My Secret to Tell

by Natalie D. Richards

  “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 cinnamo
n. 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.

  It’s not Thorpe either, not unless he’s bathed and picked up dental hygiene in the last few days.

  I look up, catching a glimpse of myself in the surveillance camera monitor behind the register. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I’m zeroing in. You can see me clear as day—so much for keeping my back turned—but the man behind me is mostly out of focus. I can be sure he’s average height and build and he’s wearing a suit jacket and a white button-down shirt. Business guy.

  He leans a little left, and I see his dark skin and hair in the monitor. My limbs go heavy with dread. It’s the guy from the Ann Street Inn. The one who was talking to Chelsea about me.

  Just turn around. He can already see you. He already knows who you are, and you want to know who he is.

  “That’ll be sixteen forty-five.”

  I dig out my wallet, and a cell phone chirps behind me. His cell phone. It chirps again when I hand the bill over.

  “Yeah?” The voice behind me is gruff. Familiar. Definitely the same guy.

  I hear nothing from his phone, but my ears strain like radar dishes until he speaks again.

  “I’m in the middle of something,” he says.

  The clerk’s wrestling through the drawer. Swearing.

  “It might be,” the man says. In the monitor, he steps back. Turns and walks away. “Yeah, I’m on my way.”

  “Hang on a tic, miss,” the clerk says. “I gotta get a roll of quarters from the back.”

  I nod absently, but mostly I’m watching the monitor, where the man in the gray suit is heading for the door, cell phone still pressed to his ear. When I lose sight of him on the monitor, I look over my shoulder, seeing nothing but dark hair and the suit jacket disappearing out the door. The bells jangle behind him, and then he’s gone.

  I don’t know what the clerk is doing in the office, but it takes way longer than a tic. I don’t care. I’m too busy holding on to the counter while I try to remember what breathing is and how I’m supposed to do it.

  The cashier swears, and it sounds like something falls off a desk. Then he answers the phone. At this rate, it’ll be dark before I get back to Deacon. Or pouring down rain. As if on cue, I hear the roar of a hard rain on the roof.

  Terrific. I’m going to end up with a case of pneumonia to match my felony for interfering in a police investigation.

  The clerk finally returns with my change, pocketing his cell phone before he hands it over, his gaze moving to the window. “Dude, it’s pouring out there.”

  My smile feels like a rubber band pulled too tight. “You think?”

  I grab a couple of extra plastic bags, tying my phone inside to keep it dry. I stall after that, waiting a few minutes with the futile hope that the rain will let up. So naturally, it hails.

  It doesn’t last long—hail never does—but it’s still pouring when I push open the front door. The man in the gray suit could be waiting for me, but I’ve scanned every inch of the block I can see from the window, and I’m pretty sure he’s gone.

  I’m shoving the bags into my basket when I spot a plain white card with black ink melted into gray streaks.

  I pick it up and blot it on my sleeve. Something was written here. Most of it’s gone, but I can read a few words.

  Emm

  Stay away fr

  Call 6 8 4

  There are smudges next to the fr that I’m guessing spell from. And I’d bet the numbers at the bottom are a phone number, but three digits isn’t enough to help me make a call. None of this is enough to help me with anything.

  But it’s doing a darn good job of scaring me half to death.

  This card wasn’t in my basket when I went into the store, so it’s from him. I know it is.

  He was looking for me. Waiting for me to come back to town. But for all the terror I went though, all he did was leave a note. I turn the card left and right, but nothing else is legible.

  I don’t know if he’s trying to help or laying out a threat.

  I search the street, but it’s hopeless. Traffic is heavy from tourists rushing to their cars, crawling down Front Street to escape the storm. There’s nothing but headlights and windshield wipers. The man could be sitting in one of those cars.

  He could be watching me right now.

  Chapter Twelve

  Deacon is on the porch when I get back. He’s on his feet the second he sees my bike, and I can tell he’s surprised to see me.

  He jogs into the yard, though it’s still pouring buckets. “You rode in this? Emmie, you’re soaked!”

  Well, so is he now, but I’m shivering too hard to say so. I manage to hand him the note, which is pointless. Hardly any of it’s readable now, and I can tell by his confused face he has no idea what he’s looking at it.

  “The guy who w-was talking to Chelsea l-left it while I was in the store. I-I think he was waiting for me.”

