My Secret to Tell

  He doesn’t respond, and I watch him closely. Tense might not be the right word for him. Terrified feels closer. If he did this, he’d be worried about getting caught. But then why is he still in town? If he’s guilty, he’d take off. Or fess up. He’s never been one to hide his screwups, a fact that annoyed Chelsea to no end when he was still in school with us.

  “What are you afraid of?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer. “I get why you were afraid. I get why you ran. I don’t get why you’re still running.”

  “I’m not—” He cuts himself off and gives me a hard look. He’s still wearing the pirate shirt from yesterday, so he hasn’t been home. Has he been here since then?

  I cock my head, making sure he can see my “I mean business” eyes. They usually don’t hold much weight with him, but today, he sighs.

  “Joel thinks I did it,” he says.

  “Joel’s talking to the police about employees, so he’s obviously not sure of anything yet.”

  “I saw it in his eyes, Emmie, and he cares about me. The rest of them?” He shakes his head. “I know how it looks. If I go in and they haven’t found anyone, I’ll get arrested. Whoever did this to Dad will get away with it. Case closed.”

  “Okay, then tell me what happened to your dad. Tell me what you saw.”

  “I don’t know. Not all of it anyway.” He takes a breath. “I ran home after I saw you at the shelter. Dad and I had been at each other’s throats since that morning.”

  “I remember. I saw it.”

  “Well, it got worse when I got home. I took off, but I didn’t want to leave it like that, so I went back to talk. It couldn’t have been more than forty-five minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Deacon’s face reminds me of Chelsea’s in the hospital cafeteria. Everything alive in him withers. “When I got there, the back door was open. I went inside and Dad was still in the office, but he was on the ground. He was…”

  “Hurt.” My stomach loops like a shoestring. Pulls tight. “That’s when you ran? When you saw him?”

  I can tell he’s fighting for the words, choking on them. “No. Not until Joel came. I tried—hell, I didn’t know what to do, but I tried to help. To wake him up. Joel and Chelsea pulled around back, and Joel’s headlights lit up the room. Before then, I couldn’t see the blood. I mean, I knew. It was everywhere, and Dad’s face was wet when I touched it. But I couldn’t see it well, and once I did, I lost it.”

  “So you ran to me.” I let out a relieved breath. “Deke, Chelsea and I both know about the blood thing. We’ll explain the truth, and that will be that. They’re probably already closing in on a real suspect. Trust me, this will be okay. But we have to talk to the police.”

  Deacon closes the space between us so fast that I don’t have time to prepare. But then there he is, rough hands on my bare shoulders and eyes so sharp they cut into me.

  “Emmie, I know you want to help. But words aren’t going to get me out of this. I need to figure out who would do this. Dad has a lot of enemies. I have to be careful, but I know a few people who might know something. Might have heard something.”

  “Let the police do that!”

  He laughs at that. “These aren’t the kind of people who talk to the police. Half the people working the docks have a record or are hiding something. But they might know things, and then I can give that information to the authorities.”

  I throw up my hands. “Do you realize how crazy this is? You are not Sherlock Holmes! You’re eighteen years old. Tell Joel so he can help you. He knows the law, and he’s helped you guys a zillion times. Think of the whole marina mess!”

  “Joel’s not an option. He told me he wouldn’t get me out of this. When he walked in and saw me, that’s what he said. He’s not going to help, because he thinks I’m guilty.”

  “He will come around. Probably when you stop acting like a cornered dog. You need to cool off and come talk to everyone, Deke. This is ridiculous.”

  “I think it’d be better if I just lay low until something else comes out or I find something. I’m the token troubled teen around here.” He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Ever since my mom died, this whole town’s been waiting for me to snap. Now it looks like I did.”

  “It does look like that, which is why you have to go in. If you don’t, I’m going to go to the police myself, and I believe you’re innocent. We all do. Chelsea and Joel too.”

  “Not Joel. You weren’t there, Emmie. I can’t even think about the way he looked at me. And it’s not like the police are going to be chomping at the bit for my side of the story. Sheriff Perry has had it in for me ever since the marina incident.”

