My Secret to Tell (11 page)

The grass rustles when I start walking again, and he opens his eyes, surprise lighting his features. He lumbers out of the hammock, stretching his arms high enough for me to catch a glimpse of hip bone above his faded shorts.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says, smirking.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

We walk to the dock where his boat is anchored, sitting side by side. The fabric of his cargo shorts brushes my leg and heat spreads over my skin, flash-fire fast. I look out over the inlet. The water’s gone navy blue under the cloudy sky.

“Someone was talking today with Chelsea at the inn,” I start.

“She’s staying with Donna?” he asks, then he frowns. “Hell, I didn’t even think about that. I figured she’d stay with Joel.”

“He applied for emergency guardianship, but they’ll probably reach out to family too. Donna thought this guy was Children’s Services. But here’s the thing—”

“It should be me there for her. I know.”

I shake my head, wishing this were just a simple chewing out. Because this is worse than that. I watch a heron stalk back and forth in a patch of tall grass. I feel like I’m hunting too—for words. I doubt I’m going to find any that will make this easier to say. I scoot back on the dock, tucking my legs under me so I can turn to face him. “The guy with Chelsea asked about
me
, about whether or not I knew about something. They never said
what
exactly, but Chelsea begged him not to talk to me. It was creepy, Deke. He said it was almost time too.”

“Almost time for what?”

“I have no idea.”

His shoulders pull back, and a gust of wind tugs hair loose from my ponytail. I focus on the thin white scar on his chin and the tension in his jaw.

“Was she afraid of him?” he asks. “Was he threatening her or anything?”

I press my lips together. “She wasn’t scared. Not one bit. She just begged him not to talk to me. She said I couldn’t keep it quiet. Like it was a secret. Do you think she’s hiding something about what happened to your dad?”

“You’re seriously asking that?” His eyes are sparking, spots of pink burning high in his cheeks.

I swallow hard. “Deke, I know it sounds crazy—”

“It does sound crazy, Emmie,” he says. “Chelsea’s so wholesome she should be on one of those nutritional posters. She’s a Girl Scout. A youth group leader!”

“I know that! You don’t think I know that?” Our shouting startles the heron, which lifts off with a steady beat of long, wide wings. I blink away my sudden tears. “She’s my best friend, but she
is
hiding something. Hiding it from me specifically. You said so yourself.”

Deacon stands up, pacing back and forth on the dock. It’s like he’s putting pieces together. Of course he is. He knows the big secret; I don’t.

I square my shoulders, though tears are blurring my vision. “It’s been the three of us forever, Deke. Forever. And I’m
dying
watching you both go through this, but I can’t help, because there’s obviously some huge chunk of your lives that neither of you trust me with.”

“I trust you.” He crouches in front of me. Touches my shoulder. My chin. Turns me to face him. “
I
trust you, Emmie.”

He grazes my cheek, one calloused finger running temple to jaw. He’s waiting for me to say something, but I can’t. His touch is sucking all the oxygen out of the air and changing everything between us.

“Then tell me the truth,” I say finally.

He takes a breath, and I can see a war waging behind his eyes. Then his mouth goes soft and his brow goes smooth. If surrender had a face, it would look like this.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he says. “But first I have to show you something.”

Deacon heads into the house, and I walk to the space where the dock meets the yard. A little crab struggles at the edge, one claw pinned between the boards.

“Little buddy,” I whisper, trying to ease his claw out without getting pinched by the other. The wind is ridiculous. Half of my ponytail is flying loose around my face. I gently free the crab and then yank my hair tie out while I watch him scuttle into the safe shadows under the weathered planks of the dock.

Deacon returns with a battered, brown Westfield Charters envelope. It’s covered with greasy smudges I really don’t want to think about. He offers it and laughs when I recoil.

“You sure I’m the right guy for you to be hanging around?” he asks.

“I ask myself that every day, Deke.”

