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

wedding ring glinting dully in the street light. She isn’t free to have these feelings. They are not hers to have.

‘I understand,’ he says simply. ‘I know it’s too late for us, but not for our daughter.’

They both look up at the house, lost in their own thoughts. A light comes on in the hallway: it spreads up the stairs and then moves to the front bedroom. A figure appears, cruciform for a moment as it tugs at the curtains.

‘Probably Vanessa,’ Frankie whispers. ‘That’s her room, there.’

‘Does Jack know where Peter is?’ Martin whispers back.

‘I don’t know, but I can find out.’

She pulls out her phone and sends a brief text. It instantly buzzes back.

‘He says he can find out. He’s asking what we’re planning?’

‘Very good question, I’d say.’ He gives her a sideways look. ‘You’ll need to share it with me, at least.’

Frankie checks the clock. ‘Chloe has Charlotte’s old room. Peter’s office used to be right next to it. There may be still stuff of Peter’s there. We just need to find a connection to tie him to those notes: a sample of his handwriting, maybe? I don’t know. This is Peter’s home, this is where he feels safe. He knows Vanessa is on his side. If he’s going to leave evidence anywhere, it’ll be here.’

There’s a movement at one of the windows and Martin dips his head to see clearer.

‘The light in the front bedroom has just gone off.’

‘Okay.’

‘And we think Chloe will definitely be in bed by now?’

Frankie checks the time. ‘She’s fifteen and it’s gone midnight. I would think so.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’

Her phone buzzes.

‘Jack’s checked. Peter’s at home in his bed-sit. That means we’ll have stacks of time.’

‘Right.’

She can feel the anxiety coming off Martin in waves. He stares out of the windscreen as ten minutes pass, then twenty. In the quiet, she hears him take a breath.

‘My daughter’s in there.’ It comes out in a choked rasp, as though he can’t believe it.

Frankie holds on to her own feelings, tight and hard. She feels her neck flex with tension.

‘Shall we do this?’ She looks across.

He looks back at her. ‘Let’s.’

They get out of the car. Softly clicking the doors closed, they walk quickly across the road. She tries to clear her mind.

This is a house, like all the other houses they’d broken into, nothing more, and nothing less.

Checking up and down the street and keeping close to the shadows, they make their way around the back. She looks up. The curtains at Chloe’s window are closed. The ones in the next room are open. Her guess was right then. The bare pane stares down like a blank eye. She points upward and Martin nods in agreement. There’s the small bathroom window. Even from here she can see that the catch on the fanlight is still faulty, its edge standing a little proud from the frame.

‘Use this.’ Martin whispers, pulling a Swiss Army knife from his pocket.

‘Thanks.’

The soil pipe makes it an easy ascent, but the last fifteen years doesn’t. Her muscles and joints object loudly, creaking and groaning and refusing to flex in quite the way they used to. Ignoring the pain, she crams the tips of her trainers into the back of the iron brackets, and hoists her way up, foot by foot. Panting, she reaches the sill and takes a look down. Martin is standing there with his arms folded. He gazes up at her with an expression she remembers so well. Her heart folds a little. Running her fingertips around the edge of the window frame, she feels gently, looking for the loose catch and then levers the knife into the gap to flip it open. Reaching inside, she pats around for the latch and unhooks the larger window.

Within seconds, she’s inside.

It’s a very odd feeling. For a moment the familiarity of everything makes her falter, but she gathers herself, listening for any sign of movement. The house stays silent. Creeping from the bathroom, she pauses again on the landing, aware that the bedroom doors are shut tight. Soundlessly, she makes her way down the stairs to the front door where she can see Martin’s shadow weaving through the glass. Leaning her weight against the door, she turns the catch, easing it open without even a creak. He slips inside. They meet each other’s eyes, and she signals for them to make a start.

Peter’s office.

Frankie leads the way. She prays that the door won’t stick. Putting her hand on the handle, she looks back. Martin has stopped by Chloe’s bedroom door, his head slightly cocked and listening. She watches as he lifts a hand. With all five fingertips balanced gently, he wordlessly presses the wood as though feeling for his daughter on the other side. The look on his face tells her more than words ever could. He nods quickly.

Let’s get on.

She eases the handle down and opens the door. The curtains are drawn back, and the bright moonlight bathes every surface in grey light. A laptop is sitting neatly on the desk and she goes over, flipping open the lid as the screen flashes blue into the darkness. She beckons Martin to start on the drawers. She sees they’re full of paperwork: innocuous stuff, boring minutiae of old bills and bus timetables, parking machine tickets and bits of grubby Post-It notes. The laptop whirrs gently, lighting up and immediately letting her in.

‘This must be Vanessa’s,’ she whispers. ‘There’s no password.’

She goes through clicking on the files, one after another after another. She frowns: this looks more like Peter’s stuff. There are gardening tips and planting timetables, seed suppliers; nothing dodgy at all. She double-clicks onto others: there’s reminders from the National Trust, Over Sixties’ holiday brochures. Exasperated, she begins on the browsing history. It’s all the same tedious, everyday rubbish. She glances at Martin. He’s pulled out great swathes of paperwork and is holding up a document that looks as though it’s something to do with the house. The torch on his