My Secret to Tell

by Natalie D. Richards

  A shiver rides up my spine. Maybe I should tell someone this is going on. It could affect business, create rumors. They don’t need that. Someone should know.

  I’m halfway through dialing Joel’s number when I hear them talking. My fingers hesitate and my ears strain. A group of kids passes between us, and I will them to move faster. I probably shouldn’t be trying to listen. Okay, I definitely shouldn’t be listening. But I want to know. If they arrest this scary guy, then Deke can breathe easy. I can bring him to the hospital, and Chelsea will be able to get some rest.

  I can tell right away Nelson is fishing for something. He gestures at the bigger guy’s hands. Even from here, I can see the right one is discolored. Bruised maybe. My heart squeezes out an extra beat seeing that. I can’t be sure, but it looks much worse than Deacon’s hands.

  “Looks like you’re a little busted up,” Officer Nelson says. “Care to tell me how that happened?”

  “Fishing’s a rough business.”

  Nelson doesn’t look convinced. “Is it now? Where were both of you last night?”

  “On the boats until eight,” the big one says. “Look, we ain’t what you’re looking for here. Westfield’s got a line of enemies up and down this little stretch of coast.”

  I miss something Charlie says, but then he scratches the back of his neck. “He pays my check, so I don’t ask questions, you know?”

  Officer Blond and Boring takes notes without emotion, but the smile underneath Nelson’s moustache tells me he smells a lie. “I’ll be checking with your boss. Seven o’clock, you said?”

  “Eight.” This from the big one.

  “Mr. Thorpe, Mr. Jones.” Nelson offers their names as a farewell and heads out, his partner a pale shadow behind him.

  I take a deep breath and look down at the time sheets in my lap. It’s easy enough to find them both. My finger touches each of their clock-out times. 1700. Which is five o’clock, not eight o’clock.

  My vision shrinks down to those four digits on the page—the ones that prove they lied through their teeth.

  I look up, but the officers have disappeared. Thorpe is still there though, eyes scanning the boardwalk, that bruised hand rolling into a loose fist at his side.

  Okay, stop jumping to conclusions. They didn’t say they were working, just that they were on the boats. Maybe they were just relaxing. Maybe there was an off-the-clock meeting.

  Or maybe they attacked Mr. Westfield.

  My hands prickle with sweat. If they’re involved, they wouldn’t stay in town. Why aren’t they running? And why am I still here, holding time sheets the police probably need to see.

  I glance at the boardwalk again, but I don’t see either officer. Not surprising. Everyone in North Carolina is down here. I’m not sure I could find an elephant dancing the samba. God, I hate days like this.

  I’ll call Joel. This is way outside my job description. Across from me, Thorpe trudges down the dock back to the boat. They’re loading passengers, and my shoulders hunch when I catch sight of his hand. He definitely looks like he’s been in a fight.

  Even if they had nothing to do with Mr. Westfield, I don’t want that guy seeing me with the time sheets. I don’t want him seeing me—period.

  When I’m sure they’re distracted enough with the boat to not notice, I walk quickly to the opposite side of the next stretch of shops, an outdoor strip mall with archways beckoning visitors from both the boardwalk and the street. I stop beside the Whaler Inn, time sheets still trapped between my clammy fingers. I fold it and tuck it into my bag so I can call Joel.

  He picks up on the second ring, and relief rolls over me. “Joel, thank God. I’m freaking out a little here.”

  “Well, whatever it is, freaking out won’t help.”

  “I think it’s warranted this time. I was just picking up the time sheets, and there were police officers interviewing Charlie and Thorpe on the docks. I think they lied to them.”

  “You think the police officers lied?”

  “No, no. Thorpe and Charlie. The police were asking them about last night, about Mr. Westfield. They said they were on the boats until eight.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “But I have the time sheets right here, and they say five o’clock. I didn’t know if I should run after the police or call you or what. I could bring them in right now.”

  “The time sheets? I don’t need them. Those two do contract work down in Morehead City. Cleaning and such. I’d have to check the logs there, but I think that’s where they were.”

