My Secret to Tell
Authors: Natalie D. Richards
Thank you for purchasing this eBook
.
At Sourcebooks we believe one thing:
BOOKS CHANGE LIVES
.
We would love to invite you to receive exclusive rewards. Sign up now for VIP savings, bonus content, early access to new ideas we're developing, and sneak peeks at our hottest titles!
Happy reading
!
Also by Natalie D. Richards
Six Months Later
Gone Too Far
Copyright © 2015 by Natalie D. Richards
Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Cover images © Aleshyn_Andrei/Shutterstock; Lana Gramlick/Getty Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410
(630) 961–3900
Fax: (630) 961–2168
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
To Romily
Above and beyond doesn’t even come close
“Emmie?”
My name lands somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, and my feet stall out on the sidewalk in front of my house. I adjust my grip on the phone, hoping I misheard her tone. This doesn’t sound like Chelsea. This voice is breathless. Frightened.
“I’m here,” I say. “What’s up? You don’t sound right.”
“I’m not.” She takes a shuddery breath.
My shirt’s sticking to my back and cicadas are click-buzzing the end of another blistering day, but I go cold. Something’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
“It’s my dad, Emmie,” she says. I can tell she’s crying.
I grab my chest. It’s too tight. Burning. “What happened?”
Her words all tumble out on top of one another, interrupted by shaky breaths. I try to pick out pieces that make sense. “He’s hurt—bleeding—we’re behind the ambulance and I can’t—he’s not—someone attacked him.”
I start climbing the porch steps, because she’ll need me. I’m her best friend, so I should be there. I need to change clothes and go. “You’re on the way to the hospital, right? They’ll help him there.”
Another sharp breath. “I don’t know if they can. He’s so bad.
So
bad.”
My heart clenches. “Where are you?”
“We’re almost there. Joel’s with me.”
“Okay, good. I’m coming,” I say, crossing my porch and hauling my front door open. “Let me just call Mom. I’ll borrow the car.”
Chelsea’s still crying when I storm down the hallway toward my bedroom. “Emmie, I can’t find Deacon…”
“Your brother never answers his phone,” I say, pushing open my door. “I’ll run by the docks first and—”
“No. No, he was there. He was at the house.”
Chelsea makes a strangled sound, and I notice the liquid-thick heat in my bedroom. The kind of heat that tells me the air conditioner is broken. Or my window is open.
My gaze drags to my fluttering white curtains, to the dark smudge on the windowsill.
Chelsea’s voice goes low and raspy. “He ran, Emmie. God, he was there with Dad. He was in the house, but he
ran
.”
I swivel with an invisible fist lodged in my throat. My bathroom door is open, a red-black smudge beneath the knob.
My mouth goes dry, my pulse thumping slower than it should. Then I see the blood on the floor by my sink, and my heart tumbles end over end.
“We’re here. I’ll call soon,” Chelsea says and hangs up.
I see him, his back to my tub and his dark head bowed on one bent knee. Oh God.
He’s covered in blood. It’s on his legs, his hands. Dripping onto my white tile floor. He looks up, and my heart goes strangely steady.
I take a breath that tastes like purpose.
“Deacon?”
Eight Hours Earlier
Where is my green pen? I check my inbox basket again, but it’s not there. Everything is as it should be. Phone on the right corner. Laptop dead center. A single inbox on the left, and a phone message pad—a relic from some prehistoric time—in front of me. No green pen though.
I slide open the meticulously organized drawer, moving a pencil that’s shifted. Everything’s arranged like a box of chocolates. Rubber bands, paper clips, and extra staples in tidy heaps. My pens are lined up: blue, black, empty space, highlighter. I chew my lip and try to reach for the blue pen, because who really cares about ink color?
Me, that’s who.
I stand up and sit right back down. Check under the desk, under my rolling chair.
Then I stand up again, hands sweaty. Joel’s leather office chair creaks in the next room. He’s leaning back. Probably trying to figure out why he extended this internship to a girl who’s popping up and down like a jack-in-the-box. I plop down with a sigh.