  The marina incident being Deacon slamming his dad’s boat into one of the docks. A couple thousand in damage. It might not have been so bad if he hadn’t waited two days to confess. From what Chelsea said, Sheriff Perry was ready to combust.

  I press my fingers to my temples and try to focus. “Okay, let’s just start with calling Chelsea,” I say. “The rest will sort itself out. Just call Chelsea.”

  His face softens, a smirk curling one side of his mouth. “Bossy.”

  “Logical,” I argue. “Where’s your phone?”

  “In my room at the house.”

  “Then use mine.” I punch in Chelsea’s number before he can argue, but after a couple of rings, it moves to voice mail. “She’s not answering. She has to turn it off in the room. Why don’t we just go in?”

  The leaves rustle overhead, and I watch long shadows pass over his face. Then his jaw sets in a way that tells me he’s relenting. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, tomorrow I’ll do all the things you want. Talk to Chelsea, go to the hospital, maybe even to the police. Whatever. Tonight, I’m going to find some of those guys.”

  “Deacon—”

  “Look, I’m meeting you halfway, Emmie. I’ll come with you. I just want a few hours to try to find answers.”

  I huff. “Fine. Where are you going to sleep? Are you going home?”

  “Hell no,” he says. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got resources.”

  I’m sure he does, but I’m also sure I can’t sit by while he blatantly uses some starstruck dit-dotter for her hotel room. “Deke, listen, I’m not trying to judge, but I really hope you aren’t planning on shacking up with some poor tourist in the middle of this mess.”

  “Seriously? You think I’m going to hook up with some girl for a place to crash?”

  “How should I know? I’ve seen you kiss waitresses for an extra side of fries!”

  He flushes now, not embarrassed—angry. “That’s different. That’s a game.”

  I cross my arms. “Yeah, well some of those girls probably aren’t playing.”

  “Are you serious with this? And what about you? In there with Seth at the shelter, agreeing to another date when you know damn well he is never going to be it for you.”

  “That isn’t your business!” Heat flashes up my neck. “And I told him that I was not interested. I was completely honest with Seth.”

  “So you honestly think he’s just going to get over his years-long crush?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t—” I stop, throwing up my hands. “Why are we even talking about this right now? What does this have to do with anything?”

  He opens his mouth, looking fit to spit fire. He sighs instead, and it sucks all the anger out of both of us. “I don’t know. Hell, my head’s all over the place. I’m sorry.”

  I step closer, my flip-flops scuffing on the dirt. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s okay to piss off the one person who hasn’t written me off as a criminal?” His smirk tugs at my stomach, but I push it down into the place where I bury all things Deacon-related.

  “Nobody has written you off,” I say. At the look he gives me, I relent. “Okay, some people
maybe. But it’s going to come clear soon. Just keep your word about tomorrow and you’ll see.”

  “Tomorrow,” he says. “You’ll be here?”

  “Do I ever let you down?” I ask with a halfhearted laugh.

  Deacon doesn’t laugh. His expression turns so grave, I can’t laugh either.

  “No,” he says. “No, you never do.”

  Chapter Five

  I read back over the list Chelsea texted last night and smile, remembering our phone call.

  “Deacon’s really coming tomorrow?”

  “I think so. If he tries to back out, I swear I will hog-tie him and strap him to the roof of my mom’s car.”

  Chelsea’s laugh made me ache for happier times. It hurt to hear her so tired.

  “How are you?” I asked. “Really.”

  “Not great. Joel reserved a room for me at the Ann Street Inn tomorrow. So I can rest.”

  “I think it’s a good idea. Send me a list, and I’ll pack for you. Because I am dying to do something to help you, and you know how I get.”

  “Yes, Twitchy, I do.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “Thank you, Emmie. So much.”

  Of course, Chelsea’s list sucked. She asked for her earbuds, a book, and some clothes, but she sleeps like crap without her favorite pillow, and she’s probably dying to change out of the rubber flip-flops I saw her wearing.

