My Secret to Tell (13 page)

“Maybe,” I say, trying to accept it. I still can’t help feeling like I failed her.

“Hell, you’re neck deep in our shit show now.” Deacon sighs. “I should be sorry about that, but I’m not.”

“What do you mean?”

He touches the side of his head to the wall. Even in shadow, his eyes are electric. “I mean that even though I’m sorry it’s hard on you, I’m not sorry enough to send you away again. I need you, Emmie. Your steadiness. Your help.”

I let out a sigh that’s as shaky as my legs. His fingers trace my sleeve down to the bare skin of my elbow. One touch and I’m hungry for more. I crave him the way green things crave the sun.

If I move two inches, I will kiss him. He will kiss me. I can feel the certainty of it sitting between us. The want for that kiss is so sharp, it cuts deeper with every breath.

But what comes after that? What happens when he doesn’t need me anymore? Or is that all I’ll ever be—the steady one, the supportive girl?

My phone rings on the counter, a god-awful clucking chicken that pecks bullet holes in this mood with its digital beak. I all but leap to my feet, heading to the kitchen to fumble the volume back to vibrate as I glance at the screen.

“Oh, thank God.” I heave a sigh of relief as I answer it. “Joel? Are you there?”

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear from you,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear. I throw the door open and step outside for better reception. The grass is wet and cool around my feet, but the sky is showing wide patches of blue between the clouds.

“I’m so sorry, I’ve had no reception at all. Are you all right?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I walk a loop around the yard, tugging Deacon’s boxers lower on my thighs while I fill Joel in. I go over the coordinates we found with my name, the way I saw Thorpe and Charlie watching him, and the Children’s Services guy with Chelsea.

His quiet stretches long enough that I’m afraid I lost the connection. “Joel, are you still there?”

“Yes, yes,” he says, voice a little rough. “I’m not sure what those coordinates are about, but I’m concerned about Chelsea. I haven’t received any calls from her, and that
woman
from Charleston—” He collects himself with a breath. “Daffy’s sister can be protective. She worries with their mother gone and all, but Chickadee won’t want to be away from her dad. I need to look into that right away. Did you catch the gentleman’s name?”

“No. He did leave a note on my bike outside the grocery—”

“Did he leave any contact information? A number?”

He brightens at the news, so it stings to have to let him down. “No. It rained buckets and the ink smeared. It was just a handwritten note.”

I look back at the house, making sure Deacon’s not in earshot. I can still see him through the window. “Joel, Deke seems sure he’s from Children’s Services, and I don’t want to scare him, but I’m still not convinced. The note said to stay away from something. I couldn’t read what.”

Another pause. “Well, I don’t rightly know what that was about, but I plan to find out. Did he follow you? Threaten you?”

“No, not at all. It just…the whole thing feels weird, you know?”

“Well, not to worry. I’m sure we’ll figure it out. The family has been through so much.”

I look down. “Deacon told me about his dad. I know about the drugs.”

He goes very quiet again, so I tell him the rest, about Deacon’s theory with the seasonal guys, about the possibility that the boats are being used for smuggling, even about how Deacon is afraid to come in because he knows there aren’t any other suspects yet. The sentences all trip over each other, but Joel doesn’t interrupt. He listens until I’m finished.

The quiet stretches. Deacon’s still inside—eating, I hope—so I plop down on the side of the dock again, letting my feet dangle over the water.

“You’re awful quiet,” I say.

“It’s a lot to digest.”

“You think we’re crazy?”

“No. No, I don’t. I just can’t imagine how we’d have missed something like this. I need to get back to town to look through staff records, that much is clear. But I can’t leave Mr. Trumbull just yet. With all this going on, we may need his expansion more than ever. I confess I’m worried about the future of Westfield Charters in Beaufort. Emmie, I’m sure you realize this is all very private family information. Discretion is key.”

“I would never breathe a word of this, Joel.” I lift my chin, though there’s only a lonely pelican on a nearby post to see me. “They’re like family to me.”

“I’m sure they are. Now, as for these coordinates and these theories, I think you need to go directly to the police,” Joel says. “Take the receipts and anything else you found and go today. Right now. If someone hurt Daffy to protect their crime, they might hurt you too, so you promise me that you won’t delay.”