Once upon a time, I was a normal person. I miss that.
“All right there?” Joel asks.
“Sure, I just…” Yeah, I just
what
? Lost my super special pen? Spiraled down the drain of a green ink fixation?
As if that’s my only fixation.
I need to dial it back a notch. A lot of notches. Joel is
paying
me for this. More than that, he’s giving me a recommendation letter for the dean of admissions at Duke. I can just imagine telling my parents this story. “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry I lost my job and might not ever go to law school, but I had no choice, because blue is for file notes. Black is for supply lists. Phone messages have to be green, see?”
They’ve already had one kid trash his future, so I grab the blue pen.
“Sorry, I’m good,” I finally say. It’s all breathy Southern charm, just like my mom. I button on a smile for good measure. “Lost a pen. It’s nothing.”
This would be easier if Joel would take advantage of the eleventy billion options cell phones and computers offer for relaying messages. Something I might say if he wasn’t practically my best friend’s uncle
and
the lawyer/manager/advisor of their family business.
My blue pen hovers over the paper, and I wince. Maybe one last check. Super quick. I crouch under my desk, patting around the floor under the drawers. Carpet, carpet, the paper clip I knew I was missing yesterday—
“You looking for this?”
I freeze, still on all fours, under the desk.
That’s not Joel.
Dread rolls over me in a slow wave as I sit up, careful not to hit my head.
Yep, definitely not Joel. Too tan. Too sweaty. Too hot.
But every bit as familiar.
“Hey, Deacon,” I say, taking the green pen from his fingers.
“Hey back.”
I take a breath and look down, because I’ve learned it’s best to avoid eye contact with my best friend’s brother. For most girls, it’s his looks—a hormonally lethal combo of Venezuelan coloring and boat-boy physique. He’s eye candy for them, but he’s something much more dangerous for me. Something a lot like gravity. Because being around him feels like falling. Every. Single. Time.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
He nods. “One of the charter boats has a problem. It’s no big deal, but we all know Dad can’t tie his shoes unless he checks with Joel first.” He pauses, his smile barely more than clenched teeth. “So here we are.”
Holy family tension. Chelsea warned me it was ugly between them, but
wow
. Outside the window, his dad is waiting on the sidewalk, phone to his ear and the quiet residential street behind him. Deacon follows my gaze.
“Not getting along, huh?” I ask.
He smirks at me. “When do we ever get along?”
He leans over my desk. I catch a whiff and make an awful face. Hot or not, this boy is fresh off the boat, and he smells like a dead fish wrapped in a sweaty T-shirt.
“That bad?” he asks, flashing Chelsea’s smile at me.
“Worse.” I glance briefly at his face where I can see a red-purple shadow down the side of his cheek. “Did you hit your head?”
He grins. “Took a corner too fast in Chelsea’s car. Smacked my head into the door when I clipped the light pole. And before you even start, at least it wasn’t my bike.”
I drop the paper clip I’m still holding in the pile in my drawer, but I don’t
start
anything. Why bother? Deacon’s been creating his own personal version of
Fast & Furious
up and down the Carolina coast since he got his license two years ago. And he was a daredevil long before that. Ever since they lost their mom really. You’ve got to pick your battles with him.
“Hell, I do reek,” he says.
“Reek might be too kind. I hope you’re keeping the tourist girls at a distance.” Not likely. “They’d probably dive off the boat if they got a whiff of you.” Even less likely.
“I’ve got charms to make up for the stench,” he says around one of those devil’s grins he’s famous for. “One of these days, you’ll let me flirt with you long enough to find out.”
“You’re hysterical,” I deadpan, ignoring the fire that’s shooting up my neck. I uncap my green pen, focusing on the message for Joel.
Call Mr. Trumbull about his overnight charter arrangement.