  So I have my own list. See, if the apocalypse comes, I won’t be the one hunting in the woods or guarding the perimeter. I’ll be the one passing out step-by-step instructions on water collection and tent placement. Chelsea says I should work mission control for NASA. Deacon says I should learn to unclench.

  They’re both probably right.

  I stroll up to the white cottage where the Westfields live. I stop on the front porch, because I’m a little shaky. My mind keeps dredging up the idea of someone in this house. Someone dangerous.

  List. Think of your list.

  Plug in Deacon’s phone.

  Pack bags for Chelsea and Deacon (hair ties for Chelsea).

  Feed Hushpuppy (check litter).

  Grab Deacon’s phone and charger on the way out.

  Okay, enough standing around imagining boogeymen in the bushes. I grab the mail from the box on the house and pull one of the too-small galoshes off of the boot rack where they leave wet or muddy shoes. I flip it over, and the spare key slides into my hand. Bingo.

  Inside, I freeze on the welcome mat as Hushpuppy patters toward me with a happy meow. She does figure eights around my legs while I take a breath and try to get my bearings. Everything looks normal. The front door leads into the living room, and behind that I can see the bright kitchen. My eyes stray to the planked oak table that sits in the attached dining room. Mr. Westfield’s office is on the other side of that table.

  A hearty complaint at my feet reminds me to feed the cat. I grab a can from the pantry and check her water and then her litter. My gaze drifts to the dining room over and over. I can see salt and pepper on the table and the bottle of guasacaca sauce Chelsea puts on practically everything, but I can’t see the office. Unnecessary, since my mind supplies a slideshow of possible images. Open desk drawers. Broken furniture. Bloodstains on the carpet.

  Coming here was a terrible idea.

  With Hushpuppy fed, I climb the stairs to the bedrooms. Rather than a hallway upstairs like my house, there’s a large open space with five doors. Bathroom, three bedrooms, and the walk-up attic. I turn away from Chelsea’s bedroom, the only open door, and toward Deacon’s.

  I pause with my hand on the doorknob. It looks like Chelsea’s door but feels entirely different. I’ve never been inside. There’s never been a reason. I’ve seen his dresser and the edge of his bed from the door a few times, but going in feels wrong.

  I do it anyway, taking in the sailboat posters over his bed and the overflowing hamper by the closet. It smells like him, a distinctive blend of citrus and salt water. I take a breath through my mouth because I need to focus. Phone. Clothes. Relevant things.

  His phone’s on the nightstand next to his keys. I plug it into the charger and watch the screen bloom to life. Battery at 15 percent. Could be worse. The real question—what else to pack? I’m not sure how he’d feel about me rooting through his dresser.

  Then again, it’s not like he second-guessed breaking into my bedroom.

  I find his backpack from last year and grab some basics—T-shirt, boxers, socks. Who knows what toiletries he’ll need, but a toothbrush and deodorant go in the bag before I head to Chelsea’s room. I find tanks and shorts easily enough, along with her little overnight toiletries bag. It takes forever to locate her Blue Devils sweatshirt—she’s planning on Duke too, Latino and Spanish studies and a zillion dollars in loans, she always says—but it’s her favorite, so I dig through the closet until I find it. I’m just zipping her bag shut—a lime-green duffel we picked up in Virginia Beach—when I hear it.

  Thump thump. Thump thump.

  Footsteps? The sound comes again and I frown, moving for the door. Someone’s on the porch. I force my shoulders down. It’s fine. It’s probably neighbors with food or flowers.

  The door creaks open, and my vision narrows to a pinpoint on Chelsea’s wall. One step and then another, closer now. They’re inside. Someone’s in the house. It can’t be Joel or Chelsea, because they’re both at the hospital. And Deacon said he wouldn’t come home.

  Who else?

  Mrs. Stuart from next door? No. She’s five-foot-one if she’s an inch, and she probably weighs all of ninety-eight pounds. This person sounds bigger.

  Scarier.