  “But, Joel, Thorpe had really busted-up knuckles too. Like he’s been hitting someone. What if he attacked Mr. Westfield? What should I do?” I take a sharp breath, a new thought jarring me. “What if they run? I mean, they could steal a boat, right? Maybe even take hostages.”

  Joel gives a soft, short laugh. “Neither of those boys is taking anyone hostage.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because those gentlemen are on parole. I’m pretty sure Charlie’s on GPS monitoring, and Thorpe’s desperate to hold this job. He’s had a hard time finding one.”

  A sunburned woman in a purple dress brushes past me, so I drop my voice to a whisper. “They’re ex-convicts?”

  “Now you know Mr. Westfield is passionate about giving people a chance to start over,” he says, but then he pauses. “You say Thorpe’s knuckles were bruised?”

  “Yes!”

  “Hm. Maybe I’d better head down to the police station. I’ll check with some of the other guys to see if anybody knows what happened to his hand.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll feel better if someone looks into it. Shoot, speaking of things I have to make you do, Mr. Trumbull called. He wants a call as soon as possible, but I swear his charter supplies are all ordered, and I prepared the receipt for him just yesterday.”

  Joel sighs. “That man always wants something, doesn’t he? I’ll take care of it. When are you stopping back by the hospital?”

  “Tomorrow morning if you don’t need the time sheets. It’s getting late, and I still have an errand to run after dinner.” The lie goes sour in my mouth. Finding Deacon isn’t exactly an errand, but I promised Chelsea. I need to at least try to find him.

  I hear muffled voices in the background. Joel tells someone he’ll be right there. Then he’s back. “Emmie, I’ve got to get in there. The doctors are making rounds. Thanks for calling about this. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yes. See you soon.”

  Sooner than tomorrow if I can find Deacon.

  • • •

  I find Dad at our kitchen table when I get home. He’s drinking out of his favorite coffee cup and reading the paper. It’s almost like he still lives here. Almost.

  Mom and Dad share custody of me and our Newfoundland, Ralph, now. They’re not divorced, just separated. Which means we do holidays and school events and sometimes dinner like everything’s the same as it’s always been. Until you mention Landon. Mom and Dad have two speeds when it comes to my brother—fight about his bad choices or pretend he doesn’t exist.

  Dad grabs a dishtowel from the counter to get what looks like calzones out of the oven.

  “Tim, you know where I keep the potholders,” Mom says, but she pulls out a stack of plates for him nonetheless.

  “Haven’t used a potholder in thirty-nine years, Mary. Not going to start now.” He pushes a calzone onto a plate. “How’s James doing?”

  Mom sighs, leaning back against our kitchen island. “They’re concerned about some swelling in his brain, but they’re relieving pressure—”

  “Relieving pressure?”

  Mom gives him a look that she still thinks I can’t interpret. She’s wrong. That look means We’ll discuss it later when our daughter can’t hear, but they really don’t need to bother. “That probably means they’re drillin
g holes in his skull,” I say, because I’ve watched enough medical shows to guess. Mom blanches, so I must’ve been right.

  I scratch Ralph’s ears and take the plate Dad offers because it will make them happy. Actually eating it is another matter. I can’t eat right now with Joel maybe talking to the police and Deacon God knows where and not answering his texts. He needs to go see Chelsea so we can get this stupid mess straightened out.

  I square the calzone on my plate and fold a napkin in half, wishing I had a pen to make a list. I need to stop by their house. Feed the cat. Pick up a sweatshirt for Chelsea, because she’s probably staying at the hospital. She’ll need a toothbrush and—

  “You all right, Emmie?”

  I jerk my gaze up to my dad. “Sorry. Fine.”

  “It’s such a shame,” Dad says. “Plenty of murmurs around the docks today about it.”

  I perk at that. Mom glances at my calzone, so I saw off a corner. “What kind of murmurs?” I ask.

  “Nothing you should worry about,” Mom says.

  “She’s not a baby,” Dad argues, turning to me. “People are guessing who might have done it. Westfield wasn’t exactly well liked, so there’s a long list.”

