All Her Little Secrets Read online

  Dedication

  To my parents,

  Mabel, who taught me the power and joy of the written word,

  And

  Herman, a fighter to the end.

  And for

  Fred, Cynthia, and Ural.

  Epigraph

  When elephants fight, the only thing that suffers is the grass.

  —African proverb

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chillicothe, Georgia, August 1979

  Part 1: The Elephants

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chillicothe, Georgia, April 1978

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chillicothe, Georgia, August 1979

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chillicothe, Georgia, June 1979

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Charlotte, North Carolina, December 1981

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chillicothe, Georgia, November 1978

  Chapter 23

  Part 2: The Grass

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chillicothe, Georgia, July 1979

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chillicothe, Georgia, June 1979

  Part 3: The Fight

  Chillicothe, Georgia, July 1979

  Chapter 37

  Chillicothe, Georgia, July 1979

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chillicothe, Georgia, August 1979

  The three of us—me, my brother, Sam, and Vera or Miss Vee as everyone in Chillicothe called her—looked like a little trio of vagabonds as we stood in the Greyhound Bus Station, which, in Chillicothe, meant a lean-to bus port in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. By God’s grace, we’d survived summer’s blazing days and humid nights, the fire ant stings and mosquito welts, and all the side-of-the-mouth whispers that floated around town. What happened? What did those young ’uns do? Why is Ellie Littlejohn really leaving town? Even though I was headed to Virginia on a full-ride scholarship to boarding school, it didn’t stop some people around town from talking in hushed tones and asking meddlesome questions.

  The morning sun sizzled across the black asphalt parking lot scattered with a few dented cars and an old Ford pickup. But we were the only ones waiting for the 7:15 bus headed north. I wore a tie-dyed T-shirt and a pair of jeans Vera had cut off at the knees when they got too short. She hadn’t gotten to the jeans Sam was wearing because they were about two inches above his ankles. His yellow T-shirt still bore the cherry Popsicle stain from the day before. And from the looks of it, he hadn’t combed his hair, either.

  I held tight to the old brown cardboard suitcase Vera had borrowed from her friend Miss Toney. I didn’t have much, but everything I owned was neatly packed inside it, including a sturdy winter coat, two pairs of new shoes, and a few toiletries courtesy of Vera passing around the hat among her friends and the congregation at the Full Gospel Baptist Church.

  In my other hand, I held a paper bag with three pieces of fried chicken, a couple of biscuits, and an ample slice of sweet potato pie. There was no extra money for McDonald’s or Burger King along the way. Vera’s cousin Birdie drove us to the station and stood against her ’68 black-and-gold Impala a few feet away, waiting for us to say our good-byes. I was a frazzled bag of nervous energy at the thought of traveling so far away from the only place I’d ever known. I was leaving Sam and Vera, the only people I loved.

  But I had to go.

  I was tall for my age, so Vera had to reach up to fuss with the thick ponytail on top of my head. “Now, Ellie, you mind your lessons at school. Remember, you have to work twice as hard as them white kids, even though you just as smart. Aim high. Take no blessing for granted.” She patted the ponytail for good measure. “You write me as often as you want. I put some stamps in your suitcase. Everything gon’ be fine.”

  Vera, a thick light-skinned woman with deep dimples that framed a large gap-toothed smile, always spoke with such authority. Like everything she said was right or true. She flashed that smile at me.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sam hung at Vera’s side kicking the rubber toe of his canvas sneaker against the asphalt. Even though he did what he called “cool stuff” like smoking cigarettes and stealing candy from the grocery store, at that moment, he looked exactly like what he was, a small and frightened ten-year-old boy. I sat my suitcase down and placed my lunch bag on top of it. I grabbed his hand and pulled him off, out of Vera’s earshot.

  “No more smoking cigarettes while I’m gone, okay?” I said.

  “I ain’t touched no cigarettes since Miss Vee caught me. I’m not going through that again.” Sam rolled his eyes.

  I giggled. “And you can’t be stealing from the grocery store, okay? That was cute when you were little but you’re too big for that stuff. You can get into really big trouble, especially if Miss Vee finds out.” He frowned and looked away.

  “I just don’t understand why you got to leave. Why can’t you go to school here?” Sam asked.

  I plucked a piece of lint from Sam’s little Afro. “I told you. It’s a different kind of school. You study there and live there. And don’t worry. You’ll be safe now. There’s nobody around to hurt you anymore.”

  I reached down and hugged him so tight if he had been any smaller, I might have snapped him in two. A few seconds later, he wriggled from my grip and ran off to Birdie’s car. I knew he was crying and didn’t want me to see.

  The Greyhound bus pulled to a stop in front of us with a long loud hiss. “Here it is,” Vera said. “Now you got enough money in your bag for a taxicab once you get in Virginia. I know that school got telephones so don’t pretend like they don’t. You call me as soon as you get there. Call collect, you hear me?”

