My Secret to Tell

by Natalie D. Richards

  I pull back, wary. “What thing?”

  “Only if you want me to.”

  My palms are tingling. I press them into the cabinet doors behind me, and Deacon moves his hand closer. His thumb grazes my hip. I suck in a tight breath.

  “Oh,” I say, the word catching in my throat.

  His answering smirk unravels me. He slides his palm to the middle of my back, and I’m in free fall, hurtling and spinning like I’m lost in space. But he’s pulling me in. Just like always.

  His forehead dips to touch mine, and I feel my pulse in my throat like a hammer.

  “Why now?” I ask.

  “Because I want to and you want me to. Because you might change your mind after.”

  After?

  I push at his chest. He relents in an instant, pulling back. Surprise and worry cloud his expression. There’s an unnecessary apology forming on his lips, so I hold up a hand.

  “Please don’t. You’re right about what I want”—I force myself to meet his eyes—“but what I need is to hear the truth. Now.”

  He takes a step back, and I feel his absence like an old wound. He leans against the counter across from me, pulls his shoulders back a little before he starts.

  “My dad has a drug problem,” he says.

  It takes everything I have to not laugh. The idea of Mr. Westfield—in his short-sleeved button-down shirts and battered boat shoes—even thinking he would know where to get drugs is too ridiculous.

  But Deacon isn’t laughing.

  Not even close.

  • • •

  The rain has finally eased. A sliver of blue sky peeks through the clouds outside the back window. Deacon’s pacing the stamp-sized kitchen now, and I know he’s waiting on me to say something. Anything maybe.

  I lick my parched lips. “I had no idea. None.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Chelsea’s done backflips to hide all this from you.”

  I blink, as if somehow that’ll clear the fog settling over me. It doesn’t. “Okay, tell me more. What does he use? When did it start?”

  “Pain pills. Prescription stuff like Percocet, Vicodin—even morphine a few times when he got his hands on it. It started with a back injury after Mom died.”

  “Does he use all the time? Is this an everyday thing?”

  “No. He’s been clean on and off. Sometimes for months. We found out he had problems even before Mom, back in his teens. Valium, sleeping pills—he stole whatever he could find.” Deacon’s still pacing, burning nervous energy. “Anyway, Mom was a good Catholic girl from Caracas. She made it clear she wouldn’t be dating someone with that sort of habit. I know everybody says you can’t get clean for somebody else, but he did. Stayed sober for fifteen years. And then Mom died.”

  I rub my hand over my face. I still feel numb. “Who knows about this?”

  “Chelsea, me, and Joel.” He laughs, but it’s joyless. “It’s pretty easy to hide. People think drug addicts are hollow-eyed vagrants. Nobody thinks of the middle-aged guy next door.”

  I raise a hand to stop him. “Joel knows?”

  “Yeah. He’s been good to us. Paid for a couple of Dad’s stints in rehab. He says he had a rough go when his wife and daughter died—I guess it bonds them. He had to cover Dad on some tax problems after a bad episode, and he’s helped ever since. He never wears out like I do. I’m sick of protecting him—but not Joel and definitely not Chelsea. Chelsea would lie forever for him.”

  I swallow hard, but his words go down like a jagged pill.

  “Do the police know? Do they think the attack is related to drugs?”

  “Deputy Nelson is the only one who knows he uses. He saw him overdose last year. I think he could have pushed the issue, but he was decent. Dad was going into rehab again, and Nelson turned the other way. I think he knew what the sheriff would do if he found out.”

  “The sheriff? What would he do?”

  A group of gulls flies over the house, screeching. We turn to watch them flap over the water, sending the herons into irritable dances in the grass. When I look back, Deacon continues.

  “Perry hasn’t exactly kept his bad opinion of us quiet. He thinks Dad has a waterfront monopoly. After the marina wreck I covered for him, things just got worse.”

  I straighten. “Wait…covered? Did your dad wreck the boat?”

  “I forced Dad into that. I was seventeen, so no permanent file. If he had taken that on his record?” Deke shakes his head, looking grave. “Perry would pull his license, his membership in the council of commerce. He’d do everything he could to ruin us.”

