My Secret to Tell (17 page)

“They could be hiding anything,” I say. My gaze drags back down to my screen. I spot my name on one of the forms, and my throat tightens. I recognize my careful comments about ordered supplies.
Airtight storage bins.
I remember the call now. Charlie, not Thorpe. I rub my hand over my face. It isn’t the first time I’ve taken a supply call from him.

“Deke, I helped them,” I say, my voice cracking. “I took a call from Charlie a month ago. I ordered storage bins for them, for a charter. There are notes right here. I’ve done it other times too. My name is on those receipts because they called me to order stuff. I helped them do this.”

“Emmie, you didn’t know.” He doesn’t look up from my phone screen, but he must have found something good, because I can see his fingers go still, his eyes tracking back and forth. He sucks in a deep breath when he’s done. “Found a news article from a few years back that mentions Thorpe with a couple of other guys who got arrested, but I can’t find anything on the court system. The charges must have been dismissed.”

The back of my neck tenses. “What was the charge?”

Deacon’s expression is steely. “Trafficking cocaine.”

I can feel the panic rise, but I push it back down until it’s a burn in the pit of my belly. “They should track that stuff bet—”

I cut myself off midsentence with a gasp.
Tracking.
My phone has tracking. If Mom thinks about it, she’ll know how to find me. There’s a decent chance she’s thought of it already. “Deke, turn off my phone.”

“What?”

“Turn my phone off! Power it down!”

“Okay, okay.” He’s pressing buttons, looking confused, and then his expression clears. “Location tracking,” he guesses. “Do you think they’ll have checked it yet?”

“No idea. We shouldn’t stay too long,” I say. Then I move the mouse to tomorrow’s date, checking quickly. “Two charters tomorrow, one out of Morehead City. I’ll bet that’s Mr. Trumbull—it’s got Joel’s name listed. And then there’s the monthly thing too. Mr. Christopher’s charter. I’m sorry, I should have thought of it sooner.”

Deacon’s head jerks up. “Mr. Christopher?”

“Yes, he charters a boat the last weekend of every month.”

“I should have figured it out.” Deacon’s eyes go flinty. “
Christopher
is Thorpe’s son’s name. They call him CJ, but his name is Christopher—shit.” His face goes slack and pale.

“What? What is it?”

“It really is them. I didn’t want to believe it, but there it is. And I think I know why they hurt my dad,” he says. “That day it all went down, Dad was in a shit mood. When he found the busted latches on the charter boat, he lost his mind. Blamed Max mostly, who’d brought the boat back, but then he reamed Thorpe and Charlie too. He told them they were all off the charter drop-offs for a while. I thought Dad was being a tool, taking their overtime like that…”

My cheeks feel numb, tingly. “But they were losing a whole lot more than a few hours of extra pay,” I say. “If they couldn’t deliver goods, they’d have real motive to get your dad out of the way. And now even Joel’s out of the way because of Mr. Trumbull.”

Deacon’s laugh is as bitter as they come. “That’s why the whole fight with Dad started. Seeing him using was what sent me over the edge, but I was so mad before that, because he took his mood out on our guys. I actually
apologized
to them.” He looks sick over it. I get the feeling.

“You didn’t know either,” I say. “Do the coordinates back this up?”

“If they were meeting another boat? Sure. Most of them are within a few hours of here if you’re moving fast. Except that Caribbean set you found. That one makes no sense at all.”

I push my hands through my hair. “We’re sure about the attack though? Because I thought I was wrong about Thorpe. His right hand was bruised, but he’s actually left-handed.”

Deacon shakes his head. “Thorpe’s not left-handed. He’s ambidextrous. He brags all the time about how he can drag in fish from any position on the boat.”

My stomach flutters. “If he’s ambidextrous, he wouldn’t have
any
alibi except cleaning those boats.”

“And Charlie cleans the boats with him,” Deacon says. “It was Charlie too, who told us all about his
hand injury
.”

They could have lied. A thrill runs through me, and I lean forward over Joel’s desk. “Are there cameras in Morehead City? Like traffic cameras?”

“A few, I think.” Deacon sags against the wall. “At the stoplights. But there are ways to get to the boats without hitting those intersections. I doubt it would hold up.”

