My Secret to Tell

  There’s a bite to his tone that I don’t recognize, and I know that’s the real Joel. Hiding under all the warm smiles and free coffees lies the heart of a man who sold his soul and made a small fortune for it.

  He did tell me what I wanted to hear. Before this, I would have never believed something so awful of him, no matter the proof. Before this, maybe I would have been happier with a lie.

  “This will kill Chelsea,” Deacon says. “And Dad…” He trails off, shaking his head.

  I touch his face and force his chin down until he looks at me. “This isn’t going to kill any of us. This is something we’re going to survive together.”

  “Emmie?” It’s Vaughn this time, behind my shoulder. “I want to get that hand looked at, and it’s time to call your parents. And Deacon, I’d like you to head to the hospital too. Maybe I can drive you. Ask a few questions on the way?”

  Deacon nods and lets me go. I give him a tremulous smile and let the paramedics swarm in to fuss. They hover at my hand, my knees, over all the places where I’m hurting. Then they strap me onto a narrow gurney and load me into the ambulance.

  As they pull away, I close my eyes, feeling the tears roll down my temples. They ask me if I’m crying because of the pain, but I don’t answer. I don’t know why the tears come now. They just do.

  • • •

  I’m staring at twelve ugly black stitches when the curtain to my emergency room partition is tugged open. I see dark hair and a sharply carved profile, and my chest swells like the chorus of a song.

  “Hi, you,” I say.

  Deacon turns, and I hold in a gasp, taking in his purpling left eye and puffy jaw. It’s already worse.

  “You look horrible,” I say.

  His laugh is soft, and his one good eye is still beautiful as he squeezes himself into the bed beside me. “You have a knack for telling it like it is, you know.”

  “Someone’s got to keep you in line,” I say.

  “There’s a line?” he teases, but I can see the apology in his eyes. His smile wavers. “I’m going to try harder, Emmie.”

  He doesn’t have to say anything else. He presses his forehead to mine and laces our fingers together. Then he feathers a soft kiss over my lips, and that doesn’t feel like a bad choice at all.

  I close my eyes for just a second, but then I’m startled by a familiar soft voice.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Deacon jerks beside me, looking as groggy as I feel. I blink up at the dark-haired figure sniffling next to my bed. Chelsea.

  Deacon flies off of the bed and hugs her off of her feet. I’m crying and she’s crying and Deacon’s saying he’s sorry over and over again into her shoulder. She can’t seem to apologize enough either. Eventually, Chelsea nestles in beside me. She curls in to hug me, bumping my bad hand. I hiss, and Deacon’s right there on the other side, fingers feathering over my hair.

  “You all right?” he asks, and his face is so tender it might break me.

  I nod, seeing Chelsea’s lips part out of the corner of my eye. First she looks surprised. Then she looks like she might smile.

  Two shadows appear in the curtain opening behind her, and my stomach goes tight.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  For a moment, the room is frozen. Deacon’s face shutters, and Chelsea tenses. She plucks at Deacon’s shirt, and they both peel themselves off my bed to stand across from my parents. It leaves me stuck in the middle—between the people I love most.

  I lick my lips and hope to God it won’t always be like this between us.

  “I’m going to just take my brother back to his own room,” Chelsea says. “Or area. Whatever.”

  The Westfield siblings cling to each other as they head past my parents. My mom won’t look at them. As much as I love her, it stings like a slap. I give them a pleading look, and finally, it’s my dad who relents.

  “Chelsea, Deacon…” he starts.

  They stop and turn, and I feel their wariness like it’s my own. I stare hard at my dad’s head, willing him to be kind.

  “I’m very sorry for all that you two are going through today.”

  Deacon nods, but his eyes cut away. He’s never going to be the one they’ll want, but it’s not their choice. Not anymore.

  “Thank you, Mr. May,” Chelsea says, and then they’re gone.

  My parents rush in then, and I can see tear tracks through my mom’s makeup. It’s like a knife in the gut. Mom checked her mascara at her own mother’s funeral, so she had to be scared to death.