  I smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Vera leaned her large frame in and hugged me and the waterfall between us started. Vera wasn’t much on crying, but anyone standing in that parking lot would have thought the opposite. She finally let me go and pulled a couple tissues from her skirt pocket. She wiped my face and handed the tissue to me.

  I stared at Vera. “I’m scared.”

  She wrapped an arm around my waist. “I know you are, honey bunny. But it’s all gonna work out just fine. Your momma was right about one thing. You ain’t but fourteen, but you too big for this place. This town ain’t equipped to hold somebody as smart and strong as you. Now, get on that bus and don’t come back until the good Lord sends you back. Now go.”

  The driver trotted down the stairs of the bus and smiled at us. He took my suitcase and tucked it underneath in the luggage compartment.

  Vera gave me another hug. “Go on now.”

  I climbed the stairs of the bus into the stifling scent of disinfectant and human sweat. I
’m a big girl. I can handle this.

  I walked past a pregnant lady with two little kids snuggled underneath each of her arms, an old man and woman sitting side by side talking, before I took a window seat near the middle of the bus. I located my little ragtag family out in the parking lot. Sammy, Vera, and Birdie stood beside the car waving up at me. I watched them, Vera smiling and Miss Birdie blowing kisses, as the bus pulled out of the lot and onto the street. And then I cried for a solid hour, straight across the Georgia–South Carolina state line.

  Part 1

  The Elephants

  Chapter 1

  Six forty-five in the morning was far too early for keeping secrets.

  But Michael and I are lawyers and that’s what lawyers do. We keep secrets. Attorney-client privilege, confidential work product, ethical rules, all the ten-dollar terms we use to describe the ways we harbor information from prying eyes.

  I hustled through the parking garage, a veritable wind tunnel on a cold blustery January morning, and inside the lobby of Houghton Transportation Company. Houghton management proudly announced its corporate prosperity and success to visitors with an entryway of gleaming chandeliers, polished steel, and veined marble floors. Inside this sleek glass and metal cage, we raced around for ten- and twelve-hour days in our hamster wheels of closed-door meetings, videoconference calls, and potluck lunches in the breakroom.

  It was so early, the security guard hadn’t even shown up for his post at the front desk. Good. No clumsy banter. The only sound in the lobby was the click-click of my red suede Louboutin pumps skittering across the marbled floor to the elevator bank. I pressed the call button for the twentieth floor. I don’t drink coffee, but I wished I had brought a travel mug of tea or a bottle of water with me to wash away the brain fog. Morning meetings weren’t unusual for us. But this one was particularly early and I’m not partial to sunrise secrets.

  As the elevator rose, I closed my eyes for a moment and leaned into the wall. Michael is the executive vice president and general counsel, and I work under him as assistant general counsel in the Legal Department. Michael was cryptic in his call the night before, maybe because someone else was nearby: Let’s meet in my office in the morning. 6:45. I didn’t press him. He did the same thing last week, a late-night meeting that lasted over an hour. Only we didn’t talk about work. We didn’t even have sex.

  That time, he wanted me to sympathetically listen while he complained about his wife. My better judgment told me I needed to end this. So many years. So much time wasted.

  Michael was gorgeous with chiseled features, deep blue eyes, and the tall trim stature of a Kennedy from Cape Cod. If anyone had seen us together as a couple, we would have made quite the sight, me with all my tall, cocoa-hued coily mane and jiggly midsection against his slim buttoned-down WASP frame.

  I’ve stood five feet, eight inches—six feet, in the right heels—since I was in the seventh grade. Men are either intimidated by me or challenged to climb and conquer “Mt. Ellice.” Honestly, I think men are attracted to the darker side they see in me. What makes her tick? they ask themselves. But Michael was different, or at least that’s what I told myself. He matched me in every way—height, intellect, and humor. He was my equal except for that pesky little business of a wife and two kids. I was stupid for sleeping with this man. Vera and her friends had a saying: Never get your honey where you make your money.

  I should have gone somewhere different after leaving Dillon & Beck, the law firm where we used to work, but he made me a generous offer and I followed him here. And nothing had changed, despite all his promises of a new beginning and a different work-life balance as in-house counsel. Maybe one day I’ll get my shit together and go find the job, and the life, that I deserve.

  The elevator pinged and the doors slid open onto the executive suite. Everything on this floor was plush, soft and expensive, unlike the utilitarian, budget-friendly accommodations two floors below in the Legal Department. I paced past the darkened offices of the CEO’s sycophants, more commonly referred to as the Executive Committee, before I reached Michael’s suite. Everything was dark here, too. If he dragged me up here at this ungodly hour and forgot about our meeting, I’d be royally pissed.

  The company’s reserve lighting system created a menacing tangle of shapes and shadows in the anteoffice. A small pit-a-pat of fear slid through me as I flipped the light switch. His assistant’s desk was neat and orderly, just the way she always left it.

  I tapped lightly on his door. “Michael, it’s me. Ellice.”

  No answer.

  My skin prickled. I opened the door and flipped on the lights.

