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  The Assistant’s Secret

  A Locke Industries Novel

  Emerald O’Brien

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  The Locke Industries Series

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  Acknowledgments

  Don’t miss these suspenseful and unpredictable reads by Emerald O’Brien

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Emerald O'Brien

  Cover designed by Tadpole Designs

  Interior designed by Tadpole Designs

  Editing by Mountains Wanted Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America.

  For the frontline and essential workers of 2020, risking your safety for the greater good.

  Thank you.

  Chapter One

  A Simple Test

  This meeting could change my life. I take small steps within the confines of my mother’s tweed pencil skirt, my black heels clicking across the shady concrete sidewalk, not yet bathed by the morning sun.

  Click, clack. The theme song for adult businesswomen.

  Click. Take notice.

  Clack. Take me seriously.

  Click. I’m professional.

  Click. I’m powerful.

  Clack. I’m here.

  I balance the Styrofoam tray packed with four cups of coffee away from my mother’s black, frilled blouse. I’ve almost convinced myself it’s acceptable her entire wardrobe is one size too big for me. I’ll allow myself one new outfit, my first brand-new outfit, in celebration if this meeting is about what I think it is.

  My heart flutters from my chest up to my throat just thinking about it. A chance to prove I’m an asset to the company, increase my responsibilities, and by proxy, my paycheck. I imagine walking through the halls with purpose. More coworkers knowing my name, giving me warm, respectful hellos as we pass. Being invited to business lunches instead of the one sent out to fetch the lunches.

  And above all, having a real shot at paying off the crippling debt holding me back from living the life I’ve worked so hard for— plus being able to take care of Andy.

  Philip, the front door security guard, holds one of the large glass double doors open with a small nod and glance at the coffees. His full head of silver hair sticks up on end with his short cut, and his black business uniform looks smart against the clear glass double doors.

  We exchange smiles as he looks back up at me. “Thank you, Philip.”

  “Try to space them out today,” he calls.

  “Okay then!” My little laughter echoes in the grand white and gray marble front foyer of Locke Industries, and I know Philip is still smiling as I pass the front desk security on the way to the elevators.

  Our friendly morning banter began the first week I started the position as Cathrine Locke’s assistant almost three years ago. Cathrine is one of the five board members who own stakes in Locke Industries. The company’s CEO is her cousin, the former owner's son, Orrick Locke. He passes through our floor most mornings, smiling and waving general hellos to the office personnel and checking in with the four other board members. I’ve only been acknowledged by him a handful of times without introduction, and I’m glad. He’s charming, intimidating, and I’d have nothing to discuss with him, probably embarrassing myself with small talk.

  No, we’ll have our proper meeting once I’ve proven I’m a unique asset to the company. Maybe sooner than I thought.

  I use my sharp elbow, jabbing the elevator upward arrow button at just the right angle, and the doors ahead spring open. On the days they open up like that, right away, I’m convinced it’s a sign. A sign the company is welcoming me with open arms, encouraging me to feel part of their mission, urging me forward to begin the important security work we do here.

  I step in and use my elbow once more to press the seventh floor. We’re just below Orrick Locke’s penthouse office he shares with his wife and assistant. I lean my hip against the gold railing by the mirrored walls, easing the pressure off my toes for a moment of relief.

  Today’s the day. I can feel it.

  My skirt and blouse are wrinkle- and stain-free. I got up at four this morning to make sure of it. With a short puff of breath, I blow a strand of my long, caramel blonde hair out of my face.

  Do I look good enough to represent this company? To go out on lunch and dinner dates with clients in fancy hotel lobbies? To sit in on the revered board meetings?

  No. Not until I can afford some new clothes without the guilt that accompanies them. Not until I have the financial security to start living life like we should.

  My cell phone vibrates in my purse against my waist, as if on cue. At this hour, it has to be a debt collector. This is when they start their days too.

  The doors ding open, and I correct my posture and take a deep breath, inhaling the coffee bean scent.

  I can handle this. It’s not all about looks. They hired me—chose me after my internship. No one works harder than I do here at my level. If they give me a chance to prove myself...

  I stride forward, down the long, dark gray hallway a few steps from the elevator to the glass door with a bright silver waiting room beyond.

  Fern Bishop, Cathrine’s long-time receptionist, squints at me behind her thick black-framed glasses, and buzzes me in. The glass door opens, and I stride in with my head held high. I’m steps away from her desk as my right heel slips across the marble floor, and I jerk the tray out of one hand, trying to regain my footing. Fern’s eyes open wide as I reach out, grasping at thin air for stability, teetering to the side, gripping the tray hard and clenching my jaw.

