My Secret to Tell (12 page)

It’s not Thorpe either, not unless he’s bathed and picked up dental hygiene in the last few days.

I look up, catching a glimpse of myself in the surveillance camera monitor behind the register. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I’m zeroing in. You can see me clear as day—so much for keeping my back turned—but the man behind me is mostly out of focus. I can be sure he’s average height and build and he’s wearing a suit jacket and a white button-down shirt. Business guy.

He leans a little left, and I see his dark skin and hair in the monitor. My limbs go heavy with dread. It’s the guy from the Ann Street Inn. The one who was talking to Chelsea about me.

Just turn around. He can already see you. He already knows who you are, and you want to know who he is.

“That’ll be sixteen forty-five.”

I dig out my wallet, and a cell phone chirps behind me.
His
cell phone. It chirps again when I hand the bill over.

“Yeah?” The voice behind me is gruff. Familiar. Definitely the same guy.

I hear nothing from his phone, but my ears strain like radar dishes until he speaks again.

“I’m in the middle of something,” he says.

The clerk’s wrestling through the drawer. Swearing.

“It might be,” the man says. In the monitor, he steps back. Turns and walks away. “Yeah, I’m on my way.”

“Hang on a tic, miss,” the clerk says. “I gotta get a roll of quarters from the back.”

I nod absently, but mostly I’m watching the monitor, where the man in the gray suit is heading for the door, cell phone still pressed to his ear. When I lose sight of him on the monitor, I look over my shoulder, seeing nothing but dark hair and the suit jacket disappearing out the door. The bells jangle behind him, and then he’s gone.

I don’t know what the clerk is doing in the office, but it takes way longer than
a tic
. I don’t care. I’m too busy holding on to the counter while I try to remember what breathing is and how I’m supposed to do it.

The cashier swears, and it sounds like something falls off a desk. Then he answers the phone. At this rate, it’ll be dark before I get back to Deacon. Or pouring down rain. As if on cue, I hear the roar of a hard rain on the roof.

Terrific. I’m going to end up with a case of pneumonia to match my felony for interfering in a police investigation.

The clerk finally returns with my change, pocketing his cell phone before he hands it over, his gaze moving to the window. “Dude, it’s pouring out there.”

My smile feels like a rubber band pulled too tight. “You think?”

I grab a couple of extra plastic bags, tying my phone inside to keep it dry. I stall after that, waiting a few minutes with the futile hope that the rain will let up. So naturally, it hails.

It doesn’t last long—hail never does—but it’s still pouring when I push open the front door. The man in the gray suit could be waiting for me, but I’ve scanned every inch of the block I can see from the window, and I’m pretty sure he’s gone.

I’m shoving the bags into my basket when I spot a plain white card with black ink melted into gray streaks.

I pick it up and blot it on my sleeve. Something was written here. Most of it’s gone, but I can read a few words.

Emm

Stay away fr

Call 6 8 4

There are smudges next to the
fr
that I’m guessing spell
from
. And I’d bet the numbers at the bottom are a phone number, but three digits isn’t enough to help me make a call. None of this is enough to help me with anything.

But it’s doing a darn good job of scaring me half to death.

This card wasn’t in my basket when I went into the store, so it’s from him. I know it is.

He was looking for me. Waiting for me to come back to town. But for all the terror I went though, all he did was leave a note. I turn the card left and right, but nothing else is legible.

I don’t know if he’s trying to help or laying out a threat.

I search the street, but it’s hopeless. Traffic is heavy from tourists rushing to their cars, crawling down Front Street to escape the storm. There’s nothing but headlights and windshield wipers. The man could be sitting in one of those cars.

He could be watching me right now.

Deacon is on the porch when I get back. He’s on his feet the second he sees my bike, and I can tell he’s surprised to see me.

He jogs into the yard, though it’s still pouring buckets. “You rode in this? Emmie, you’re soaked!”

Well, so is he now, but I’m shivering too hard to say so. I manage to hand him the note, which is pointless. Hardly any of it’s readable now, and I can tell by his confused face he has no idea what he’s looking at it.