  I press my lips together, wondering what the sheriff will think if Joel’s investor comes through. Three locations on the Carolina coast? I doubt that’ll sit too well.

  “Do you think he’d go so far as framing you?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I don’t like the guy, but I don’t see him as a dirty cop either. If you look at it from his angle, the pieces fit nicely. I’ve got a record. I was there that night. I look guilty. And there aren’t any other suspects without alibis.”

  He pauses, his jaw going tight. I watch his fists clench and relax. Clench and relax.

  “Dad had been clean for six months,” he says. “Chelsea was sure it would stick this time. But then there he was in the office at home, so out of his mind he barely recognized me.”

  The image sits heavy on my chest. “That’s when you hit him,” I guess.

  He swallows hard, looks at his feet. “I was furious. I’ve covered so much shit for him. Almost didn’t graduate because of him. I just lost it. Then I felt like crap and went back.”

  I move away from the counter, pushing my hair behind my shoulders. “Deacon, this is awful. You need help.”

  “I know I do—but who? Joel thinks I did it. Perry thinks I did it. Hell, Dad thinks I did it. Chelsea’s probably too flipped out about me hitting him to know what she thinks.” He sighs. “I thought rumors would come out, that someone would have heard something by now.”

  “Do you still think it’s somebody that works for you guys?”

  “It’s a good bet. My gut tells me it involves the boats. It’s the only thing Dad has that’s worth anything. We’ve got five regular guys between here and Morehead City, but I’m pretty sure the police would have looked into all of them. My money’s on our seasonal guys.”

  “The ones who only work on call?”

  Deacon nods. “There are probably a dozen of them, and we don’t know them quite as well because they come and go. At least a few of them might have considered the opportunity the boats provide.”

  “What kind of opportunity?”

  “Smuggling,” he says. “Our boats move without much attention. We’re not exactly a threat. Which is the kind of thing some of these guys look for.”

  “The coordinates,” I say. “You think that’s where they’re taking stuff?”

  Deacon shrugs. “Makes as much sense as anything else I can come up with. But random coordinates aren’t enough to prove anything. I need something to give Perry. Not evidence—I’m not that stupid. I just need to be able to offer a reasonable lead. Something that convinces him I’m not just trying to save my own ass, you know?”

  We slip into the living room, sitting side by side against the wall.

  “Do you think the guy with Chelsea ties in to this?” I ask.

  “I doubt it. Children’s Services checks in after any bad relapse. Last time, you were probably too young, but they interviewed our teachers and doctors, set us up with counselors. I’m sure they’re around again, and since Chelsea seemed comfortable, he’s probably legit.”

  “But why would he want to talk to me? And what would he want me to stay away from?”

  Deacon frowns. “I don’t know. Maybe someone who was dealing to Dad? Maybe it’s someone you might run into at the office
? Either way, he’d want to talk to you because you’re part of her support network.”

  It does fit. Except I’m not part of her support network, am I? Not really.

  My cheeks burn. I stay quiet, because I don’t trust my voice right now. I leaned on Chelsea so hard when my brother left. I needed her. And I always thought she needed me too.

  Deacon scoots closer to me, still smelling like salt water. Still looking like everything I’ve ever wanted in my life.

  I shiver, not because I’m cold but because I feel small and young and incredibly stupid. All these secrets were swimming underneath me, but I never looked down. How did I love them both so much and know them so little?

  My laugh is bitter. “God, I’m such an optimist. How could I not see this? I’m so sorry.”

  “What? Emmie, no.”

  I turn to him, the carpet rough under my legs. “You and Chelsea—you were suffering. The signs were there. Those nights Chelsea didn’t want me staying over. The times you’d seem so angry about your dad sleeping in. There were clues, Deke. How could I not see this?”

  He nudges me with his knee. “You always saw. Better than that, you knew what to do. From the lilies on Mom’s sailboat to the blood thing. You’ve been there every time I needed you, and you’ve been there for Chelsea too. You let her feel normal. You let her forget.”

  “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?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “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?”

&
nbsp; 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.