  My apology is lost in my suddenly tight throat. Dad hugs me first, pressing a scratchy kiss to the top of my head. That finally spurs her forward. Her heels click against the hospital floor, and her soft hands go to my face. She looks me over, wincing at every cut, every bruise.

  And then she hugs me so hard I can barely breathe.

  “I thought I lost you,” she says, her voice breaking on a sob. “I thought I lost you.”

  She cries with her lips to my hair, and I stroke her back with my one good hand, trying to ease her back from the edge. “I’m right here. I’m safe.”

  She sucks in a shaky breath. “You were with that boy.”

  “I still am.” Her hands grow stiff, but I just hug her tighter. “I’m still with Deacon, and I’m still not going anywhere. You won’t lose me.”

  I repeat it until she breathes again, until she loosens her hold, finally pulling back to accept the tissues my father offers.

  “Look at me,” she says with a watery laugh. “I’m a fine mess. I’ve got to pull myself together here.”

  My dad nudges me gently with a smile. “This is going to be front page news, kiddo. I don’t know what to think. Black-market diamonds? Joel Carmichael arrested?”

  “I can tell you what I know if you want,” I offer. I’ve been patching together pieces from nurses and paramedics since the ride over.

  “Oh, sugar, you don’t have to do that,” Mom says, still sniffling. “Heaven knows you’ve had too much excitement already.”

  I hesitate but then sag back into my pillows. No point in keeping secrets anymore. All the closets are wide open, and these skeletons aren’t mine, so they’re free to dance.

  “Reader’s Digest version?” I offer.

  Dad nods, and Mom clutches her tissues.

  “Joel is in jail because he’s a con artist. He’s befriended the Westfields because of the boats. They think he’s been moving diamonds for a long time. Paid off people in town too. Two of the boat guys. Even Deputy Nelson. He had Mr. Westfield beaten because he was getting in the way.”

  Mom’s hand flutters to her throat. “Right here in Beaufort under all our noses. My God.”

  Dad’s shock is quiet. I see it ripple over his face like an earthquake. Finally, he swallows hard. “And the sheriff? What about Martin?”

  I think about the gun to Deacon’s head, the nasty threats he dangled over me. In the end, all that screaming was nothing more than a trick of the light, hiding a decent man underneath.

  “You were right about him.” I smile. “He saved our lives.”

  Mom goes back to kissing my head, stroking my hair. And Dad settles next to me on a doctor’s stool, pointing at the stitches running down my hand.

  “There’s more you’re not telling us,” he says.

  “No,” Mom says, touching my face. “She’s been through enough. She will tell us when she decides she’s ready.”

  When I decide. I like the sound of that.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Four days after the arrests, the town is still crawling with news crews and rumors. The media part is annoying, but after three days of our phone and doorbell ringing nonstop, Mom snapped. She’s put up no trespassing signs and called lawyers. She’s even started a social media campaign to protect victims from so-called media harassment.
r />   It’s good. Gives her a mission.

  We haven’t talked much about things. I gave her the basics about my injuries and told her I would make no more promises on law school but that I would work hard to make her proud with my choices. She wasn’t happy, but she’s still speaking to me. It’s something.

  Agent Bennett filled me in a bit more on Joel’s con. He’d been transporting and selling illegally obtained diamonds on Westfield boats for years and planting drugs whenever he needed Mr. Westfield a little less attentive. He definitely needed him less attentive for this last run, which is where Thorpe came in with a ski mask and a violent streak, creating a guaranteed leave of absence for poor Mr. Westfield.

  Charlie worked as a snitch and a prep guy in town, but Thorpe was Joel’s right hand. Joel had gotten Thorpe out of the trafficking charge in South Carolina, and he called for payment. Thorpe beat Mr. Westfield to a pulp so Joel’s last run would go off without a hitch.