I wince, pulling my legs up until I can rest my chin on my knees. I hear Deacon’s footsteps behind me, and it strengthens my resolve. “Joel, if the sheriff finds out I’m with Deacon, he’ll arrest him. You know he will.”

He pauses for a moment, deliberating probably. Then he’s back, crisp and firm. “Go to one of the deputies. Find a deputy.”

“And if Sheriff Perry sees me?”

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

We exchange our farewells, and Joel reminds me to go quickly. As soon as we disconnect, Deacon sits down next to me.

“He wants you to go to the police?” he asks.

“Yes. But I’m going alone. I won’t tell Perry where you are.”

“I know.”

“I’m staying with my dad tonight, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Can I call with news?”

He cringes. “I…uh…ditched my cell phone. Didn’t want them to track my location.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to come back in person.”

His smile dances the line between wicked and sweet. “Definitely my preference.”

He walks me inside, where I slip into the bathroom to change back into my clothes. My shirts are still damp, and getting my denim shorts on is an exercise in misery. I pause to look at my reflection. I’m red-faced and my hair is a mess. I rake through it with my fingers but give up fast. It’s pretty hopeless.

Outside, Deacon’s leaning against the front door, arms crossed over his chest.

“Did you change your mind about me?”

My brow furrows as I cross the room. “What?”

“The secrets. The truth about my dad. Did it change your mind about what you want?”

Heat rolls up my body in a heavy wave. I’m sure I’m crimson from neckline to hairline, and I don’t know what to say, so I stay silent.

Deacon stalks toward me. “Because I’ve been thinking about kissing you all summer. Almost did it that morning in Joel’s office. When I said some stupid thing about flirting with you and you blushed just like you are right now.”

And that’s helping the blushing problem oh so much.

I feel his hand on my face, and then he’s tilting my chin up. “I want to kiss you, Emmie. Because you give me shit and you plan too much and you try to fix everything. Most of all because you’re here, believing in me when the whole damn world has walked away.”

I can hear the sink drip in the kitchen. My own heart thumping like a bass drum. He walks me backward until my shoulders bump a wall. Then he leans in again and takes my wrist in his hand. The fire in his eyes burns right through me. He looks at my mouth and sweeps his thumb over my pulse point. I swallow the fist-sized lump growing in my throat and feel his nose brush my cheek.

“Say something, Emmie.”

I feel his words more than I hear them. My response is a shudder of air, and he waits while my heart drums him a prayer. Hours pass—days maybe—and then his mouth touches mine. It’s the lightest feathering of lip against lip, and it’s enough to make streaks of light burst behind my eyes. His thumb circles the inside of my wrist, and everything in me aches.

He pulls back, forehead pressed to mine. His fingers tremble on my cheek, and I am lost. Suspended in this drugged moment of
almost
.

“Yes or no?” he asks.

I kiss him. There is no easing now, no gentle exploration. This is a desperate, almost painful pressing of lips, my hand fisted in his hair and his fingers clawing my hip so hard I can feel the scrape of his short nails against the denim.

I taste sunshine, salt, and Deacon. It is more than enough and it will never be enough. We push and pull, his hands sliding down my neck while mine clutch his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

Deke pulls back with a soft hiss. He has swollen lips and hungry eyes. I want more. So much more it scares me.

I swallow hard and stumble sideways to the door before he can speak. I fling it wide and sprint to my bike. He calls my name more than once, but I don’t look back.

The long way would be safer, but I’m too rattled to care. My mind is supplying an endless stream of sensory input—from the feel of his scratchy chin to the taste of his mouth—but I push every last one of them back. I need time to think. To process.

And right now, more than anything, I need time at the police station so that we can finally get some help.

I turn left on Live Oak, and water sluices out of my seat, dribbling down my leg. I scowl and speed up, feeling the wind sting my slightly chafed chin. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a passing car and nearly veer off the road.

Okay. I need to get myself together. I look like a lunatic. A lunatic who’s recently been seriously and thoroughly kissed. Not exactly the impression I’m hoping to make when I head into the
police station
.

A mile later, I round the corner onto my street, mentally sifting through outfit choices. The white button-up might be too overt. My baby-blue dress? Too immature. I lift a hand to wave at Mrs. Baymont, who’s working in the garden.

Oh crap, what if Mom’s home? Because I’m almost definitely sporting make-out hair and I’m not sure that will fly.

