My Secret to Tell

by Natalie D. Richards

  “I’m not turning out bad!”

  “Of course you’re not, but she won’t see that. She’ll see another humiliating mess, only this one’s revolving around you. God forgive me, but I’m grateful as hell that her mother isn’t here to rub this in.”

  My face is hot, and the onions are browning. I scrape at the pan, furiously jabbing at the bits that stick. “Well, maybe Mom should stop caring about what her mother would have thought. Maybe she should just let us be what we want to be.”

  “Don’t start. Your mom and I don’t dictate your future, and we’ve both heard plenty of that crap from your brother.”

  “No, you don’t dictate it, but you’ve always expected it. Especially with Landon,” I huff and turn down the heat. “I know he’s made some mistakes, but I get it. I get why he left us.”

  Dad snorts. “You don’t get as much as you think you do about Landon leaving, because we’ve protected you from it.”

  “Then stop protecting me. Tell me what he did.”

  “You have to show me that you don’t need to be protected!” He takes a breath, lowers his voice. “You’re a smart girl, but there’s still a lot you don’t know. Especially about the Westfields.”

  I cock my head. “I know the sheriff is hell-bent on blaming Deacon for what happened that night.”

  Dad’s mouth goes hard. “The sheriff is a good man, Emmie. He takes care of this town. Supports the local businessmen and keeps us safe. He looks out for you. He’s been watching over you, worried that this boy would get to you. He was right.”

  I shake my head, biting back a hundred nasty responses.

  Dad goes on. “As for Deacon, if he’s anything like his father, he’s bad news.” He takes over the pot, nudging me gently aside. “Just steer clear, Emmie. Let the police do their job.”

  “And just walk away from him? Leave him totally friendless? Is that what you expect?”

  “I expect you to use your head instead of your heart for once.” He reaches behind him for the cutting board, scrapes the carrots into the pot. They hiss, and my eyes burn.

  “We’ll tell your mom in the morning,” he says. “You can stay here tonight. Until they find out who this guy is, I want you close.”

  I nod and pick up a washcloth. I wipe at the stove knobs and then at the counter by the sink. My vision is blurry with tears, but I keep scrubbing until my dad’s hand covers mine on the rag. I stop, letting out a shaky breath.

  “Hey,” he says, sounding much softer. I turn to look at him, and he touches my hair. “I’m sorry I’m coming down hard on you. I know this isn’t easy.”

  “But you think he did it. Like everyone else.”

  He tilts his head, like he’s not sure how to answer. “I think if Deacon is innocent, the truth will come out.”

  I turn to look at him. “Will it?”

  He doesn’t answer, so I mash my lips together and glance out the window. Outside, boats are gliding into the harbor for the night. Two miles down that same stretch of water, Deacon is alone in a dark house. Waiting for me.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Let’s eat first,” Dad says, coaxing me back to the stove. I want to push him away. Run right out the door to Deacon.

  But Dad is trying so hard right now. He puts his arm around me and sighs. “I know I’m the bad guy tonight.”

  I sniff. “You’re not.”

  The bad guys are probably on the docks right now. Getting away with everything.

  By the time I go to bed—Dad forces me to take his room and he sleeps on the couch—I feel seasick. Wrung out. It’s too late to call anyone now, so I stare at Dad’s bedroom ceiling, imagining Deacon in the tiny, dark house. He’s probably in that sloping bedroom, no bed, no phone, no way of knowing if I’ll ever come back.

  A soft hum of activity and noise rises up from the harbor. It’s the Beaufort lullaby that usually sends me to dreamland. Not tonight. Real sleep begins when dawn is turning Dad’s bedroom window pink. And it ends with a banging on the front door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dad clears his throat and shuffles toward the door. Three more hard, fast knocks and I bolt upright, hand at my chest to hold my pounding heart in.

  Someone outside is speaking. High-pitched voice. Familiar. Mom.