“The guy who w-was talking to Chelsea l-left it while I was in the store. I-I think he was waiting for me.”

I’m shivering violently now. I don’t know if it’s from the rain or my nerves. Deacon’s white shirt clings in ways I’m too cold to fully appreciate, but I’m thankful when he takes the bags. “Get inside. We need to find you dry clothes.”

I’m stiff and slow getting up the porch steps, and managing the knob with my half-frozen fingers is nearly impossible. I stop just inside the door, dripping the Mississippi all over the sloping wooden floor. Deacon’s right behind me, shutting the door and dropping bags on the kitchen counter. I wince at the trail of water and mud he’s leaving behind him, but he obviously doesn’t care.

He heads to the single tiny bedroom, where I can see a sleeping bag and the backpack he grabbed from the boat shack. He finds a black shirt and a pair of boxer shorts I picked out and brings them out to me.

“I can’t read the numbers. Did he seem dangerous?”

“No.” I shudder. “B-but I don’t trust him. Why wouldn’t he have talked to me right there? Why wait until he could get me alone?”

“Children’s Services won’t conduct interviews like that in front of people. Too many privacy laws.” Deacon frowns, looking thoughtful. “Do you think he followed you here?”

“N-no. I took the long way. I was careful. I stopped once to try to call Joel. He didn’t pick up.”

“You stopped? In this?” His shoulders droop. “
Emmie.
”

Another wave of violent shivers hits, and he moves in, handing me the clothes so he can rub my arms with both hands.

“You’ve got to get warmed up,” he says. “Sorry I don’t have shorts, but the boxers are clean. There’s an old beach towel in the bathroom, and I think there’s propane in the tank. I can get the water heater going if you want.”

Warm water sounds divine. My thoughts cut off when he tugs his own sopping shirt over his head, hanging it over a rusty folding chair in the corner. I don’t know what they do to this boy on those boats, because he is nothing but carved abs and sinewy arms. It’s ridiculous.

If I take him up on that shower, he’ll be out here. Looking like this. While I’m naked in the bathroom. Yeah, there is just no way.
No way.

I wrap my arms over my middle, and his face softens. I think he gets it because he looks away, and maybe it’s the light, but I swear his cheeks are a little pink. He clears his throat, and I stare at the puddle around my feet.

“I’ll probably just change,” I say, holding up the clothes gratefully.

He nods. Definitely blushing. “Me too. I’ll be in the bedroom. Pretending this wasn’t awkward at all.”

That makes me laugh, and laughing makes everything more bearable.

He slips into the room, flashing a smile that thaws me from the inside out. Then the door closes and I’m alone. I squelch out of my shoes and peel off my dripping socks. The door stays closed, but I watch it all the same as I slip into the bathroom to shuck my soaked shirts and shorts. My bra and undies are drenched too, but taking them off is out of the question, so I pull on the dry shirt he gave me, which thankfully covers most of the boxers.

The beach towel is hanging over the bare curtain rod above the tub. Seriously? I was supposed to bathe in here, with a two-inch gap beneath the door and no shower curtain? He’s lost his mind.

I hang up my clothes and use the towel to wipe off the drips my hair left on the sink. Then I start on the mirror. I force myself to stop, because this is not the time to clean. Back in the living room, I move for the grocery bags, but where do I put things? I scowl at the single remaining cabinet, which is closed. I’m not about to reach into that abyss to see what might crawl out, so I leave the bags where they sit.

The bedroom door is still shut tight.

I smirk. “Are you planning on taking a nap in there?”

The door cracks. “You finished changing?”

“Yes.” I untie plastic bags again, glad my phone made the second half of the journey without crapping out. I text Joel another request for him to call me about Chelsea. I don’t want to annoy him, but this definitely feels like an emergency.

“I’m trying to reach Joel,” I say. “I think he needs to look into this guy. Do you think I should text Chelsea?”

“Not yet. Let’s talk first.” Deke sighs, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead. He slips into the tiny kitchen with me and he’s so
focused
. I can feel all the places he looks at me, and every last one of them burns.