My house comes into view, tall and white and—

Cold slams into me like a wall. My foot slips off my pedal and my belly flips.

The Children’s Services officer is on my porch. He’s
on my porch
. Waiting for me.

My bike wobbles and I stop abruptly, feet slapping the pavement. I wince as the pedal scrapes my ankle, but I don’t look down. I can’t tear my eyes off the house. The porch. The well-dressed man who’s checking his watch.

Maybe I should talk to him. I could assure him that Chelsea won’t do this alone—that I’ll be here for her. I could find out what the heck he wants me to stay away from. Cicada song rings in my ears as he sits down on our porch swing. His pants ride up on his ankles, and my eyes drag to a dark bulge above his right shoe.

What is that? A cast? A brace? He tugs his pant leg free of the black lump, and something glints. Metal, I think.

Is that a gun?

Dread turns my limbs heavy. Children’s Services officers wouldn’t carry guns.

My feet scuffle, fumble for the pedals of my bike. I don’t know what that is or why he’s waiting on my porch, but my mom isn’t home, and I don’t hear Ralph barking. I’d be alone with him. Alone with a stranger and the thing on his ankle that might be a gun.

He turns toward me, and our eyes meet. His hand grazes his pant leg, and my pulse rush-thumps in my throat. He smiles, and it seems completely genuine. Friendly even. But Mr. Westfield seemed like an upright, drug-free guy. And Landon seemed like a brother who’d never leave.

I don’t trust things for what they seem. Not anymore.

Run.
The word pounds into my mind with every beat of my heart. He’s waving at me now. Shouting hello. I’m not playing this game. If he wants to talk, he can follow me to the police station, because that’s where I’m going.

My joints are loose, every limb moving off pace as I get my bike going.

He calls after me. “Emmie, wait up!”

His voice is pitched to friendly, but I keep pedaling. I don’t know where Chelsea is. I don’t know this man, and I’m definitely not convinced he’s Children’s Services now.

I think of calling 911, but my phone is zipped in the plastic bag in my pocket. I don’t think I can get it out while I’m riding. Not without slowing down. It’s four blocks. I can make it.

An engine rumbles to life behind me, and my stomach bottoms out. I chance a quick glance over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of a silver sedan backing out of my driveway. He’s turning my way. My bike swerves, and I whip back around with a gasp.

He’s coming for me.

I hang a left into an alley, picking up speed as I pass trash bins and brick walls. Another alley and another turn, weaving my way out of the residential area and toward the restaurants and stores. I peek through the spaces between the buildings where I can see the main road. I hear him behind me, so I know this is no coincidence. He is chasing me.

I pedal harder. One block. I’m one block from the police station.

He’s close enough that I can hear the crunch of his tires on the pavement. My thighs are burning. I can’t keep this up, and he’s coming. Coming fast.

Is he going to hit me?

I swerve off the road into one of the narrow spaces between the buildings. I can’t pedal through here. I can barely fit myself. I dump the bike and stand on quaking legs. The car stops, and I hear the whir of his window rolling down. Running is impossible. My legs give, and I stumble left, the brick wall scraping a painful line up my left arm.

I have to go.
Go!

“Emmie, my name is Vaughn. I don’t mean you any harm. Just stop running and I’ll explain. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

No chance of that. He can
explain
to the police. I feel my body giving out as his car rolls forward again. I sprint with the last bits of my energy, but I can hear his engine nearby. He’s going to try to go around the block, cut me off at the main road.

I emerge from between the buildings and turn right, a stitch knifing through my right side. I press my fingers at my ribs, panting as I find the red brick courthouse with white columns and a cupola perched at the top. The sheriff’s station is right beside it, a brick box as plain as the courthouse is pretty. I’m almost there. So close.

My legs are lead heavy, and I can’t run. I clomp gracelessly down the street toward the sheriff’s department sign. I look back, but Vaughn—if that’s really his name—is at a stop sign half a block away. I see his dark head above the steering wheel, his mouth downturned.

I try to speed up, but there’s nothing left. Nothing. One more look back. He’s still at the stop sign. Looking at me. Looking at the sheriff’s station. I keep moving until I’m at the station doors, flinging them open. Air-conditioning closes around me. I stumble across yellowed tile and reach a tall counter with the sheriff’s seal beneath it. I sag against it, gasping one ugly breath after the last.