  I flop back to Dad’s pillow with a sigh, hand still over my heart. I hear him thumping and her clicking across the floor in one of her thirty-six thousand pairs of heels, I’m sure.

  “Now calm down, Mary. She’s still asleep.”

  “Then wake her up!”

  I feel pinned to the bed, but I force myself up. I’m in a ratty T-shirt, but at least I managed a shower. I pull my hair into a too-tight ponytail and make my dad’s bed. Smooth the sheets twice.

  When I emerge from the bedroom, I find my parents by the couch. Dad’s hair is mashed, and his eyes are puffy from sleep. Mom is the picture of business casual in a beige tank dress with a white sweater over top. It’s friendly and approachable—like all of her shop clothes—but she’s wearing an expression that could turn away a Labrador retriever. Even Ralph is keeping his distance, his big dark nose resting against the couch arm.

  “I’m here,” I say when no one speaks. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on? Well, isn’t that a marvelous question? The sheriff called this morning.” Mom’s eyes narrow, and my fingers curl over the back of the couch.

  “Look, Dad was there when I talked to Deputy Nelson. Don’t freak out. We were going to talk to you this morning.”

  “Were you?” Mom’s voice is poisoned honey. “Well, it was so much better to be blindsided with all of this by a call from the sheriff.”

  I flinch.

  “Get your things,” Mom says. “The sheriff wants you to come in for a few questions.”

  My stomach drops, and Dad cocks his head, lifting a hand. “For questioning? Now hold on. Are you sure? Because Emmie was very forthright at the station.”

  The look she gives him could light a fire. “Yes, Tim, I’m sure.” Her eyes cut to me, and I wince at her expression. “Get cleaned up and get your things.”

  “Mo—”

  Her raised hand cuts me off. “Don’t. I don’t want hear a word you have to say right now, Emerson. Get cleaned up so we can get down there.”

  Dad drives us to the station, though it’s a ten-minute walk at best. I don’t complain though. The pressure of the silence in this car is already too awful. One word and the windows would probably blow.

  We pull into the parking lot, and my gaze drifts to the alley where I abandoned the bike. Then to the bench where Nelson and I sat, talking about coordinates and the man who chased me. Anger pricks at me like needles, turning my mouth sour. I was stupid enough to believe things would turn right after that. That Perry would see reason.

  Dad turns off the engine, and Mom tells me in a clipped voice that I will march in there and answer those questions with absolute honesty, am I clear on that?

  I am.

  My legs turn to dead weight when Dad opens my door. I push myself up on them anyway and watch my feet move, one in front of the other, until I’m standing at the police station doors like yesterday.

  This time, Brenda gives me a very different look. Her lips go thin as she picks up the phone. She says something quietly, tells us in a no-nonsense tone to have a seat.

  Three rows of chairs stretch across the room, all connected and all bolted to the floor. There’s a tear in the fabric of one of the seats on the left and dark smudges ground into every armrest. My breath goes shallow.

  I don’t want to sit in those chairs. My stomach is almost rolling just looking at them.

  I hear a jingling behind me, and the blond officer I remember from the docks approaches. I change my mind about not wanting to sit, but he beckons us forward. My parents and I follow him deeper
into the station, past police officers sitting in cubicles and huddled around the coffeemaker. I see a glass-walled office in the back of the building.

  Perry and Nelson are in there. Nelson’s getting the third degree from what I can see. He’s in trouble because of me.

  He looks past Perry’s big shoulder, spots me through the glass, and gives me a sad look. I curl in on myself as I walk, arms wrapping around my middle.

  “Y’all can just wait in here,” the officer says, ushering us into a plain, windowless office. Perry’s office? Maybe.

  The door closes, and I feel like my throat is swelling shut. I look around, trying to calm my nerves. There’s a dusty bookshelf in the corner and a houseplant next to the computer on the desk. Several of the leaves have fallen. I reach for them and feel a tug at the back of my shirt.

  “Sit down,” Mom hisses.

  My shoulders jerk at her tone. It’s too late to pretend I’m the good girl now—good girls don’t get called to the police station—but I nod and stay quiet anyway.