“Okay.” My voice cracks. “I’m ready to talk. To listen. Whatever.”

Deacon nods, putting a hand on the counter beside my hip. The sink drips, and my heart stutters.

“I need to do one stupid, selfish thing before I say this to you,” he says.

I pull back, wary. “What thing?”

“Only if you want me to.”

My palms are tingling. I press them into the cabinet doors behind me, and Deacon moves his hand closer. His thumb grazes my hip. I suck in a tight breath.

“Oh,” I say, the word catching in my throat.

His answering smirk unravels me. He slides his palm to the middle of my back, and I’m in free fall, hurtling and spinning like I’m lost in space. But he’s pulling me in. Just like always.

His forehead dips to touch mine, and I feel my pulse in my throat like a hammer.

“Why now?” I ask.

“Because I want to and you want me to. Because you might change your mind after.”

After?

I push at his chest. He relents in an instant, pulling back. Surprise and worry cloud his expression. There’s an unnecessary apology forming on his lips, so I hold up a hand.

“Please don’t. You’re right about what I want”—I force myself to meet his eyes—“but what I
need
is to hear the truth. Now.”

He takes a step back, and I feel his absence like an old wound. He leans against the counter across from me, pulls his shoulders back a little before he starts.

“My dad has a drug problem,” he says.

It takes everything I have to not laugh. The idea of Mr. Westfield—in his short-sleeved button-down shirts and battered boat shoes—even thinking he would know where to get drugs is too ridiculous.

But Deacon isn’t laughing.

Not even close.

• • •

The rain has finally eased. A sliver of blue sky peeks through the clouds outside the back window. Deacon’s pacing the stamp-sized kitchen now, and I know he’s waiting on me to say something. Anything maybe.

I lick my parched lips. “I had no idea. None.”

“Of course you didn’t. Chelsea’s done backflips to hide all this from you.”

I blink, as if somehow that’ll clear the fog settling over me. It doesn’t. “Okay, tell me more. What does he use? When did it start?”

“Pain pills. Prescription stuff like Percocet, Vicodin—even morphine a few times when he got his hands on it. It started with a back injury after Mom died.”

“Does he use all the time? Is this an everyday thing?”

“No. He’s been clean on and off. Sometimes for months. We found out he had problems even before Mom, back in his teens. Valium, sleeping pills—he stole whatever he could find.” Deacon’s still pacing, burning nervous energy. “Anyway, Mom was a good Catholic girl from Caracas. She made it clear she wouldn’t be dating someone with that sort of habit. I know everybody says you can’t get clean for somebody else, but he did. Stayed sober for fifteen years. And then Mom died.”

I rub my hand over my face. I still feel numb. “Who knows about this?”

“Chelsea, me, and Joel.” He laughs, but it’s joyless. “It’s pretty easy to hide. People think drug addicts are hollow-eyed vagrants. Nobody thinks of the middle-aged guy next door.”

I raise a hand to stop him. “Joel knows?”

“Yeah. He’s been good to us. Paid for a couple of Dad’s stints in rehab. He says he had a rough go when his wife and daughter died—I guess it bonds them. He had to cover Dad on some tax problems after a bad episode, and he’s helped ever since. He never wears out like I do. I’m sick of protecting him—but not Joel and definitely not Chelsea. Chelsea would lie forever for him.”

I swallow hard, but his words go down like a jagged pill.

“Do the police know? Do they think the attack is related to drugs?”

“Deputy Nelson is the only one who knows he uses. He saw him overdose last year. I think he could have pushed the issue, but he was decent. Dad was going into rehab again, and Nelson turned the other way. I think he knew what the sheriff would do if he found out.”

“The sheriff? What would he do?”

A group of gulls flies over the house, screeching. We turn to watch them flap over the water, sending the herons into irritable dances in the grass. When I look back, Deacon continues.

“Perry hasn’t exactly kept his bad opinion of us quiet. He thinks Dad has a waterfront monopoly. After the marina wreck I covered for him, things just got worse.”

I straighten. “Wait…covered? Did your dad wreck the boat?”

