My Secret to Tell

by Natalie D. Richards

  Deke pulls back with a soft hiss. He has swollen lips and hungry eyes. I want more. So much more it scares me.

  I swallow hard and stumble sideways to the door before he can speak. I fling it wide and sprint to my bike. He calls my name more than once, but I don’t look back.

  The long way would be safer, but I’m too rattled to care. My mind is supplying an endless stream of sensory input—from the feel of his scratchy chin to the taste of his mouth—but I push every last one of them back. I need time to think. To process.

  And right now, more than anything, I need time at the police station so that we can finally get some help.

  I turn left on Live Oak, and water sluices out of my seat, dribbling down my leg. I scowl and speed up, feeling the wind sting my slightly chafed chin. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a passing car and nearly veer off the road.

  Okay. I need to get myself together. I look like a lunatic. A lunatic who’s recently been seriously and thoroughly kissed. Not exactly the impression I’m hoping to make when I head into the police station.

  A mile later, I round the corner onto my street, mentally sifting through outfit choices. The white button-up might be too overt. My baby-blue dress? Too immature. I lift a hand to wave at Mrs. Baymont, who’s working in the garden.

  Oh crap, what if Mom’s home? Because I’m almost definitely sporting make-out hair and I’m not sure that will fly.

  My house comes into view, tall and white and—

  Cold slams into me like a wall. My foot slips off my pedal and my belly flips.

  The Children’s Services officer is on my porch. He’s on my porch. Waiting for me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My bike wobbles and I stop abruptly, feet slapping the pavement. I wince as the pedal scrapes my ankle, but I don’t look down. I can’t tear my eyes off the house. The porch. The well-dressed man who’s checking his watch.

  Maybe I should talk to him. I could assure him that Chelsea won’t do this alone—that I’ll be here for her. I could find out what the heck he wants me to stay away from. Cicada song rings in my ears as he sits down on our porch swing. His pants ride up on his ankles, and my eyes drag to a dark bulge above his right shoe.

  What is that? A cast? A brace? He tugs his pant leg free of the black lump, and something glints. Metal, I think.

  Is that a gun?

  Dread turns my limbs heavy. Children’s Services officers wouldn’t carry guns.

  My feet scuffle, fumble for the pedals of my bike. I don’t know what that is or why he’s waiting on my porch, but my mom isn’t home, and I don’t hear Ralph barking. I’d be alone with him. Alone with a stranger and the thing on his ankle that might be a gun.

  He turns toward me, and our eyes meet. His hand grazes his pant leg, and my pulse rush-thumps in my throat. He smiles, and it seems completely genuine. Friendly even. But Mr. Westfield seemed like an upright, drug-free guy. And Landon seemed like a brother who’d never leave.

  I don’t trust things for what they seem. Not anymore.

  Run. The word pounds into my mind with every beat of my heart. He’s waving at me now. Shouting hello. I’m not playing this game. If he wants to talk, he can follow me to the police station, because that’s where I’m going.

  My joints are loose, every limb moving off pace as I get my bike going.

  He calls after me. “Emmie, wait up!”

  His voice is pitched to friendly, but I keep pedaling. I don’t know where Chelsea is. I don’t know this man, and I’m definitely not convinced he’s Children’s Services now.

  I think of calling 911, but my phone is zipped in the plastic bag in my pocket. I don’t think I can get it out while I’m riding. Not without slowing down. It’s four blocks. I can make it.

  An engine rumbles to life behind me, and my stomach bottoms out. I chance a quick glance over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of a silver sedan backing out of my driveway. He’s turning my way. My bike swerves, and I whip back around with a gasp.

  He’s coming for me.

  I hang a left into an alley, picking up speed as I pass trash bins and brick walls. Another alley and another turn, weaving my way out of the residential area and toward the restaurants and stores. I peek through the spaces between the buildings where I can see the main road. I hear him behind me, so I know this is no coincidence. He is chasing me.

  I pedal harder. One block. I’m one block from the police station.