  There are four wooden chairs across from the sheriff’s desk. I pick the one farthest from my mom and perch at the very edge. The room smells like mildew and metal. Every breath of it wrings my stomach like a sponge. Questions race through my mind like bullets.

  Did they arrest Thorpe?

  Did I do something to break the law?

  Did they find Deacon?

  That last one sends my heart into my feet. Dad pats my shoulder, and I jump, only half stifling my yelp. The door swings open before I can apologize, and Perry strolls in, one hand on that belt of tricks and the other holding a jump drive.

  Mom takes a shuddery breath, and I see Dad touch her shoulder. I have to look away. Dad was right. How could I do this to them? After everything they went through. All those horrible picnics and parties where someone would ask about Landon and they had no choice but to keep their smiles on and their explanations vague.

  And now this.

  The sheriff sits down at the leather throne behind his desk. He pulls out a file, flips through pictures, doesn’t even acknowledge us. I’ve read enough about criminal justice to know an intimidation tactic when I see one, so I try to ignore him, looking elsewhere. Dad’s left shoe is untied. Mom got a haircut. Every single surface in this office needs a come-to-Jesus meeting with some bleach and a scrub brush.

  “Well,” Sheriff Perry says finally, clapping his meaty hands together in front of him. “This is quite the situation you’ve gotten yourself into, Miss May. I hear you had quite a bit to say to my deputy yesterday afternoon.”

  No more Emmie now. So I’m in trouble. My insides shrivel like newspapers in a fire.

  The sheriff softens when he looks at my parents. “Mary, Tim, I’m sure sorry to call you down here today.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll do whatever you need,” Mom says. She’s aiming for debutante charm, but it’s all desperate parent coming out.

  “Well, I’d like to show you a video,” he says. “Some surveillance footage.”

  Surveillance of what? The house? There’s no chance. The climbing wall? When we were down at the waterfront? My throat tickles and scratches.

  “Do you know what video I might have here, Miss May?”

  I shake my head because I have not one clue, but the sheriff goes on. “I felt this particular section was very enlightening.”

  He turns the monitor and puts a jump drive into the computer, and I sit, doing my best impersonation of a steel beam. I know I didn’t do anything video-worthy. Logically, I know that. But I’m staring down the face of very enlightening and I’m wondering if I forgot something. My hands are shaking in my lap, so I shove them under my legs. They’re slick against the wood.

  “Here we go,” the sheriff says when the video finally blooms to life.

  I don’t quite get it for a minute. It’s footage from a traffic camera, I think. It’s Front Street. Across from the grocery store. And it’s raining.

  My stomach tumbles end over end. It’s the night in the store.

  With Vaughn.

  But if they caught Vaughn—if he’s in trouble—then why am I here?

  I watch the video roll, watch myself come out and hunch under the onslaught of the rain. I pick up Vaughn’s card from my bike basket—

  “That’s the card Vaughn left for me.”

  “We’re looking into that gentleman, but that’s not why this footage is interesting.”

  The video rolls, and I put my two bags in the basket. Perry pauses the video.

  “See that right there?” he asks.

  He taps again, loud enough to make my shoulders hitch. He’s tapping at the bags. At the groceries I bought.

  “Now, I know you can’t see through the bag, so I contacted the store for sales records. One bunch of bananas, a box of granola bars, a large bag of barbecue potato chips, two large bottles of Gatorade, water—”

  Dad’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand. Did she steal those items?”

  The sheriff shakes his head. “No, she paid. But do either of the two of you recall seeing Emmie with any of these items in your house? Seems like a lot for a little thing like her to eat on the bike ride home. In the pouring rain no less.”

  I swallow against the boulder forming in my throat. My mom puts it together first. The crease between her brows relaxes, and her shoulders droop. Something in me aches.

  “Deacon. You were taking it to Deacon.” Mom’s voice is a croak, and when she looks at me, I can already see tears welling in her eyes.