That makes him laugh harder. “You do know what I do for a living, right? Do you ever think about the kinds of
residues
that might be lingering on my hands?”

“I choose not to dwell,” I say, and he waggles his fingers toward me like it’s some kind of threat. Hardly. If he keeps it up, I’ll start bobbing like one of those cobras in a basket. His special Emmie superpowers annoy me to no end.

I finally swat his hand away, because I like that last shred of my dignity. “All right, what do you have in there?”

His smile vanishes as he opens the envelope, pulling out a stack of receipts.

“Where did you get these?” I ask.

“From the lockbox on the main boat up in Morehead City.”

They don’t have an office in Morehead, just a closet-sized, fold-up counter where they can lock the register at night.

I look up at him over the receipts. “Wait, you stole these?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Emmie. I stole a pile of receipts. Hide your women and children.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” I say, looking them over. “Joel and I need these to do the accounting for—wait, are these coordinates?”

My fingers trace the handwritten numbers on the bottom of a receipt. Deacon’s stomach growls, and I look up. He points back down at the receipt. “They all have coordinates. I need you to see the last one.”

I flip through. The coordinates are jotted down everywhere. Some on the bottom. Some on the side. They’re all different, but I know why the last one is important at one glance.

15 62, 25 30 (Emmie)

My pulse jumps. “That’s my name. Why is my name on that? Where is that?”

“About sixty miles southeast of Washington, DC.”

“Sixty miles from DC? Why the hell is my name next to coordinates near Washington, DC?”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Did you arrange any charters for that area?”

“No. They’re all in state.” A dull ache throbs at the back of my neck. I head over to the hammock, sitting down sideways. “I found coordinates with my initials in the dockside office. It’s at home, but I checked and it’s for a pretty random spot in the Caribbean.”

Deacon joins me, and the hammock swings hard, the scratchy rope rubbing at my thighs. “The Caribbean? I don’t get it,” he says. “The coordinates aren’t the kind of places you’d imagine charters heading. No resorts or beach towns. Just random spots along the Carolina coast, some up into Virginia. I was trying to figure it out from our client files.”

“Maybe I should check the dockside office again,” I say.

Deke shakes his head hard. “Emmie, you should steer clear of that place. Believe me, some of the guys working on our boats are worse than the shit we scrape off the hull.”

“I know. Thorpe cornered me in there.”

Deacon’s whole body goes stiff beside me. “He
what
?”

I kick at the ground to swing us, careful to avoid a glass jar full of shells. “It’s fine,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m fine.”

“Did he touch you?” His voice goes to gravel, and his eyes grow dark. “Because so help me, if he even
looked
at—”

“No, it wasn’t… I mean, yeah, he was gross. Joel kind of saved me. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Him even breathing in the same space as you is that bad.”

Warmth floods over me at his sudden intensity. He can’t look at me like this, not when we’re mashed together on a hammock with the wind blowing my hair into his eyes.

“I’m okay,” I say. “Really.”

He opens his mouth, and his stomach growls again, loudly. I laugh, and he flips me off playfully.

“When’s the last time you fed that thing?” I ask.

He’s as close to blushing as he ever gets, one corner of his mouth curled up. “It’s been a while,” he admits. “I finished off the gas station crap yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday!” I gape at him while he shrugs.

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yeah, starving to death isn’t a big deal at all.”

He chuckles. “It’s not exactly the Great Outback. I’ve got a pole in the boat. I can catch something if it gets dire.”

“And then what? You’re going to just gnaw into it raw? Maybe bust open a coconut for water? This isn’t the zombie apocalypse, Deke.”

I stand up, about as gracefully as a greased pig on an ice rink, and brush off the back of my shorts.

“Wait, what are you doing?” he asks. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes. New plan. I’m getting you some supplies. You can’t survive on energy drinks and whatever you fish out of there.” I wave at the inlet for emphasis.