  He’s close enough that I can hear the crunch of his tires on the pavement. My thighs are burning. I can’t keep this up, and he’s coming. Coming fast.

  Is he going to hit me?

  I swerve off the road into one of the narrow spaces between the buildings. I can’t pedal through here. I can barely fit myself. I dump the bike and stand on quaking legs. The car stops, and I hear the whir of his window rolling down. Running is impossible. My legs give, and I stumble left, the brick wall scraping a painful line up my left arm.

  I have to go. Go!

  “Emmie, my name is Vaughn. I don’t mean you any harm. Just stop running and I’ll explain. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  No chance of that. He can explain to the police. I feel my body giving out as his car rolls forward again. I sprint with the last bits of my energy, but I can hear his engine nearby. He’s going to try to go around the block, cut me off at the main road.

  I emerge from between the buildings and turn right, a stitch knifing through my right side. I press my fingers at my ribs, panting as I find the red brick courthouse with white columns and a cupola perched at the top. The sheriff’s station is right beside it, a brick box as plain as the courthouse is pretty. I’m almost there. So close.

  My legs are lead heavy, and I can’t run. I clomp gracelessly down the street toward the sheriff’s department sign. I look back, but Vaughn—if that’s really his name—is at a stop sign half a block away. I see his dark head above the steering wheel, his mouth downturned.

  I try to speed up, but there’s nothing left. Nothing. One more look back. He’s still at the stop sign. Looking at me. Looking at the sheriff’s station. I keep moving until I’m at the station doors, flinging them open. Air-conditioning closes around me. I stumble across yellowed tile and reach a tall counter with the sheriff’s seal beneath it. I sag against it, gasping one ugly breath after the last.

  “Hello? I need help! I’m being followed.”

  A busty woman with dark eyes and fuchsia lips comes up to me. “Settle down, I’m right here. What can I do for you?”

  “I need to speak with an officer.” My heart is still pounding, sweat rolling down the sides of my face, the back of my neck.

  “I am an officer. What can I help you with?”

  “I’m being followed.” I glance back out the glass doors. I can just barely see where the car was waiting, but he’s gone now.

  “By who?”

  “I don’t know. He said his name is Vaughn. He—I saw him with my best friend—I think he might have a gun.”

  “You need to just calm down, miss. I’ll get you some forms, and you can have a seat.”

  I brace my slick hand on the high counter. “I’m too freaked out to fill out a form. I need help. I need to talk to some—” My words cut off on a gasp. I can’t catch my breath. It’s not getting better.

  The woman’s speaking, but my pulse is still fast and thready. A wave of nausea rolls through me. I close my eyes, trying to get myself together.

  When I open them, I can see Fuchsia Lips isn’t pleased. “You’re going to need to calm yourself down before I can help you with anything, young lady.”

  “Hey, Brenda, what’s going on?”

  I smell bad coffee and cheap aftershave. I open my eyes to see Deputy Nelson, his moustache working as he chews what I’m guessing is a bite of the bagel in his free hand. He looks wholesome, solid, and
just a little bit country.

  My next breath slows.

  “Miss, what’s going on?” he asks. “I’m Deputy Nelson.”

  Brenda cocks her head. “She flew in here with her hair on fire about someone following her. Some Vaughn. Says he’s armed or some such.”

  “I think,” I say. “I’m not positive, but it looked like a gun, so I ran.”

  “That’s what a sensible person does.” Nelson swallows his bagel, his brows pulling together. “How was he following you? On foot? And what time did this happen?”

  I shake my head, feeling steadier. “Just now. He was in a car. He followed me here.”

  “He followed you here?” He quirks his head at that and takes the paperwork Brenda had gathered for me. “I’ll go ahead and take care of her.” Then, to me, “What’s your name, miss?”

  “Emerson. Emmie.”

  Nelson nods. “All right, Emmie. Let’s go outside and see if we can spot that car that followed you.”