  No.

  Not today.

  I lean forward, planting my right heel back on the ground, and grip the tray with both hands.

  “Nice reflexes, Josephine.” Fern tips her head to me before cocking it to the side with a slight frown. We turn toward the wall on the far side of the room as the door in the middle of it opens, revealing Cathrine Locke.

  Her silver-gray hair, lush with the silky volume she gets from visiting a blow-dry bar every morning, perches on her shoulders. She sucks in her gaunt cheeks, staring at me. “Good morning, Josephine,” she says in her light, even tone.

  “Good morning, Ms. Locke.”

  “Well, come on then, and don’t forget the coffee.” She
swivels around on her black pumps, letting the door shut behind her.

  Now that woman has style.

  I exhale and stop at Fern’s desk. “Two caramel macchiatos for you.” I take them from the foam tray and place them on her desk to the right of the framed photos; one of her three cats, Elinor, Mrs. Morris, and Darcy; one with her and the original owner of the company, Lawrence Locke; and one of her and the cats.

  “Thank you,” she says without looking up from the paperwork on her desk.

  “And two black coffees for Ms. Locke.” I clear my throat, lick my lips and walk toward the door, taking each step carefully.

  “Good luck, Josephine.”

  I glance over my shoulder to give Fern a smile, but she’s still poring over her paperwork, tugging at one of her permed gray curls hanging loose from her soft bun.

  It’s just as well. She’s not a sentimental woman. Cathrine respects her. Seems to listen to her. If she’s wishing me well, that’s a good sign.

  Unless maybe she thinks I’ll need all the luck I can get.

  I take another deep breath and reach my shaking hand out, grasping the metal door handle and pushing it open.

  Two of the three port wine red walls of her office flank the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that sits just behind her desk. The two chairs across from her, the ones I rarely get to stay long enough to sit in, are upholstered a deep burgundy crushed velvet, and she sits behind her large mahogany desk, the top clear of any papers, staring at me once again with a view of the cityscape behind her.

  Even the early morning sun bends at her will, staining the sky just above the horizon a hot red.

  I set the tray to her right, beside her phone, and step back, waiting for instruction as I do every morning. The bookcase at my back is covered with leather-bound books, and on the other wall ahead of me, on a lengthy bar cart, sit beautiful glass jars filled with clear liquid, likely vodka, and dark green bottles behind them.

  She slides a burgundy leather-bound folder off her desk and hands it to me. “All the information you’ll need about the potential client is inside. Read every page before your meeting at eleven-thirty sharp this morning in Copperfield County. Two copies of the contract are included. Digital copies have already been sent to the client and his lawyer.”

  “So, I’ll be meeting with the client to sign, then?”

  “If you can and after your morning filing.”

  I frown. She’s sending me alone to seal the deal? She never does that.

  She catches my puzzled look before I can relax my expression, and sighs. “I’m giving you the opportunity to sign this client, Josephine, but I’m not handing you the job. This is a half-million-dollar contract, and while that might be considered small in comparison to most here, it’s a simple test.” She stares up at me, her eyes scanning mine. “Do you have what it takes to meet with a potential client and get them to sign the contract?”

  My chest swells with pride. I do.

  “Thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Locke.” I have to say something to make her stop looking at me like I might not have what it takes. “You won’t regret this.”

  Her chest heaves, and she grabs a coffee before turning her head toward the window, squinting into the light.

  She’s trusting me with a client. I haven’t been to business school, but me, with my administrative degree, is enough to give an opportunity to. I can’t believe this is actually happening.

  I fold my hands in front of me. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “You should know everything.” She turns back to me with a tight-lipped smile as she taps the cup with her manicured nails. “You’ve attended over fifty initial client meetings with me. How many clients have I signed?”

  “All of them.”

  Her smile grows. “I’ve done all I can to prepare you for this moment.” She looks away, back to the window again. “The signing bonus will be excluded this time around.” My chest deflates as the chance to earn more slips away. “But, I’m offering you something more. The opportunity to manage a client—this client. Your position will remain the same, but a salary increase would accompany your additional responsibilities.”

  It’s exactly what I’ve been hoping for. Dreaming of.

  “If you succeed, you’ll have the opportunity to earn the signing bonus on the next client.”

  More than I could have hoped for. “Thank you, Ms. Locke,” I say breathlessly.