  Joel’s lies ran so deep there are only shards of truth in the ruins. He isn’t even Joel Carmichael, but I asked Agent Bennett not to tell me his real name. I don’t want to know.

  I don’t want to think of him at all.

  The coordinates I found matched up with a known diamond dealer on a small island off the coast of South America. There was no Mr. Trumbull and no Westfield expansion—just a criminal client ready to partner with Joel for a new endeavor on another continent. The Trumbull charter with all the food and supplies I ordered? Bound for the South America coordinates. Joel had every intention of disappearing forever. He’d used the Westfields up, even emptied the company accounts with the power of attorney Mr. Westfield signed.

  I remind myself at least once an hour that if they didn’t have those coordinates, the FBI might not have caught the full scope of what they had planned. It’s a good thing, even if it doesn’t make me feel better about the role I unknowingly played.

  “Hold still,” Chelsea says from my bedroom floor, where she’s kneeling. She’s leaving glitter on my rug, and she might as well be using a paint roller to spackle on my eyeliner, but I do as I’m told, curling my fingers into my quilt.

  “You’re getting glitter on everything,” I say, wondering if I have time to vacuum.

  “You could use a little glitter in your life. Open your eyes.”

  I do, and Chelsea smiles. She’s as gorgeous as ever, but she looks tired. Having your family’s dirty laundry draped all over town will do that to you, I guess.

  “How are you?” I ask. “Really?”

  She moves in with more eyeliner, and I hold up my hands. “Nope. Not until you answer me. No more dodging, right, Chels?”

  She sighs. “Right.” She worries her lip before she answers. “I’m starting therapy. My counselor called this morning. So that’ll be weird.”

  “It could be good. Did they say anything helpful yet?”

  She flips her hair out of her eyes. “Just that they really feel I should go. I didn’t want to, tried to get out of it today, but Deacon said if he’s going to go to deal with his anger-management issues, then I should go too, so I can deal with my guilt.”

  “Guilt? Chelsea, why?”

  “Because I trusted Joel. I loved him like family. If I had been more careful maybe—”

  “Maybe nothing,” I say. “There’s no way to see something like that coming, but I hate how much it hurts you. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. I turned on my brother.” She shakes her head. Looks sick. “On you. I even turned on Sheriff Perry when he called that morning. God, Joel had me tied up in so many knots. I could have killed you both.”

  “But you didn’t. You saved us when you called Bennett,” I point out.

  She shrugs. “Maybe. I guess.”

  “Stop arguing it. You need to let this go. We both need to learn to let some things go.”

  She smirks. “Right. Does that mean you’re going to chill with the cleaning obsession?”

  “I’m going to try.” I grin wide. “Now, enough eyeliner! We have pirate things to do.”

  Chelsea runs home to put her costume on, and I get dressed and wait for her. I even resist the urge to vacuum. For the first ten minutes at least. I’m just putting the sweeper away when the doorbell rings. I grab my hat and flip my eye patch down.

  “Blackbeard better watch his booty,” I tell my reflection, then I swish out of my room, pirate skirts trailing behind.

  The door is already open, and my mother is playing gatekeeper. There’s been a lot of this for the last four days.

  I see Deacon’s silhouette behind my mother’s back. Her shoulders are iron-tight under her pink sweater. Her only contribution to Pirate Invasion is a tasteful silk skull and crossbones scarf knotted at her neck. And her only effort at civility is allowing Deacon to step inside the door, where he stands corralled like a muddy dog on our entry rug.

  Ralph is already flopped at his feet, panting, but Mom’s welcome is frostier.

  “And what time do you propose to bring my daughter home?” she asks, her accent thick the way it only gets when she’s irritated.

  “Emmie and I haven’t had the chance to discuss that, Mrs. May.” Deke’s voice is chilly too. This respect thing is new for him. I’m pretty sure he’d rather chew rusty nails.

  Mom crosses her arms. “Well, my mama always told me proper planning is a sign of a good upbringing.”