  Reality floods in with the daylight outside. I’m…disgusting. My clothes are damp, and my hair is dripping with sweat. I try to smooth it with my hands while Deputy Nelson gestures at the parking lot with his coffee cup. “Do you see the car out there?”

  It’s hard to look past the bagel pinned against the papers under his arm. I really hope he doesn’t want me to fill those out later. There will be crumbs everywhere. But even after a thorough look at the lot, I can’t find the silver sedan Vaughn drove.

  “No. No, he’s not here. He stopped at that intersection. I think he saw that I was coming in here and he decided to leave.”

  “What can you tell me about the car and the driver?” he asks and then he looks over at a bench. “Why don’t we sit down? I can finish up my bagel and you can tell me what happened.”

  I hesitate, looking at the building. Sheriff Perry could be in there.

  “We could go inside if you want,” he says. “This is a little unorthodox.”

  “No, it’s great! I’m sorry. I’m still just shaken up. The fresh air will do me good.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He pops his bagel in his mouth and digs around in his shirt pocket, pulling out a pen. I cringe at the smear of cream cheese left on his moustache.

  “Let’s start with the car.”

  I take a deep breath and reach in my pocket for the bag that has my phone and the receipts. “Actually, if it’s okay with you, I think we should start before that.”

  I tell him everything. Almost everything at least. He knows about Deacon’s dad, of course, and doesn’t look too thrilled when I talk about Thorpe and Charlie at the docks and the coordinates I found. He’s even less thrilled when I mention running into Deacon at Joel’s office and show him the coordinates he found.

  I skip over the abandoned house because I’m not about to leak that to anyone who might tell Perry. Instead, I tell him about Vaughn—seeing him at the inn, the things he said to Chelsea about me, then him leaving me the note that got ruined and showing up on my porch today.

  “Deacon believed he was Children’s Services because Mr. Westfield is…troubled.” My shoulders droop. “It made sense until he started chasing me around Beaufort.”

  “Did he threaten you at any point? Pull his weapon? Try to corner you?”

  I shake my head slowly. “No. He just followed me all the way here—told me to stop so he could talk to me.”

  Nelson jots down a note at that.

  I sigh. “Look, I know that Vaughn seems unrelated, but I can’t help but feel like this is all tied up with Mr. Westfield getting hurt. I don’t know if he’s threatening Chelsea or working with Thorpe on some sort of smuggling thing. I just know it’s scary.”

  Nelson puts down his pen and looks at me gravely. “Now, I suppose I don’t have to tell you how foolish it is to be investigating an assault, Emmie.”

  I wring my hands. “I know.”

  “That investigation is police business.”

  “I know that. I do. But I’m so afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid that the people who really hurt Mr. Westfield aren’t going to get caught. I think something bad is happening with those boats. One of those guys is using them for something. Maybe smuggling drugs. I tried to tell Perry, but he believes I’m just covering for Deacon.”

  A look I can’t decipher passes over Nelson’s features. He finally wipes his mouth with a napkin and swallows. A beat passes before he speaks again. “Make no mistake, Emmie, I’m going to have to tell the sheriff about this conversation.”

  “He won’t listen.” My body starts to tremble, and tears spring up like they’ve been ready to burst all day. Maybe they have. I scrub my fists over my eyes. “I know Thorpe has an alibi, and maybe he didn’t hurt Mr. Westfield, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s involved. There’s just something about him.” My mind drags back to that encounter in the shack, making me shudder.

  “Like you said though, he has an alibi. All of the men who work for the Westfields have been checked over.”

  “What about the seasonal guys? Did you check them?”

  Nelson sighs. “You know, Emmie, when things are hard, sometimes we see what we want to see, even if it’s not real. We need to get Deacon in here. We’ll just talk.”

  “I won’t be able to find him now. He doesn’t have his phone anymore.” The lie is easy. I don’t even flinch. Maybe it’s because it’s buried in so much truth. “I know Deke looks guilty, but no one will even listen to the possibility that he isn’t.”

  “I’m listening right now,” Nelson says. And he is, warm brown eyes fixed on mine. “I’m not saying Deacon is guilty. I’m telling you we need to talk to him. That’s all.”