  She swivels around in her chair, her sharp features seeming to soften in the warm glow of the rising sun. “This is a high-stakes business, and I think you’re fitting in here just fine as my assistant, but you could be more. I see potential in you. Show me what you’ve got, Josephine.”

  I nod, beaming brightly, marching across the room to the door. My heels click across the marble waiting room floor, past Fern. She doesn’t look up or catch the huge smile plastered on my face, and that’s for the best. I save that side of myself, that emotional side, for my personal life. A beaming smile isn’t taken seriously around here, nor is the woman who fetches coffee for everyone.

  This is my chance to earn my place in the company—to earn enough to pay back the debt from the rehab payments. For Andy to live a financially stable life and Maggie to focus on her sobriety. Maybe some of the resentment I feel toward her will disappear after the debt does.

  I stride out the glass doors and down the dark hallway toward my cubicle nearest Cathrine’s office. I pass one of the other board members, Mr. Mathison, who takes up one of the other four corner offices of this floor. He doesn’t even make eye contact as I smile at him—just brushes past me at a clip toward Cathrine’s office. His assistant, Rob, gives me a nod and rushes to catch up with him.

  I keep my head down, as I always do, and begin filing the paperwork from the day prior. I make a trip to the staff room for a coffee, and when I return, I check my cell phone. The call from this morning was the collection agency, calling on behalf of the New Gilford Rehabilitation Center—more like harassing on behalf of.

  I tuck my phone back in my purse and turn to my paperwork once more, but the burgundy folder at the corner of my desk teases me. My heart rate increases, and my skin hums with anticipation. I unzip it and take a peek at the first page of notes.

  Raymond Tackman. Thirty-eight-year-old entrepreneur from Copperfield County.

  That’s almost an hour away.

  Once I finish the filing, I check the clock. Almost ten. Not bad. I’ll be early if I leave right now. I gather my things, and as I wait for the elevator, I enter the address into my cell phone’s GPS program.

  A text appears on the screen from my neighbour across the hallway, Don.

  Andrew has been locked out of your apartment. He’s with me, but I have to leave soon. Can you come and get him?

  Locked out? How?

  Have you knocked on the door? I type as the elevator doors open, and I step in, juggling my things while I type. His mom is home.

  She has to be there. Why wouldn’t she… No. Before the image of my sister lying in bed with a needle sticking out of her arm and her eyes all fluttered back burns itself even deeper into my memory, I shake the thought away.

  She wouldn’t. She’s clean now.

  But she could. She would.

  If she did it before to her poor, sweet son, she’ll do it again.

  He says she must be in the shower. He texts back. I hear music in there, but when I knock, there’s no answer. I have to leave in ten minutes.

  If she’s just blasting music and taking her usual long shower, I can’t be late for that.

  Someone else needs to help him, but who else can? I planned this whole set up to avoid situations like this. All she has to do is stay clean, work her program, and be present for Andy. I told Maggie I don’t have the job flexibility to be on standby for Andy. I thought she understood.

  She told me she wanted to be there for him again full-time, and I believed her. I pulled him out of childcare because I wanted to believe she coul
d handle that, at least after how successful her doctors said she was through her rehab treatment. If she’s just in the shower, she’ll be out soon.

  Can you wait? I type back, feeling guilty for even asking, but I have to. I have to leave right now to get to the client’s home on time.

  The elevator doors ding open in the lobby as I send the text, and Katie stands in front of me in her white-collared shirt and black dress pants, her curly black hair pulled back in a bun.

  “Katie,” I blurt out, relieved to see a familiar face—my best friend.

  Maybe she can help. Maybe she could go to my place and help Andy.

  “Everything okay?” she asks as another message appears on my screen.

  I’m sorry. I can’t wait.

  And I can’t ask Katie to do this for me. She’s never helped Andy before. I can’t ask her to leave work. And I don’t want her to know how irresponsible Maggie can be. To judge her—us.

  “Yeah, fine,” I huff and nod, touching her arm as I step past her. I don’t have much time. “Just got some exciting news to share, but I have to go.”

  “Sure.” Her bubbly voice lacks enthusiasm as she turns to watch me stride away. “You okay, Jo?”

  “Fine, talk to you later!”

  I rush out the door, past Philip without a word, and pick up the pace until I reach my car. My heart thuds in my ears and tears flood my eyes as I get in and start it. “I can do this. I have to do this.”

  Instead of making a U-turn, I follow the one-way street, turn a few rights to make a complete circle, and take a deep breath once I’m finally heading in the right direction.