“Emmie, this isn’t a camping trip. I got myself into this. I can skip a couple of meals.”

“And drink salt water?”

“The water’s still on in the house. Don’t know who missed that, but I’ll take it.”

“Those faucets might be spewing chemical terrors unknown. You’ll probably end up with some rare psychological disorder.”

His grin turns his face into something magazine-worthy. “I think my raging blood phobia covers the psychological part, don’t you?”

Deke’s glib expression slips, just enough to show me the raw bits underneath. My throat goes tight looking at those bits. “You’ll get better. You can handle the fishing stuff now, right? That used to freak you out.”

“Fish aren’t human,” he says. Then he scuffs the grass with his battered boat shoe. “It was because of when I found her. I never told you about that either, did I?”

I shake my head, because aneurysm is pretty much all I knew. The details have always been vague, brushed over with murmurs about how tragic and terrible it all was.
So very unexpected.
Mom liked that phrase best.

“You don’t have to explain,” I say.

“No more secrets, right?” He takes a breath. “Mom was drying her hair, and we were running late for my baseball game.”

I smile, remembering his uniforms, wide-brimmed caps and dirty white pants. They used to have trophies in the living room. I wonder what happened to those.

“Felt like she was in there forever,” Deacon says. “I was getting so mad because we were late. I yelled, but the hair dryer kept running and running, and all of a sudden, I could tell it didn’t sound right. It was too low. Like she was sitting on the floor.”

Or lying on it.
My eyes feel hot with the promise of tears, but I blink them back. Deacon stands up, moves his gaze to the inlet, where the heron is back, studying the water.

“I started hollering,” he says. “Banging on the wall. I tried opening the door, but she was… I couldn’t. But I could see the blood right away.”

The phantom drone of a hairdryer presses against my ears. I can imagine it so clearly.
Too
clearly.

“It was everywhere, Emmie. On the sink. Running down the cabinet. She cracked her head on the faucet. That’s what they think—” His breath hitches. The sound hits me like a fist. “I couldn’t get inside. I couldn’t—the door wouldn’t—she was in front of it.”

“Deke…” I tug at his shirt and see a flash of his watery eyes before he pulls me in.

This is nothing like our other rare hugs. It’s bruising and broken, and I can’t hold him tightly enough. Both of us are breathing all wrong. Jagged and harsh, like the air won’t go in or come back out.

He releases me before I’m ready. “Sorry,” he says, swiping at his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Please.”

“I shouldn’t have…” He shakes his head. “Shit, that’s not what you’re here for. I need to tell you about my dad.”

“I’m here for
you
,” I say. Then I smooth my hair behind my ears and watch his face shutter off once more. His eyelashes are still wet. Seeing it hurts. I don’t think I can watch him go through another painful secret right now. He needs a second. Hell, I need a second.

“Deacon—”

“I’m going to tell you. I’m just regrouping. It’s kind of about Dad’s baggage from all of that, I guess.”

More about his mom dying? I touch his arm. “Let’s take a breather.”

I glance back at the house, where there is no food and the water scares me. I could be to town and back in an hour.

“How about that supplies run?” I ask. “I’ll go into town and grab some lunch. When I come back, you can tell me the rest, and then we’ll make a plan.”

My shoulders sag with relief when his smirk returns. “Should you get color-coded folders? Will we need a label maker?”

“Keep it up, and I’ll make you draw up a flowchart.”

I turn to leave, and he grabs my hand, pulling me back. “Emmie, be careful. Your name is on that receipt, and we don’t know why.”

• • •

By the time I get to town, it’s clear what all that wind was about. A storm is rolling in. They come in quick on the coast sometimes, turning the sky over the water thick and gray. Flags on the boardwalk snap, and the leaves on the live oaks flip backward. I need to get to the store quickly or I’m going to get drenched.