“Try Joel,” I say. We use the office phone, but it goes straight to voice mail, so I leave a message.

“Joel, it’s Emmie. I’m with Deacon, and we think Thorpe and Charlie are using the charter boats to smuggle. We’ll try to call soon.”

As soon as I hang up, Deacon heads toward the door of the office.

“Where are you going?” I ask. “We should call the state police. Maybe the Coast Guard.”

“I’m sorry, Emmie. I can’t sit here and wait. I have to check the boat. If they are setting up for a run, all we need is a picture. Some morsel of proof, and they go down right now. Even Perry won’t be able to stop it.”

“It’s too dangerous. We should go to the police.”

“Except they’re paying the sheriff off and who knows who else around here,” Deacon reminds me. “Thorpe and Charlie could take off, and we’d end up arrested.”

“Arrested.” The word sits in my stomach like a greasy rock. I imagine my mom at the police station again, and my mouth goes dry. God, how did this happen? A week ago, I would have been voted least likely to ever be pursued by the police. And now?

I shudder.

Deke sighs. “I respect whatever you have to do, but I have to try to turn Charlie and Thorpe in first. If I see something on a boat, something legit, I can call the Coast Guard station down in Emerald Isle. I’ll never be able to live with myself if they just sail away, free and clear. I have to try.”

I close my eyes and let his words run through me. I’m still half-terrified, but I’m not going to walk away again. I’m going to see this through.

“Okay,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’m with you.”

• • •

We’re hunched in a dark store alcove across the street from the Westfield Charters boats. Deacon tugs his baseball cap low over his forehead, and I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt. I’m edgy as all hell, and he isn’t much better. Every car, every tourist voice makes us pause.

The boats are anchored and empty. A sign outside the dockside office invites visitors to return tomorrow for “Tours, Fishing, and More!”

I’m not so sure about this plan anymore. “Can we just go to the Coast Guard now?”

“They’ll call the local police if they come, so there’s no point if we’re not sure there’s something to find. We’d end up arrested, remember?”

“I know, I know. I hate this though.” I chew my lip while he watches the traffic along the boardwalk.

Deke can’t see me, but he must sense it in my body language. “Hey, you don’t have to do this. I have to check. If Perry catches up with me, I want to know I did everything I could.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I say, and then I press my phone into his hands. “Just go fast. If you find anything, take pictures and get out before they come back, but keep it in airplane mode and turn it right back off. I don’t want Perry showing up before the Coast Guard gets here.”

His smile is a faint flash of white teeth in the shadows. “Right.”

I cross the street with him, pausing by the live oaks and park benches flanking the boardwalk. Deacon keeps moving across the boardwalk and down the dock toward the larger white boat tied there.

It shifts in the water when Deacon climbs on board. It’s inevitable and uninteresting to anyone who doesn’t know what’s going on, but my throat threatens to close off to air altogether, watching it wobble in the still water. Tiny waves ripple out from the motion, and I hold my breath until I see stars.

When my vision clears, I can make out a dark shadow moving toward the cabin and then a faint blue glow illuminating from within. My cell phone. My heart catches on a breath. Did he find something? The light dies, and I wait, watching the pole clock that’s featured on half the postcards from this town.

One minute passes.

Three minutes.
Where is he?

Six minutes.

My stomach squeezes its way up to my heart. That’s too long. He should be out by now. I check the boardwalk and the road, waiting for a pickup truck to pass. There’s nothing on that boat. No movement at all.

“Dammit, Deke,” I mutter.

I cross the boardwalk in four strides and stick to the shadows as best as I can. My limbs are as limp as cooked noodles as I walk. There’s no one around to see me wobble though. I dart onto the dock and stare at the boat, still seeing nothing.

I consider calling his name, but that feels crazier than boarding, so I grab the rope, give the pier one last glance, and then climb the ladder. I land on the boat softly, but it gives under my feet, leaving me to grip the railings to stay steady.

There are holes for fishing poles and long benches under a canopy in the main area. Keeps tourists in the shade when the sun proves to be too much. But I’m interested in the small white cabin at the front of the boat.

I step forward and hear the slightest creak. My body goes stiff.

I see the open cabin door but not Deacon. Then I hear him hiss. He’s squatting on the floor near the door, staying under the boat sides and out of sight.