I add a date and a time, though neither are necessary. It’s a stall tactic so Deke doesn’t see that I’m annoyed. I shouldn’t be. He doesn’t even know I’m into him. Still, we’ve been friends for forever. Seniority alone should exempt me from the flirty comments he tosses at a revolving door of dit-dotters (our local word for “tourist”) from the Midwest. I’m not with him, but I’m not temporary either.
He plants his hand on my desk. He’s going to leave fingerprints. “Hey, are you mad? I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” I might have convinced him if I hadn’t cut him off.
His hand slides forward, and I forget about the prints. My stomach wads up. Shrinks tight. The vanishing distance between our fingers pushes me closer to that invisible edge.
“Emmie.” His tone is one I’ve never heard.
Joel’s chair creaks, and Deacon’s hand is gone. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. By the time I look up, Joel is beside me, shaking Deke’s hand across my desk.
“Hey, Dink. Everything all right?”
He’s Dink. I’m Eddie. Everyone who matters gets a Joel nickname. Deacon could have it worse. Chelsea is Chickadee, for God’s sake. Their dad is
Daffy
.
They’re talking about the boat now—something to do with a broken compartment, I think. It’s all “storage” this and “hinges” that, but the only thing that interests me is the hateful look Deacon’s shooting out the window. Mr. Westfield is still on the phone—probably a customer—but he looks worried. It’s his business, so I get it, but Deacon’s eyes might as well be slinging bullets.
Joel must notice too, because he catches Mr. Westfield’s attention through the glass and gives him a wave and a smile. Then he points at Deacon and gives a thumbs-up, like Deke had the solution all figured out before he even walked inside. Which is probably the truth.
Joel puts a hand on Deacon’s shoulder. “Before you know it, he’s going to see what you’re capable of, Dink.”
He scoffs. “Doubtful. He’s been unbelievable all morning. He’s blaming this whole thing on Thorpe and Charlie. It’s insane.”
Joel laughs that makes-it-all-better laugh. It’s a little too loud, but it works. “He just takes pride in the business. Let me get my keys and see if we can’t smooth things over.”
“I’ll hang outside with the kraken.” Deacon smirks and heads to the door, looking back at me before he leaves.
He and Chelsea have the kind of eyes that stop you in your tracks. Not green, not brown, but something way better than hazel. They make me think of old pennies and dark secrets. He doesn’t speak, but he gives me a smile that curls like fire through my insides, and then he’s gone.
He disappears on the porch stairs, but then I see him on the sidewalk with his dad. Joel bought one of the run-down cottages in the historic district for his office, so we don’t have to deal with as much tourist traffic. There’s no water to see, but it’s quiet and convenient. We all live in this several block stretch, a section of old white houses with porch swings and well-tended flowerbeds. It’s also as small-town as a place gets, so this fight the Westfields are having on the front sidewalk? Everyone will know about it by dinnertime.
Mr. Westfield adjusts his hat over graying blond hair and points at Deacon. The air conditioner is humming, so I can’t hear what he says or how Deacon responds, but it’s pretty obvious there are plenty of four-letter words involved. Deacon turns, face dark with rage, and then he’s storming across the street.
“They’re at it again,” Joel says at the edge of my desk.
“Chelsea told me it’s been bad.” I grab Joel’s arm. “Which reminds me, you’re picking her up, right?”
“Oil change this evening. I’ve got it,” he says, chuckling. “Aren’t you headed to the shelter at two?”
“Yeah, but I can check the supply list first. Mr. Christopher’s monthly weekend is coming up, and I want to make sure you have enough reels on board.” I start wiping at a smudge on my desk. Deacon’s doing, no doubt.
“Do it tomorrow,” Joel says. “You’re organizing this office to death, you know.”
“Is it annoying?” I gnaw my lip and stop wiping. “It
is
annoying.”
Joel’s hand pats mine on the desk. “You’re doing a lovely job, Eddie. But you can go easy.” He glances outside with a sigh. “You kids all need to go a little easier.”
“I wish Deke would go easy with his driving,” I say, though Joel probably has more right to gripe about it. Being the lawyer, he’s the one left to clean up the mess.