  I’m shivering violently now. I don’t know if it’s from the rain or my nerves. Deacon’s white shirt clings in ways I’m too cold to fully appreciate, but I’m thankful when he takes the bags. “Get inside. We need to find you dry clothes.”

  I’m stiff and slow getting up the porch steps, and managing the knob with my half-frozen fingers is nearly impossible. I stop just inside the door, dripping the Mississippi all over the sloping wooden floor. Deacon’s right behind me, shutting the door and dropping bags on the kitchen counter. I wince at the trail of water and mud he’s leaving behind him, but he obviously doesn’t care.

  He heads to the single tiny bedroom, where I can see a sleeping bag and the backpack he grabbed from the boat shack. He finds a black shirt and a pair of boxer shorts I picked out and brings them out to me.

  “I can’t read the numbers. Did he seem dangerous?”

  “No.” I shudder. “B-but I don’t trust him. Why wouldn’t he have talked to me right there? Why wait until he could get me alone?”

  “Children’s Services won’t conduct interviews like that in front of people. Too many privacy laws.” Deacon frowns, looking thoughtful. “Do you think he followed you here?”

  “N-no. I took the long way. I was careful. I stopped once to try to call Joel. He didn’t pick up.”

  “You stopped? In this?” His shoulders droop. “Emmie.”

  Another wave of violent shivers hits, and he moves in, handing me the clothes so he can rub my arms with both hands.

  “You’ve got to get warmed up,” he says. “Sorry I don’t have shorts, but the boxers are clean. There’s an old beach towel in the bathroom, and I think there’s propane in the tank. I can get the water heater going if you want.”

  Warm water sounds divine. My thoughts cut off when he tugs his own sopping shirt over his head, hanging it over a rusty folding chair in the corner. I don’t know what they do to this boy on those boats, because he is nothing but carved abs and sinewy arms. It’s ridiculous.

  If I take him up on that shower, he’ll be out here. Looking like this. While I’m naked in the bathroom. Yeah, there is just no way. No way.

  I wrap my arms over my middle, and his face softens. I think he gets it because he looks away, and maybe it’s the light, but I swear his cheeks are a little pink. He clears his throat, and I stare at the puddle around my feet.

  “I’ll probably just change,” I say, holding up the clothes gratefully.

  He nods. Definitely blushing. “Me too. I’ll be in the bedroom. Pretending this wasn’t awkward at all.”

  That makes me laugh, and laughing makes everything more bearable.
>
  He slips into the room, flashing a smile that thaws me from the inside out. Then the door closes and I’m alone. I squelch out of my shoes and peel off my dripping socks. The door stays closed, but I watch it all the same as I slip into the bathroom to shuck my soaked shirts and shorts. My bra and undies are drenched too, but taking them off is out of the question, so I pull on the dry shirt he gave me, which thankfully covers most of the boxers.

  The beach towel is hanging over the bare curtain rod above the tub. Seriously? I was supposed to bathe in here, with a two-inch gap beneath the door and no shower curtain? He’s lost his mind.

  I hang up my clothes and use the towel to wipe off the drips my hair left on the sink. Then I start on the mirror. I force myself to stop, because this is not the time to clean. Back in the living room, I move for the grocery bags, but where do I put things? I scowl at the single remaining cabinet, which is closed. I’m not about to reach into that abyss to see what might crawl out, so I leave the bags where they sit.

  The bedroom door is still shut tight.

  I smirk. “Are you planning on taking a nap in there?”

  The door cracks. “You finished changing?”

  “Yes.” I untie plastic bags again, glad my phone made the second half of the journey without crapping out. I text Joel another request for him to call me about Chelsea. I don’t want to annoy him, but this definitely feels like an emergency.

  “I’m trying to reach Joel,” I say. “I think he needs to look into this guy. Do you think I should text Chelsea?”

  “Not yet. Let’s talk first.” Deke sighs, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead. He slips into the tiny kitchen with me and he’s so focused. I can feel all the places he looks at me, and every last one of them burns.

  “Okay.” My voice cracks. “I’m ready to talk. To listen. Whatever.”

  Deacon nods, putting a hand on the counter beside my hip. The sink drips, and my heart stutters.

  “I need to do one stupid, selfish thing before I say this to you,” he says.