The temperature has dropped, and goose bumps rise on my arms. If Chelsea were here, she’d tell me Pacheco has arrived. It’s a Venezuelan saying her mom used to use anytime it got chilly.

I slip into the grocery store, a small, aging shop set in a narrow lot on Front Street. Bells tinkle overhead, and the lights flicker and go dim as the door closes behind me. I feel distant thunder, a low rumble that shudders through the ground.

Someone swears in back where the registers sit. “Damn lights! I’m going to fire up the generator, so go on and shop, everybody.”

I have no idea who
everybody
includes, because the narrow aisles are flanked by tall shelves, but the place is silent as a tomb, other than the cashier muttering in the back office. I pull a plastic basket from the stack by the door and head down the farthest aisle.

I stop by the juice boxes to count the cash in my wallet. Twenty bucks. Should be enough. The door jingles, and heavy steps shuffle in.

“I’m still open.” The clerk’s voice is thready and distant. “Be up there in a sec.”

The shopper doesn’t respond, but I have no trouble tracking his heavy shuffle through the store, even when the generator grumbles to life out back. The person who came in is staying close to me. Always one aisle away.

You’re imagining things.

Am I? Because there’s a crack between the shelves, and I’m sure the dark shape blocking that crack is a large man. Hard to be sure in the gray filter of emergency lighting though.

I turn away and grab a bunch of bananas from the tiny produce section, ignoring the chill climbing up my arms.

Thunder rolls outside as I turn the corner. I need easy stuff. Granola bars or something. Then I hear it again.
Shuffle step. Shuffle step.

I scan the dimly lit shelves, grabbing a box of granola bars and some chips. I even find a sandwich on the salmonella spinner that looks to be on the right side of the “sell by” date. We need drinks though.

I round the aisle, and the footsteps that stopped start up again. I stop. They stop. Okay, coincidence is looking less likely. This has a stalker vibe.

Did someone see me come in here?

My skin goes cold as I try to think about the short ride down Front Street. My mind blanks on all the details I desperately want. Unfamiliar cars. People watching me on the street. What did I miss?

My gaze moves to the shelf that separates me from the next aisle. I take four experimental steps to the right. Two more and mystery man shuffles my direction.

Mystery man could be Sheriff Perry. If he saw me with Deacon. If he saw me at the house, he could be here to arrest me.

Oh crap. Crap, crap, crap.

My palms go slick and prickly on the basket handle. I’m breathing fast and shallow, like something’s pushing on my throat.

Do I run? Call someone? I want out of here. I move fast for the register. I’m safe there, right? He couldn’t just arrest me at the front counter beside the chewing gum and Slim Jims. Could he?

It’s the kind of logic that I used at seven to convince myself my threadbare sheet would protect me from the monsters under the bed. Just as long as my feet were covered, I’d be okay.

I push my basket to the center of the counter and drum my fingers, impatient for the clerk. The whole store is behind me.
He
is behind me, somewhere in those aisles. I glance around and find nothing. My head snaps forward. C’mon already.

Shuffle step. Shuffle step.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

He’s in the middle aisle. He’s coming closer. Closer.

I put my items on the counter with shaking hands. The clerk, twenty-something with a scruff of sparse facial hair, returns and starts ringing up my purchases. I look straight ahead, hoping I won’t be recognizable from behind. Long, blond ponytails aren’t hard to come by around here.

“Sorry about that. Damn power.”

I smile. “Yeah.”

The shuffling is just behind me now. I watch my purchases move across the counter as the clerk rings me up. Bananas. Granola bars. Gatorade. Water. No more shuffling, but I can feel him back there. I take a breath, smelling leather and cinnamon. My heart lodges in the space between my tonsils, banging out a desperate SOS message with every beat.

“Be right with you, man,” the clerk says, nodding over my shoulder.

I deflate a little. Not the sheriff. The clerk wouldn’t call someone in uniform “man.” Plus, why would the sheriff sneak around? He doesn’t have anything to hide.