“That boy’s got to let up on the throttle in more ways than one.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and smiles. “But
you’ve
got to stop worrying.”
“Oh, I know. No sense in worrying about things you can’t change, right?” I add a smile, because this is my best lie. It’s also the easiest, because it’s the one I almost believe.
• • •
“Seth and I were talking,” Chelsea says midstride. “You came up.”
She met me at the office to walk with me to the shelter. And now she’s stirring the very tired pot of Seth drama, so she’s obviously bored out of her mind.
“Are we really back on that? I stopped seeing him months ago.”
“For no reason.”
I scoff. “I had a reason.”
“Uh-huh. And does that
reason
leave socks on my bathroom floor and a string of broken tourist hearts on the decks of our boats?”
Chelsea has a smile like bottled sunshine, but I shut it down with a glare. “It has nothing to do with Deke. Give me some credit.”
“Okay, then why?”
The sun’s beating hard enough to make my shoulders tight when I shrug. “He was getting attached, and I’m not ready for that.”
“Oh sure. That’d be crazy. Future veterinarian. Honor roll. Great arms. Seth’s
terrible
boyfriend material.”
I step off the curb and smile at a mom with a double stroller before answering. “I’m not looking for boyfriend material, Chelsea. Why don’t
you
date Seth?”
She ignores my barb and swirls her coffee, looking a little smug. “Your mom likes him, doesn’t she?”
Good guess. I don’t tell her she’s right, but I don’t need to. We fall in step again, and she turns with me toward the animal shelter, where practically a third of our high school volunteers. Community service is required for graduation, and puppies beat out old people any day of the week.
It dies down over the summer, but Deacon, Seth, and I are still regulars. Community service with a heaping side of awkward. It was better when Chels was there too, but she quit the minute she met her required hours. Scooping poop isn’t her thing.
Chelsea sighs. “Is that what it is with Deke? The fact that your mother would crack in half if anything happened between you two?”
“Doubtful. Mom was less crazy before my brother left, and I still had this…problem. Maybe I was dropped on my head as a small child.”
She grins. “That would explain some things.”
I laugh, but I’m thinking about Deacon being in the office. I can still see his fingers sliding forward on my desk. My whole body coiled up tight. Was it obvious? Did he notice?
“Hey, you haven’t said anything to him, have you?” I ask. “Anything about me, I mean.”
She wrinkles her nose. “No chance. I love my brother, but he doesn’t deserve you. Aside from impromptu hookups with complete strangers—”
“Thanks for that.”
“All I’m saying is Deke doesn’t do relationships. Not really. Anything emotional and he just can’t. Not since Mom.”
“I know.”
He can’t do them, and Chelsea always wants one. Funny what the same grief can do to two different people.
She smacks my arm lightly. “Omigod, did I tell you? He wrecked my freaking car! I mean, it’s not that bad, and I know it’s a piece of crap, but it hasn’t even been a week since his last ticket.”
“I saw the bruise. He got a ticket at the wreck?”
“No, for speeding. Eighty-seven in a sixty-five. They might take his license.”
We turn onto Queen Street, finally catching some shade. I bump her shoulder lightly. “A brother with no license is better than a brother wrapping your car around a tree.”
“Or one who hits the highway one night because he can’t take it anymore.” Chelsea catches herself fast, grabbing my shoulder. “Oh God, I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking about—”
She wasn’t thinking about Landon.
My
brother. The former prince of Beaufort who left for Duke with a golden cardiologist future only to crash and burn nine months into his freshman year. Good-bye, college. Hello, shattered parents.
“It’s okay,” I finally say, though it’s not. Talk to my parents for two seconds if you want to see how not-okay Landon’s “I need time to find myself” disappearing act is. They need to get over it, but it’s not like they have much chance with him never being here.
“I can’t believe I said that,” Chelsea says, misreading my quiet for anger. “I’m so worried about Deke, I’m being stupid. I’m sorry.”