why – because you had one already. Jesus… You know what? Go on, get out. Go and have a life with some murdering sex-offender if that’s what you want.’

‘Alex, I don’t want—’ She takes a step towards him and puts a hand on his arm.

‘Don’t fucking touch me! Don’t you dare!’ He swings her off.

‘If you’d only let me explain—’

‘Get off me, Frankie!’ He’s really shouting now, pushing her away. She staggers back, shocked.

‘Alex—’

‘No!’

She doesn’t feel it, but she hears the whistle of the glass tumbler as it skims through the air past her head. She instantly ducks, hands pressed to her ears as it hits the far wall and shatters. Shards of scattered diamonds shower her feet.

‘Get out! Get out!’ he roars, his footsteps crunching behind her and then suddenly the kitchen door crashes against its frame. Running along the hallway, she grabs her bag, lurching to the front door and yanks it open. A tiny piece of paper flutters in the draught. She glances down. There, in the pool of moonlight, is the little folded rectangle. Bending swiftly, she picks it up, striding quickly to her car. Alex doesn’t come after her. Sitting behind the wheel, she stares at the writing in the muted interior light. She looks up. The house sits there in a pool of bitter, grey shadows, closed-down and grim. She deliberately keeps her mind blank. She doesn’t dare let herself think, but what she now knows keeps coming back to her: Martin didn’t send those letters… He couldn’t have had anything to do with the necklace… Things begin to piece together, and she begins to make sense of it.

Starting the engine, she backs off the drive in a scree of gravel. Punching the phone icon on the screen, she holds up the bit of paper into the passing streetlights and repeats the digits slowly. The phone bleeps loudly