  The bright crimson spray of blood was everywhere. Shock raced through me like a torpedo before landing in a hard knot at the pit of my stomach. My knees buckled as a tidal wave of nausea washed over me, like I would be sick and fade into black at any moment. But I didn’t panic. I didn’t utter a sound.

  The star-shaped hole in Michael’s right temple was ragged and grisly, like someone had tried to open his skull with a sledgehammer instead of a bullet. Blood had oozed in erratic streams along the side of his face, creating diminutive red rivers in the wrinkles along his jawline, before pooling at the end of his chin and trickling onto his starched white oxford shirt. The air hung thick with the acrid, copper scent of blood. And the hum of the fluorescent lights, the only sound in the room, was like a thousand bumblebees.

  An instant later, my mind clicked, as if someone else were inside my head, directing me.

  Run. Just go.

  I turned my eyes away from Michael’s lifeless body and the gun beside him. I hated myself for what I was thinking. Amid all this carnage, my first thoughts were to run, to leave without calling for help.

  No one knows I’m here.

  I slowly inched away from his body, careful not to touch anything. The few shreds of conscience I had left warned me that to leave would be reprehensible.

  I prayed to God for forgiveness, turned off the lights, and quietly closed the office door behind me.

  This would be the last secret between Michael and me.

  Chapter 2

  What the hell had I just done?

  I rushed off the elevator onto the eighteenth floor, inside the Legal Department. My body buzzed like someone had slapped me, leaving the sting to rumble underneath my skin. My thoughts were on fire. Blood. Death. This was Chillicothe all over again. And I did what I always did. I ran. My earliest memory is of running. My brother, Sam, hadn’t been born yet. My mother, Martha, had me by my hand and we were running, my little legs beating fast to keep up with her. It was nighttime. Cold outside. And she kept telling me to hurry. I don’t know who or what we were running from. I started to cry but she told me if I cried, she would have to leave me behind. So I ran.

  I didn’t hit the override switch for the reserve lighting; the dim spotlights were enough. I needed the cloak of darkness to cover my shame. I darted through a maze of soft-walled cubicles in the center of the floor that housed the support staff. Attorney offices, tight but windowed, formed a perimeter around the maze. Even though we didn’t bill our hours like people did in a law firm, most people in the department still kept law firm hours—start late, work late. With any luck, it would be over an hour before people would start to trickle in.

  Seven A.M. on this floor was like a fire station after a three-alarm call—offices and cubicles empty, things left scattered and unsettled. Each of us, working late into the evening until, realizing there were kids to pick up or dry cleaners to hit before closing, left our desks, files, papers disheveled, waiting exactly as we’d left them the night before.

  I made it to my office from the executive suite without anyone seeing me. Thank God. No one really sees me around this company anyway. They see what I want them to see. Smart. Tempered. Ellice Littlejohn, the consummate professional. My legal advice spot-on. Impeccably dressed, a funny quip when needed. I’m the one they admire and respect. That’s who they see.

  I
stood inside the cramped, drafty space that doubled as my office. I’m the only Black person in the Legal Department. I’m not saying one had anything to do with the other, but if an employee’s office space reflects their value to the company, Houghton didn’t think much of me. I used to dream of becoming the chief legal officer or even the CEO of a Fortune 500. I was supposed to have it all by now—a doting husband, two point five bright and gifted kids, and a successful career that others envied—but now, those things were well out of my reach. I was closer to menopause than marriage material.

  And all the stupid decisions I’d made before led me to this small gray freezer of an office, the lone Black lawyer working with other lawyers half my age, the majority of whom I didn’t like. Their pompous, know-it-all attitudes made it hard for me to settle in and feel like a real part of the “Houghton family,” as executive management liked to refer to the company. Michael always paid me so well, I learned to ignore it.

  The inklings of a headache nibbled at my left temple. I tossed my coat and bags in one of the guest chairs, scooted around to the business side of my desk and pulled a small portable heater from behind a stack of folders. I set the knob on “High” and listened to the scratchy hum of the fan blades for a few seconds before collapsing into my chair. Having portable heaters in your office was a violation of company policy. But I’d be damned if I gave up my heater before Building Services installed a better HVAC system on this floor.

  Now, there was a dead man two floors above me and if anyone knew I had been sleeping with him, it would be another disaster. I closed my eyes. A jagged bloody hole in his head. A gun on the floor beside him. My eyes popped open. Suicide? It didn’t make sense, although Michael had complained about his wife recently. Maybe something more happened between them. Maybe she found out about us. What would I do now? I would keep my ass in this chair, keep a low profile, and let someone else bring me the awful news about Michael. The farther away from this, the better.

  God forgive me. All I had to do was call for help. Surely calling for help wouldn’t be enough for anyone to dig through my background. Or would it? Yes. I’d made the right decision to leave his office. He was dead. My sticking around to answer a flurry of questions from the police wouldn’t bring him back. And then, in an instant, sadness engulfed me. Michael deserved better.