  I slip into the space between them, my hand clamping onto her elbow. “Hi, Deacon,” I say with a smile. “Mom, I’ll be home by eleven, okay?”

  “Well, I really think nine or ten might be late enough for such a—”

  “Eleven,” I repeat, and then I force a smile. “I mean, my normal weekend curfew is eleven, so that should be fine, right?”

  This is hard for her, my new choice-making ways. Her lips are thin, and every inch of her seems poised to snap, but she holds it tight. Strangles that urge.

  I hate that she won’t accept him. And I love her for trying to accept this new me. In the end, she’s the only mom I’ve got, so I break my tough-girl stance and wrap my arms around her.

  I’m covered in layer upon layer of pirate garb, but she returns the embrace, her hands small and shaky around my waist.

  “I love you,” I say. When I pull back, there are tears in her eyes, but I smile. “Don’t worry, we won’t take the motorcycle. I know you’d be a nervous wreck with so many tourists around town.”

  She swallows thickly and squares her shoulders. “I’d appreciate that very much.”

  “Have a nice evening, Mrs. May,” Deacon says.

  Somewhere, pigs are flying. Because I never thought I’d see the day where Deacon would utter a sentence like that.

  Outside on the porch, I turn to look him over. “You make a hell of a pirate.”

  And he really does. Knee-high boots and breeches and a hat tipped to carve wicked shadows across his face.

  “I credit my black eye,” he says.

  I smile and tenderly touch the still-healing bruise while he checks me out. “I’m sure I should say something chivalrous,” he says, “but you look ridiculously hot in that getup.”

  I grin. “Deke, you wouldn’t be you with too many manners.”

  “I have manners.”

  “Well, you don’t chew with your mouth open, so I suppose there’s that.” I lean in to kiss him but pull away quickly when there’s a groan on the sidewalk.

  “Okay, absolutely not.”

  I grin down at Chelsea, who’s wearing a mermaid costume complete with sequined bra. With her ample chest, it’s a dangerous choice, but she looks amazing. Sparkly and coiffed within an inch of her life.

  “There will be no kissing,” she says, wagging a finger in a way that makes me think of librarians. “We may have all made up, but I’m not going to play lookout while you two grope.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, there will definitely be kissing,” Deke argues, running a thumb down the back of my arm. “But we’ll try to keep it behind your back.”

  “Fine.” Chelsea sniffs, but she takes my other arm, and we walk three wide down the sidewalk toward the center of town.

  I can already hear the music from the big tents they put up. The streets will be swarmed with tourists and food trucks and temporary stages. The tourist stuff isn’t always fun, but this is special. Tradition, I guess.

  At the corner of Front Street, a couple of guys from school see us. Seth is in the back, and from what I can see, he’s turning twelve shades of red over Chelsea’s outfit.

  “You should go talk to him,” I say, nudging Chelsea.

  “No.” She ducks her head, suddenly unsure. “Too many people are talking.”

  “Who?” Deacon’s voice dips to a pirate growl. “I’ll run them through with me sword!”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s plastic, and you have a blood phobia. Chelsea, you can do this.”

  “I can’t,” she says, but even if his friends are talking, Seth is still watching. Hopeful.

  “Help?” Chelsea pleads. This is my friend of old, the one who clung to my arm and my advice. I’ll still be that lifeline. Always. But I know she has to do some of this for herself.

  I pull my arm free and give her a smile. “Yes, you can.”

  “You just hold your head high and walk on,” Deacon says.

  “One step at a time,” I say.

  Chelsea takes my still-tender right hand and Deacon takes my left. Across the street, I see a group of incoming seniors. Some duck their heads, pretend not to see. But Seth smiles wide, waving us over. Chelsea’s grip on my hand loosens, and I smile.

  “One step at a time,” she repeats.

  The light turns green, and I nod ahead. “Here we go.”

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  Acknowledgments

  I keep thinking this section will get shorter, but with every book, there are new, amazing people to thank. Not a terrible problem to have, I suppose.