  I press my back to Chelsea’s doorframe and listen, but the steps are muffled by the blood rushing behind my ears. Where are they? My ears strain, trying to place the ambling steps. The living room, I think. I hear a throat clearing, unquestionably male. Hushpuppy meows, and the heavy tread moves closer to the stairs.

  The footsteps stutter at the stairwell, shuffling like maybe someone’s bending over. Something rustles. Jingles. The spare key. I left it on that table at the bottom of the steps. My face goes marble cold. Am I in danger?

  I eye the window and the tree outside, even though I know it’s too far away. Chelsea and I calculated the odds of escaping her room using that tree on more than one sleepover. We always chickened out, sure we’d fall. Today I might have to take my chances.

  A foot hits the creaky bottom stair, and I stumble back, bumping the dresser into the wall.

  Shit!

  “Eddie?”

  Joel’s familiar voice brings a rush of relief in its wake, and I sag against Chelsea’s dresser, feeling like a Grade A lunatic.

  “I’m in Chelsea’s room,” I holler. I walk to the top of the stairs and look down at him with a sheepish grin. “You scared half of my lives away. How’d you know it was me?”

  “No one else knows about the spare key.” Joel smiles, but he looks tired. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his white hair, usually perfectly in place, looks a bit flat on one side. He’s still wearing his diamond pinkie ring—Chelsea and I tease him mercilessly about his man-bling—but otherwise, he lacks his usual polish.

  I walk down the stairs and hold out the green duffel, glad I left Deacon’s bag upstairs and out of view. “I got her some clothes.”

  “Chelsea mentioned it. I should have figured you’d check the mail and feed the cat. I wasn’t thinking.”

  I smile. “Well you’re exhausted. The inn is a great idea. Chelsea’s always wanted to stay there, and she loves Donna. Here, I have those time sheets with me. I added up all the hours last night.”

  He takes it with a nod. “Thank you. I paid a visit to Sheriff Perry. Thorpe and Charlie were detailing in Morehead City. And Thorpe hurt his hand on a tour.”

  I shudder. “Hard to believe he’s innocent. He’s kind of terrifying.”

&nbs
p; “Well, the sheriff said he’d keep an eye on it, but he mentioned he’s got another lead that looks quite promising.”

  My gut tenses. “What kind of lead?”

  “He didn’t elaborate,” Joel says, but the look he’s wearing has Deacon’s name written all over. “I appreciate you packing this up for her.”

  “No problem.”

  “Say, Emmie, have you seen Dink?”

  Does he want to know so he can tell the sheriff? Does he really think Deacon did this?

  My throat closes up so fast, it’s a miracle I don’t make choking sounds. I shake my head before I can think about it. I don’t know if I’m doing it too fast or too slow, but it feels off.

  Joel doesn’t notice. His wide shoulders drop, and he leans against the wall. “He isn’t answering my calls, and Chelsea’s worried sick.”

  “Do you think he’s doing something with the boats? You know how some people focus on work.” This is awful. I’m stacking up so many lies, I wonder if I’d recognize the truth.

  Joel rubs his forehead. “The boats are all in. I closed everything down early today to sort out schedules.”

  He looks as worn through as an old T-shirt. I chew my lip and feel myself cave. “Joel?”

  “Hm?”

  “I’ve seen Deacon.”

  “I figured.” He smiles, sits down on the steps. “The three of you are thick as thieves. I knew you’d want to find him for Chickadee.”

  “He’s afraid to come to the hospital. Says you think he’s guilty.”

  Joel nods. “Running from what you’re afraid of doesn’t fix it though.”

  My heat drops. “Do you really think he could have done this? Even with him being so paranoid around blood?”

  “I think he’s an angry boy who was hovering over my best friend’s beaten body. And I know when people are angry, they can do unspeakable things.” He takes a breath and looks past me, his gaze going blank. “Emmie, when I lost my girls—my wife and my daughter—when I lost them in Katrina, I went crazy. Blamed everyone I could find and made a long list of enemies. I filed so many lawsuits, called the media with wild claims. I used my particular talents for bad purposes. That’s what anger did to me.”