  “He wasn’t?” I pull back, trying to imagine it. He’s gruff, quiet. But disliked? “He always gives back to Beaufort, doesn’t he?”

  “Sure, but he reaches deep into the pockets of the town first. Makes some people angry.”

  “Now, hush, Tim. You’re going to worry her sick.” Mom brushes an imaginary strand of blond hair behind her ear. “You’re just saying that because you lost that contract with him.”

  “What contract?” I ask.

  “Engine maintenance on the boats,” he says, but then he leans in and winks. “It wasn’t that big of a contract.”

  “Eight boats between here and Morehead City,” Mom says softly, washing off the calzone pan. “I’ll bet it was nothing to sneeze at.”

  The air turns a little frosty, so I force a big bite and make yummy noises as I chew. Steam burns my tongue, and a wad of cheese lodges in my throat. I try to swallow, but the cheese is determined to choke me. I’m coughing like crazy, eyes streaming while the kitchen erupts into activity. Mom is so frantic, it’s like there are four of her, pouring me water, patting my back, asking Dad to do something.

  I hold up a hand, still coughing, because I know how scared she gets. They watch me while I recover, Mom’s hands shaking and her eyes so wide. Finally, I can talk, so I laugh.

  “Don’t I feel stupid?” I say.

  “No, sugar, don’t,” Mom says.

  I push out from the chair and try to get my plate, but Mom takes it too fast. Dad offers me water. My chest feels tight. They’re watching me like I’m a soap bubble, like if any little thing goes wrong, I will pop. I wipe at the table with my napkin until I can’t take it anymore.

  “Well, on that note, would you mind if I excuse myself?” I ask.

  Mom glances at my barely touched calzone, and I flinch. “Sorry. This has been a lot, you know? I feel like I’m just sitting here. I need to do something to help Chelsea.”

  “Nothing to do but wait. A prayer or two might not hurt,” Dad says.

  “I know, but I want to call her. I could pick up a change of clothes for her and bring it up to the hospital. Somebody else from school might want to check in, or I could borrow the car if you guys don’t mind.”

  “All this running around,” Mom says, touching my arm. “I wish you’d settle down. You need to just…”

  “Now, Mary, our Emmie’s a fixer. That’s her safe spot.”

  “My what?” I ask.

  “Fixing things. That’s your safe place when things are all in an upheaval,” Dad says. “Remember when Landon—”

  “Don’t,” Mom says, voice thin. “Please.”

  Tears well in her eyes, and Dad quiets. I fold her into a hug and make all the right noises to calm her down. It feels like a lie. I can’t afford to let Mom down the way Landon did. I have to be the kid who is careful and safe. The kid she can count on.

  If I tell her the truth about my running around—that yes, I’m going to get some things for Chelsea but that I’m going to try to find Deacon while I’m at it—she’ll be terrified. It will make her think she could lose me too.

  Chapter Four

  I take Turner up to Ann Street and turn right, grateful for the shade provided by the tall trees that flank the sides of the road. I pass Mrs. Gillespie’s place with her prize azaleas and the house with a Great Dane who spends his afternoons dozing on the porch.

  This is the Beaufort that brings the tourists back year after year. It usually feels charming and safe. Not today though. The wind hisses a little too hard and it’s still oppressively hot, though the daylight is fading, leaving glowing windows to watch me pass.

  I see the low wall with the iron fence and the white church at the corner. The Old Burying Ground sits behind it. I step inside the gates and take a deep breath that takes me right back to another summer day, when Deacon hid with bloody elbows and I cleaned him up with a wad of napkins from my back pocket.

  He’s not by the wall today, so I walk under the sprawling live oaks that stretch gnarled arms to the sky. Long leaves spread from the withered limbs, whispering to one another. The heat loses its grip in the burying ground, a place lost to shadows and tombstones and the sweet, fecund smell of old earth.

  I find him leaving a flower for the Rum Baby, and just like that, I’m back six years to that first time. We were coming home from getting ice cream, and he’d hit the curb on his bike. I saw him fly headfirst over the handlebars and heard his body scrape across the pavement before he came to a full stop. It was awful.

