Page 3 of One More Secret

A twinge of excitement I haven’t felt in a long time stirs to life, and I run my hand over an issue ofThe New Yorkerfrom 1951. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are articles in these magazines that were written by some of the greatest journalists from several decades ago. The greats I studied in college.

Anne continues with the tour of the house, giving me insight into the woman who once lived here. “She suffered from arthritis, especially in her right hand, which she injured when she was younger. It made things more challenging as she got older. But when I was a kid, I remember her always tinkering around the house. Always trying to fix something. She was very much a hands-on type of woman.”

“Was she ever married?”

“No. She never found a man she loved enough for that. She once told me if I ever fell in love—the deep-in-your-soul kind of love—I should keep him. Cherish him. She didn’t want me to waste my life with someone who didn’t worship me.”

I follow Anne upstairs, suitcase in hand. A deep pain twinges in my back, radiating from above my left kidney. I do my best to keep it from showing on my face.

Anne opens the door to the first room on the right. Inside, the queen-sized bed, shelves, dresser, and a maze of stacked magazines pack the space. The stale, dusty smell of the house is stronger than downstairs.

Damn, when was the last time someone opened a window in here?

“Did Florence tell you my husband and I will be going to Europe in two weeks?” Anne asks. “Dan just retired, and my family is originally from England. So we figured it’s time we explore that side of the ocean. We’ll be gone for six weeks.”

“She did mention something about you traveling soon. The trip sounds wonderful.” My voice is soft with awe. I’ve always wanted to visit Europe. To take pictures. To tell the stories of the people who live there.

We finish off the tour and head to the front door.

“Do you still want to stay here?” Hope lifts Anne’s brow, lilts her voice. “I know it’s a bit of a mess. But the roof doesn’t leak, and the furnace works fine. So you don’t have to worry about freezing during the cold nights we’ll get for another month or two.”

“No, it’s perfect. It has a great view of the mountains. It’s the perfect place to heal.” Given where I’ve spent the last five years, it’s Bucking-freaking-ham Palace. And better yet, it doesn’t look anything like the house where I spent the five years of my marriage. That place had been cold, remote. But not in the physical sense.

She hands me the keys to the house and garage. “Welcome to your new home for the next few months, Jessica. I hope you enjoy staying here.”

I lock the front door after her, making sure it’s secure, and walk upstairs to the bathroom. I carefully lift the hem of my top and turn to inspect in the mirror the large sterile pad on my back. Blood isn’t seeping through, which is a big relief.

I reach awkwardly behind me and pull the pad and tape away from my skin, revealing the long, jagged wound above my left kidney. Where I was shanked. In prison.

The wound that almost cost me my life.

That deepened my resolve to be free of my past.

And to not repeat my previous mistakes.

2

TROY

March, Present Day

Maple Ridge

I enterthe rec room of the Veterans Center, Butterscotch trotting beside me. The scarf around his neck proclaims he’s an emotional support animal. The lanyard around my neck says “Volunteer.” I’ve been volunteering here since I retired from the Marines five years ago. The pint-sized Cavapoo has been my sidekick for the past two.

I unhook Butterscotch’s leash from his collar. A table-tennis ball bounces past us, and he rushes off to retrieve it.

Jimmy laughs from the table where he and Adam are playing the game. Adam lost his leg when an IED went off. Jimmy lost his arm above the elbow when a missile hit his tank.

Butterscotch returns with the ball in his mouth and drops it at Jimmy’s feet.

Jimmy crouches and pets him. “Thanks, little dude.”

Katelyn steps away from the pool table next to where the guys are playing. Her blond ponytail swishes through the air as she turns to me. She has on yoga pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt that skims her tight bod. Her usual Tuesday afternoon recreational-therapist uniform. “Hi, Troy.”

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” I tell her, walking farther into the room. “I was held up at the worksite.”

Butterscotch bounds over to the two elderly men sitting in the armchairs by the window. Both of them had served during the Vietnam War. They’d been close friends of my grandfather until he passed away several years ago.

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