  I nod half-heartedly, and Nelson taps my arm when I sniffle. “Emmie, don’t lose hope. This investigation is not over yet, do you understand?”

  I nod, feeling lighter. Hope is dangerous, but I cling to it all the same.

  “I’ve already had one conversation with Mr. Thorpe,” Deputy Nelson says. He pauses, jaw click-clicking as he swallows. “You can be sure I’m checking every possibility there. As for this man who followed you, I’d like to check in to Children’s Services, but I’d also like to check to see if anyone might have hired an investigator.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “An investigator?”

  “A private investigator. As you said, Mr. Westfield is troubled. If Chelsea has concerned family, it’s a possibility.”

  I scrub at a spot of dirt on my shorts with my fingernail. “So what do I do?”

  “You come inside with me.”

  I hold back a shiver. “Are we talking to the sheriff now?”

  “Tomorrow,” Nelson says. “And he’ll be in a good mood, because he’s picking up a new fishing boat in New Bern today. If I find something, Sheriff Perry will hear me out. Trust me on that, Emmie.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. Now we need to call your parents. There’s paperwork.”

  “My parents?” I rub the back of my neck. “I really don’t want to call my parents.”

  “You’re a minor. I’d be neglecting my duty as an officer if I didn’t call them.”

  I stand up then, chewing my lip. “Then just my dad. Not my mom. Please.”

  His laugh is easy. “Your dad will work just fine.”

  I follow him in, grateful that he agreed. Of course, it’s only temporary. At some point, Mom will find out about this. And there will be no coming back from the place that takes her.

  • • •

  Dad is a strong, silent presence at my elbow throughout the interview at the police station. I appreciate the quiet until it drags on, stretching through the awkward car ride to pick up my abandoned bicycle and then through the stop at the grocery store.

  By the time we’re back at his condo, I’m wound up so tight my s
pine aches. We bring the groceries inside, where Ralph greets me with a happy bark. It’s a tiny one-bedroom flat with an L-shaped kitchen and a balcony overlooking Front Street. The view of the water is nice, but the place is so cramped you practically have to walk sideways to get down the hall.

  When it’s quiet like this, it feels like sitting in a shoebox.

  “Dad, are we going to talk about this at all?”

  “Let’s get started on that chowder first,” he says, and I know right then and there, this is bad. Dad’s usually one to downplay the little stuff, but this isn’t little. And the line of his shoulders tells me he’s holding his temper with both hands.

  He starts chopping bacon on the counter, and I put a soup pot on the stove, adding onions and butter. Ralph is curled into a Volkswagen-sized heap in the doorway, and Dad’s moving on to carrots now. It’d be a little domestic dream if there wasn’t a six-ton elephant squeezed into the infinitesimal space between us.

  I take a breath to steel my nerves and immediately cough, the onion on the stove stinging my eyes. “Dad?”

  “Hm?”

  “I really think we should talk about what happened at the station.”

  I hear his knife chop a little harder at the carrots. “What about, Emmie? The fact that you’ve been talking to Deacon against our wishes? Or maybe we can talk about you sneaking around the docks like Nancy Drew. Or we could go over the man who chased you today and the fact that you actually expect me to keep all this from your mother.”

  I tap the spoon on the bottom of the pot. “I don’t! I just—I wanted to get the facts straight first. I wanted to see what Deputy Nelson found out before I terrified her. It could be that he’s just a PI, like Nelson said. It could be nothing.”

  “It would be nothing if you’d stayed away from that boy.”

  “We don’t know that. He has nothing to do with Vaughn.” I grind my teeth together, stirring the onions and butter and listening to the sizzle. “I wanted to help my friend, Dad. I was afraid for him. I still am.”

  “You should be afraid for your mother.” He moves into my peripheral vision, throwing away the empty carrot bag. “Can you imagine what this is going to do to her, Emmie? She’s going to be convinced she’s failed as a mother because both of her children are turning out bad.”