“I forced Dad into that. I was seventeen, so no permanent file. If he had taken that on his record?” Deke shakes his head, looking grave. “Perry would pull his license, his membership in the council of commerce. He’d do everything he could to ruin us.”

I press my lips together, wondering what the sheriff will think if Joel’s investor comes through. Three locations on the Carolina coast? I doubt that’ll sit too well.

“Do you think he’d go so far as framing you?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I don’t like the guy, but I don’t see him as a dirty cop either. If you look at it from his angle, the pieces fit nicely. I’ve got a record. I was there that night. I look guilty. And there aren’t any other suspects without alibis.”

He pauses, his jaw going tight. I watch his fists clench and relax. Clench and relax.

“Dad had been clean for six months,” he says. “Chelsea was sure it would stick this time. But then there he was in the office at home, so out of his mind he barely recognized me.”

The image sits heavy on my chest. “That’s when you hit him,” I guess.

He swallows hard, looks at his feet. “I was furious. I’ve covered so much shit for him. Almost didn’t graduate because of him. I just lost it. Then I felt like crap and went back.”

I move away from the counter, pushing my hair behind my shoulders. “Deacon, this is awful. You need help.”

“I know I do—but who? Joel thinks I did it. Perry thinks I did it. Hell,
Dad
thinks I did it. Chelsea’s probably too flipped out about me hitting him to know what she thinks.” He sighs. “I thought rumors would come out, that someone would have heard something by now.”

“Do you still think it’s somebody that works for you guys?”

“It’s a good bet. My gut tells me it involves the boats. It’s the only thing Dad has that’s worth anything. We’ve got five regular guys between here and Morehead City, but I’m pretty sure the police would have looked into all of them. My money’s on our seasonal guys.”

“The ones who only work on call?”

Deacon nods. “There are probably a dozen of them, and we don’t know them quite as well because they come and go. At least a few of them might have considered the opportunity the boats provide.”

“What kind of opportunity?”

“Smuggling,” he says. “Our boats move without much attention. We’re not exactly a threat. Which is the kind of thing some of these guys look for.”

“The coordinates,” I say. “You think that’s where they’re taking stuff?”

Deacon shrugs. “Makes as much sense as anything else I can come up with. But random coordinates aren’t enough to prove anything. I need something to give Perry. Not evidence—I’m not that stupid. I just need to be able to offer a reasonable lead. Something that convinces him I’m not just trying to save my own ass, you know?”

We slip into the living room, sitting side by side against the wall.

“Do you think the guy with Chelsea ties in to this?” I ask.

“I doubt it. Children’s Services checks in after any bad relapse. Last time, you were probably too young, but they interviewed our teachers and doctors, set us up with counselors. I’m sure they’re around again, and since Chelsea seemed comfortable, he’s probably legit.”

“But why would he want to talk to me? And what would he want me to stay away from?”

Deacon frowns. “I don’t know. Maybe someone who was dealing to Dad? Maybe it’s someone you might run into at the office? Either way, he’d want to talk to you because you’re part of her support network.”

It does fit. Except I’m
not
part of her support network, am I? Not really.

My cheeks burn. I stay quiet, because I don’t trust my voice right now. I leaned on Chelsea so hard when my brother left. I needed her. And I always thought she needed me too.

Deacon scoots closer to me, still smelling like salt water. Still looking like everything I’ve ever wanted in my life.

I shiver, not because I’m cold but because I feel small and young and incredibly stupid. All these secrets were swimming underneath me, but I never looked down. How did I love them both so much and know them so little?

My laugh is bitter. “God, I’m such an optimist. How could I not see this? I’m so sorry.”

“What? Emmie, no.”

I turn to him, the carpet rough under my legs. “You and Chelsea—you were suffering. The signs were there. Those nights Chelsea didn’t want me staying over. The times you’d seem so angry about your dad sleeping in. There were clues, Deke. How could I not see this?”

He nudges me with his knee. “You
always
saw. Better than that, you knew what to do. From the lilies on Mom’s sailboat to the blood thing. You’ve been there every time I needed you, and you’ve been there for Chelsea too. You let her feel normal. You let her forget.”