Darn good idea now that I think of it.

I drop immediately and then pause, considering the mix of fish guts, vomit, and other assorted tastiness that’s probably all over this deck. Not the time to get squeamish. I crawl on my knees to Deacon, who’s still squatting.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Wondering what’s taking you so long.”

He looks like he wants to argue but just shakes his head. “There’s nothing in the cabin. I checked the benches on the sides too. Haven’t checked the hold, but it seems too obvious.”

“How about the bathroom?”

Even in the darkness, I can see the strange look he gives me. “The bathroom?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Dad said his captain friends always tell him to keep anything valuable on a boat in the bathroom, because it’s the last place people think to look.”

He arches a brow. “Worth a shot.”

We slip around the corner of the cabin to the starboard side of the boat. A narrow white door opens into a small bathroom. There’s a tiny sink with a cabinet and a pressure-flush toilet. I pop the latch on the cabinet, spotting a bucket with cleaners.

“No dice,” I say, glancing through the fairly potent bottles. “Unless we want to scrub toilets or maybe start a fire.”

We slip out and hear footsteps and voices ring out on the boardwalk. My eyes widen, but we can’t see from this side of the boat.

“Probably nothing,” Deke whispers. “Dit-dotters.”

He moves to slip past me when I hear the distinct thump of the dock shifting, footsteps thumping down the planks. Deacon’s hand touches my arm.

“Deke?”

I can’t see anything but his shoulder. He backs us into the bathroom again, this time without a word. I can hear them. Someone’s coming closer. Talking.

Deacon slides the bathroom door closed, cutting off the meager light entirely. I hear my heartbeat behind my ears. Deacon breathing. The men outside. The boat shifts with the undeniable motion of someone heavy climbing on board. And then a second someone.

Thump, thump, thump.

Every sound feels closer than the last. They’re on the boat, moving around. My whole body trembles. Oh God, I might fall. Bump something.

They’d hear that for sure. Find us.

Terror spikes through my chest, blooms bitter on the back of my tongue.

I sway on my feet, reaching forward to grab Deacon. I catch his narrow hips, and he places his hands over mine. He’s warm and steady, but I can feel the layer of panic sweat on his palms.

They’re in the cabin now. Muttering. I hear heavy thumps, like they’re putting things in storage. Probably whatever they’re smuggling. Money? Drugs? Bodies? Oh God, are they leaving now? We can’t stay here. I bite back the panic until I taste blood.

Stay calm. Stay. Calm.

I push my face between Deacon’s shoulder blades. My belly brushes something hard in his back pocket. My phone. We could call the police.

We could try. I inch my hand in that direction, but then they’re on the move again, footsteps heading out of the cabin. Right past our door. I hear voices.

“…just head out?”

“No. Our guy just got on shift. Another hour. Let’s get our shit.”

The footsteps retreat off the boat, up the dock. I’m still clawing into Deacon’s jeans hard enough to rip the denim, but he relaxes as the steps grow fainter.

He slips the door open, and it feels like light floods in. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling strangely exposed.

“Stay put,” he breathes, easing out of the bathroom. He presses his long body against the cabin wall. “They’re in the office on the dock. They left something.”

“Let’s call,” I whisper. “Let’s call now.”

Deacon shakes his head. “He said his guy just came on shift. Perry’s been on all day, so I don’t think he’s talking about the police.”

“So?”

“So he could be talking about someone they’ve got in the Coast Guard. I don’t know.” He crouches low again like he’s heading up to the cabin. I jerk him back by the hem of his shirt.

“Deke, no!” I whisper.

“They put something in the bins, Emmie. I want a picture of it. I want hard proof to send to every damn contact on your phone so that
no one
can hide this anymore. Then I don’t care how fast they track us.”

He inches toward the cabin again, and I want to scream, want to grab him, but I can see the edge of the shack from here. If I move any further, they’ll see me.

Deacon cracks the door to the cabin, and I flinch at the tiny groan the springs make. He’s inside. Shuffling, much more softly than the other two.

I glance down at my feet. The cabin’s leaving a bank of deep shadows along the floor. If I stay low, I’ll still be in that darkness. I creep into the cabin behind Deke, who’s leaned over a black storage box, hinges open.