“Hello? I need help! I’m being followed.”

A busty woman with dark eyes and fuchsia lips comes up to me. “Settle down, I’m right here. What can I do for you?”

“I need to speak with an officer.” My heart is still pounding, sweat rolling down the sides of my face, the back of my neck.

“I
am
an officer. What can I help you with?”

“I’m being followed.” I glance back out the glass doors. I can just barely see where the car was waiting, but he’s gone now.

“By who?”

“I don’t know. He said his name is Vaughn. He—I saw him with my best friend—I think he might have a gun.”

“You need to just calm down, miss. I’ll get you some forms, and you can have a seat.”

I brace my slick hand on the high counter. “I’m too freaked out to fill out a form. I need help. I need to talk to some—” My words cut off on a gasp. I can’t catch my breath. It’s not getting better.

The woman’s speaking, but my pulse is still fast and thready. A wave of nausea rolls through me. I close my eyes, trying to get myself together.

When I open them, I can see Fuchsia Lips isn’t pleased. “You’re going to need to calm yourself down before I can help you with anything, young lady.”

“Hey, Brenda, what’s going on?”

I smell bad coffee and cheap aftershave. I open my eyes to see Deputy Nelson, his moustache working as he chews what I’m guessing is a bite of the bagel in his free hand. He looks wholesome, solid, and just a little bit country.

My next breath slows.

“Miss, what’s going on?” he asks. “I’m Deputy Nelson.”

Brenda cocks her head. “She flew in here with her hair on fire about someone following her. Some Vaughn. Says he’s armed or some such.”

“I think,” I say. “I’m not positive, but it looked like a gun, so I ran.”

“That’s what a sensible person does.” Nelson swallows his bagel, his brows pulling together. “How was he following you? On foot? And what time did this happen?”

I shake my head, feeling steadier. “Just now. He was in a car. He followed me here.”

“He followed you
here
?” He quirks his head at that and takes the paperwork Brenda had gathered for me. “I’ll go ahead and take care of her.” Then, to me, “What’s your name, miss?”

“Emerson. Emmie.”

Nelson nods. “All right, Emmie. Let’s go outside and see if we can spot that car that followed you.”

Reality floods in with the daylight outside. I’m…disgusting. My clothes are damp, and my hair is dripping with sweat. I try to smooth it with my hands while Deputy Nelson gestures at the parking lot with his coffee cup. “Do you see the car out there?”

It’s hard to look past the bagel pinned against the papers under his arm. I really hope he doesn’t want me to fill those out later. There will be crumbs everywhere. But even after a thorough look at the lot, I can’t find the silver sedan Vaughn drove.

“No. No, he’s not here. He stopped at that intersection. I think he saw that I was coming in here and he decided to leave.”

“What can you tell me about the car and the driver?” he asks and then he looks over at a bench. “Why don’t we sit down? I can finish up my bagel and you can tell me what happened.”

I hesitate, looking at the building. Sheriff Perry could be in there.

“We could go inside if you want,” he says. “This is a little unorthodox.”

“No, it’s great! I’m sorry. I’m still just shaken up. The fresh air will do me good.”

“That’s the spirit.” He pops his bagel in his mouth and digs around in his shirt pocket, pulling out a pen. I cringe at the smear of cream cheese left on his moustache.

“Let’s start with the car.”

I take a deep breath and reach in my pocket for the bag that has my phone and the receipts. “Actually, if it’s okay with you, I think we should start before that.”

I tell him everything. Almost everything at least. He knows about Deacon’s dad, of course, and doesn’t look too thrilled when I talk about Thorpe and Charlie at the docks and the coordinates I found. He’s even less thrilled when I mention running into Deacon at Joel’s office and show him the coordinates
he
found.

I skip over the abandoned house because I’m not about to leak that to anyone who might tell Perry. Instead, I tell him about Vaughn—seeing him at the inn, the things he said to Chelsea about me, then him leaving me the note that got ruined and showing up on my porch today.

“Deacon believed he was Children’s Services because Mr. Westfield is…troubled.” My shoulders droop. “It made sense until he started chasing me around Beaufort.”

“Did he threaten you at any point? Pull his weapon? Try to corner you?”