  I twist in my chair, my hands slipping against the wood. I pull them to my lap, but there’s nothing to say. Not one word I can think of that will undo what’s happening to her right now.

  The sheriff heaves himself out of his chair and steps to the plastic jug of water in the back corner of the room. I hadn’t even seen it before. He offers a paper cup to my mom and pats her shoulder. My gaze jerks to the gleaming silver watch strapped to his meaty wrist. It’s the only clean thing in this room, and it’s a far cry from the ratty Timex he had last time I looked.

  He clears his throat, dragging my attention back. “See, Emmie told Deputy Nelson she’d seen Deacon more than once, but she doesn’t know where to find him now. Funny that she wouldn’t, since I suspect she delivered groceries to the boy that afternoon. You did deliver these groceries to Deacon Westfield, didn’t you, Emmie?”

  Heat is rolling through me over and over. I’m sweating, picking at the hem of my shirt. It’s too late to lie. I know my face is a dead giveaway. “Yes, I did. Vaughn was in the store when I shopped. He left before me. I found a note in my basket that told me to stay—”

  “We’re looking into Vaughn, but so far, there’s not one thing that indicates he’s committing a crime or interfering with a police investigation. But this shopping trip of yours? Now that’s another story. I asked you to call me the moment you saw that boy.”

  Mom holds her breath. Dad closes his eyes. I feel like my insides have been replaced with cold, heavy stone. Perry isn’t going to look at anyone else. His mind is made up.

  The sheriff leans across the desk, his leather chair squeaking and that awful mold-and-metal smell filling the air. “Do you know where to find Deacon Westfield, Emerson?”

  I flinch, noticing the glint of his new watch again.

  “That’s you in the video, isn’t it?” he adds.

  Anger slips inside me, cracking bits of me open. I hate the sheriff for playing dumb. I hate myself for the look my mom is wearing. Not the slow-dawning sadness that shadowed her eyes with every unreturned call or email to Landon. This is horror. The sharp, breathless shock of discovering the unthinkable. Her daughter is a liar.

  Perry is doggedly silent. Determined to get his answer, I guess.

  I grip the edges of the chair hard. “You know it’s me in the video.”

 
; “See, the truth is easy, Emmie. It wants to come out.” His smile makes me think of hungry dogs. It’s everything I can do to hold in my shudder. He looks down at the desk. Taps it with a thick finger. “Where did you take these groceries?”

  “I met him at an intersection outside of the historic district.” The lie feels silky on my lips. “I wanted to help. I was worried for him.”

  Mom covers her mouth, and Dad’s fingers curl gently on her arm.

  “Now, Emmie, you’re a good girl with a soft heart. Boys like Deacon use that to their advantage.”

  I can see the hope dawn in my mother’s eyes. I don’t want to see that. I want to be strong and her pain will break me. The sheriff tilts his head, the office lights turning his hair to muddy straw.

  “Did Deacon use your feelings to his advantage? Did he coerce you into bringing him those groceries?”

  Coerce. I pause, rolling the word over in my mind. It feels important. I don’t think he used it by accident.

  I need to get him to look at those coordinates. This might be my last chance.

  I lean in. “Deacon found coordinates in the office. And I did too. I told Deputy Nelson that we think someone might be smuggling—”

  “Emerson May, I’ve already told you not to change this subject.” Perry holds me in a stony gaze. “You need to stop thinking about what this boy told you to say and start thinking of the truth. I want to help you. I do. But you have to help me first. Where is Deacon right now?”

  I clamp my mouth shut because I don’t like this game anymore. Every card I’m dealt has Deacon’s guilt spelled out in black and white. No matter what I say, Perry will use it against him.

  “Where is he?” The sheriff is louder now, every word jabbing into my head.

  Heat flares up my chest, and my mouth fills with sand and cotton, but I raise my head to meet his eyes, and I know. I won’t tell him. So help me God, he will not drag that out of me. Not even if he puts me in handcuffs right here and now.