  He got up, bleeding like a stuck pig and sprinting full out for the cemetery. Chelsea ran home, but I ran after Deacon. I knew right then this was more than a kid who doesn’t like blood. This was different. He wasn’t just scared; he wasn’t there at all. So I crouched there in the dirt, my own scabbed knees scraping on an exposed root, and used a wad of napkins from the Fudge Factory to clean him up.

  Clean might be a stretch, but I did my best, talking a mile a minute to fill the silence.

  “I had a scrape like this last year. All the way up my arm. Hurt so bad, I refused to take a bath. I got it jumping off the pier, so I probably smelled like a goat in a crab-shell bikini.”

  On and on I talked, and he just stared into space. Ten minutes later, we were walking home, looking for Chelsea and their dad, and he laughed out of nowhere.

  “A crab-shell bikini?” It was the first thing he’d said since the accident.

  “I didn’t think you were listening,” I said.

  “I heard every crazy word.” His smile cut me off, bright and unexpected. I’d seen him smile a million times, but it had never sent fire up my neck before that moment.

  “You always hang out in the cemetery when you’re hurt?” I asked, rubbing my hot cheeks.

  “I like it there.”

  “You go there a lot?”

  He’d looked me right in the eye. No smile then. “Don’t tell, Emmie. Please.”

  The way he looked at me stole my voice and opened doors to feelings I hadn’t had much use for at ten. But they unfurled in that moment, young and greedy and rooting as deep as the trees watching over us.

  A dove coos, bringing me back to the present. I press my hands to the sides of my neck, remembering the heat I’d felt six years ago. Deacon watches me quietly, looking every inch the sweet boy I’ve always known.

  Whatever happened in that house with his dad can’t be what everyone’s thinking.

  I dig through my own pockets, finding Chester’s old tag and setting it on a stone ledge. I don’t know how it started or why, but tourists and townies alike always leave the Rum Baby a little something, stuffed animals or plastic beaded necklaces. Maybe i
t’s just too sad thinking that a baby died and the only thing we know about her is that she was buried in a rum barrel.

  “Playing hide-and-seek?” I finally ask.

  “Did I leave a trail of breadcrumbs?”

  The jokes fall flat because neither of us can manage a smile.

  “Your dad’s stable,” I tell him. “Joel’s with your sister. I couldn’t see him, but they said he’s all cleaned up. If you want to visit him, there won’t be any blood. You’ll be safe now.”

  He shakes his head and laughs a strange, distant laugh.

  “Deke, you need to go to Chelsea. She’s scared and she’s hurting and she wants her brother. Plus the police will need to talk to you. Joel’s already talking to them today.”

  “What about? Did he hear something?”

  I nod. “Two of the guys who work on the boats who are lying about when they clocked out yesterday.”

  His brow furrows. “Who?”

  “Thorpe and Charlie. They said they were on the boats until eight, but they clocked out at five. Joel thinks it’s legit, but Thorpe’s hand was messed up.”

  He deflates, shakes his head. “It’s probably not them. I know about Thorpe’s hand. Charlie told me he mashed it good on a run this week. Plus, Charlie’s got a tracking cuff and they do a lot of flat-rate work after hours. Cleaning and charter drop-offs.”

  I frown. “So you don’t think they could have done it?”

  “Hell, Emmie, a lot of people could have done of it. Most of the guys who work for him, half the boat owners from here down to Morehead City. He’s not exactly adored.”

  “So I keep hearing.” I steel myself, because it’s time to push for answers. “You seem to have plenty of problems with him.”

  “I didn’t beat him to a pulp.” He steps away from me, clenching and releasing his fists over and over, his jaw working through words he won’t let out.

  What isn’t he telling me?

  “Okay, you’ve got to help me out,” I say. “Why are you still hiding? Because frankly, you sneaking around a cemetery avoiding everyone is suspicious as all get-out. I get why some people think you did this, Deke. Heck, if you don’t start talking, I’m going to start thinking it.”