My Secret to Tell (5 page)

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.”

“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.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, aching for him.

“So am I. I had to shut down my practice. I lost everything. That’s how I ended up here.” His smile is sad when he looks back to me. “I love Dink, but that boy’s had a hard life. I hope he didn’t do this, but we’re all capable of bad things if we’re hurting enough.”

“I still don’t think he’s capable of this,” I say. “He might come to the hospital today.”

Joel perks up. “You don’t say? When?”

I chew my lip, worried that I’ll have to talk him into it again. I don’t want Joel to give up if it takes longer than I planned. “I’m not sure, but he promised me he’d come. He will.”

I feel the threat of tears coming on, so I tamp them down, swallow hard.

Joel isn’t fooled. He chucks me gently on the shoulder. “Don’t be too grim, Eddie. Sheriff Perry thinks he’s closing in on answers, so we won’t be in the dark much longer.”

I force a smile, but my heart pumps out an extra beat. And then another. Perry hates Deacon. If he gets it in his head that Deke did this, it’s going to be big trouble.

“Well, I need coffee,” Joel says. “You need a ride home? I could run you by the Cru first. It’d be my treat.”

My mind throbs with an image of Deacon’s phone upstairs, his bag still propped by Chelsea’s door. He needs that phone—at the very least.

“If it’s okay, I was going to tidy Chelsea’s room a little. Thought I could make her bed and leave her a note or something.”

“You and your cleaning. My office is spotless.”

“Chelsea loves it when I clean. She always says she’ll return the favor when the frog grows hair, whatever that means.”

Joel laughs. “It means it’ll never happen. Daffy says it too. I think their mother used to say that. Hey, I talked to the admissions dean at Duke last week. We’re trying to set up a round of golf, so we talked about you. He’s really looking forward to reviewing your application.”

My application. To Duke. Mental images of the chapel and long stretches of velvety grass flip through my head. It’s been my dream to go to Duke since the campus tour with Landon. Back then, I wanted to be a marine biologist, but back then, Mom was fine with that.

She had my brother.

The legacy she gave up at eighteen—when she wound up pregnant with my very blue-collar father’s baby—was all turning right. I remember her slim arm tucked through my brother’s on that tour, her eyes bright as she said,
“Mama thought there’d be no doctors and lawyers from my branch of the family tree, but she didn’t see you coming, Landon.”

Probably a good thing Grandma didn’t see. She had a way of rubbing things in until they left a mark.

“You look lost in space.” Joel chuckles. “Don’t let it scare you. It’s a good thing.”

“It’s incredible. I just thought you were doing a reference letter. I never expected you to talk to the dean.”

“Well, Emmie, I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re cut out to go all the way at Duke if that’s what you choose, though it’s not a bad idea to change schools either. We can talk about it later, but for now, you’ll have someone keeping an eye out for you.”

Hope floats into my chest, bubble light. “Really? Joel, you’re amazing.”

“Well, it’s no guarantee. You’ll still be in the application process, but greasing the wheel a little never hurt, right?”

Joel picks up his keys and Chelsea’s bag. He tells me he’ll drop the bag by Ann Street Inn, but I can’t do anything but smile.

“I’m going to head out. Don’t clean all day, you hear me?”

“I do.”

He lumbers to his feet but seems to hesitate before heading to the door. “Emmie?”

“Yeah?”

Joel looks down, knocking his knuckles softly into the doorframe like he’s not sure how to phrase this. When he looks up, his eyes are too bright. “If you see Dink, tell him I’m sorry. I said some things—” He trails off, shaking his head. “Just tell him I’m sorry. I do want to hear his side of this, and I’ll do whatever I can to help with this situation.”

“I’ll tell him.”

My smile is in place, but I’m cold all over again. If Joel thinks he needs to offer his help, then I might be wrong about things working out. Deacon might end up arrested.

• • •

He’s not by the Rum Baby. Tourists have descended on the cemetery. I have to step around a couple dressed in store-creased T-shirts from one of the beach shops across the bridge. Next, I smile at a pair of women with their hands full of papers from the Beaufort Historical Society. As much as I wish Deacon would show, the wait is probably a good thing. I feel like a pot that’s boiling too hard, so I probably need the time to settle.