I shake my head slowly. “No. He just followed me all the way here—told me to stop so he could talk to me.”

Nelson jots down a note at that.

I sigh. “Look, I know that Vaughn seems unrelated, but I can’t help but feel like this is all tied up with Mr. Westfield getting hurt. I don’t know if he’s threatening Chelsea or working with Thorpe on some sort of smuggling thing. I just know it’s scary.”

Nelson puts down his pen and looks at me gravely. “Now, I suppose I don’t have to tell you how foolish it is to be investigating an assault, Emmie.”

I wring my hands. “I know.”

“That investigation is police business.”

“I know that. I do. But I’m so afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid that the people who really hurt Mr. Westfield aren’t going to get caught. I think something bad is happening with those boats. One of those guys is using them for something. Maybe smuggling drugs. I tried to tell Perry, but he believes I’m just covering for Deacon.”

A look I can’t decipher passes over Nelson’s features. He finally wipes his mouth with a napkin and swallows. A beat passes before he speaks again. “Make no mistake, Emmie, I’m going to have to tell the sheriff about this conversation.”

“He won’t listen.” My body starts to tremble, and tears spring up like they’ve been ready to burst all day. Maybe they have. I scrub my fists over my eyes. “I know Thorpe has an alibi, and maybe he didn’t hurt Mr. Westfield, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s involved. There’s just something about him.” My mind drags back to that encounter in the shack, making me shudder.

“Like you said though, he has an alibi. All of the men who work for the Westfields have been checked over.”

“What about the seasonal guys? Did you check them?”

Nelson sighs. “You know, Emmie, when things are hard, sometimes we see what we want to see, even if it’s not real. We need to get Deacon in here. We’ll just talk.”

“I won’t be able to find him now. He doesn’t have his phone anymore.” The lie is easy. I don’t even flinch. Maybe it’s because it’s buried in so much truth. “I know Deke
looks
guilty, but no one will even listen to the possibility that he isn’t.”

“I’m listening right now,” Nelson says. And he is, warm brown eyes fixed on mine. “I’m not saying Deacon is guilty. I’m telling you we need to talk to him. That’s all.”

I nod half-heartedly, and Nelson taps my arm when I sniffle. “Emmie, don’t lose hope. This investigation is not over yet, do you understand?”

I nod, feeling lighter. Hope is dangerous, but I cling to it all the same.

“I’ve already had one conversation with Mr. Thorpe,” Deputy Nelson says. He pauses, jaw
click-clicking
as he swallows. “You can be sure I’m checking every possibility there. As for this man who followed you, I’d like to check in to Children’s Services, but I’d also like to check to see if anyone might have hired an investigator.”

I wrinkle my nose. “An investigator?”

“A private investigator. As you said, Mr. Westfield is troubled. If Chelsea has concerned family, it’s a possibility.”

I scrub at a spot of dirt on my shorts with my fingernail. “So what do I do?”

“You come inside with me.”

I hold back a shiver. “Are we talking to the sheriff now?”

“Tomorrow,” Nelson says. “And he’ll be in a good mood, because he’s picking up a new fishing boat in New Bern today. If I find something, Sheriff Perry will hear me out. Trust me on that, Emmie.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. Now we need to call your parents. There’s paperwork.”

“My parents?” I rub the back of my neck. “I really don’t want to call my parents.”

“You’re a minor. I’d be neglecting my duty as an officer if I didn’t call them.”

I stand up then, chewing my lip. “Then just my dad. Not my mom. Please.”

His laugh is easy. “Your dad will work just fine.”

I follow him in, grateful that he agreed. Of course, it’s only temporary. At some point, Mom
will
find out about this. And there will be no coming back from the place that takes her.

• • •

Dad is a strong, silent presence at my elbow throughout the interview at the police station. I appreciate the quiet until it drags on, stretching through the awkward car ride to pick up my abandoned bicycle and then through the stop at the grocery store.

By the time we’re back at his condo, I’m wound up so tight my spine aches. We bring the groceries inside, where Ralph greets me with a happy bark. It’s a tiny one-bedroom flat with an L-shaped kitchen and a balcony overlooking Front Street. The view of the water is nice, but the place is so cramped you practically have to walk sideways to get down the hall.

When it’s quiet like this, it feels like sitting in a shoebox.

“Dad, are we going to talk about this at all?”