My Secret to Tell

by Natalie D. Richards

  I lean forward, willing her to be fast with her reply. A few seconds later, it appears.

  Sort of. Can’t text long. I need you to call Joel. Weird stuff is going on.

  Relief and fear are pushing against each other. It’s Chelsea. I’m sure of it. I send another message.

  Why did they take your phone?

  Too much to text. The sheriff is looking for you and Deke. I’m freaked! Call Joel!

  My heart breaks at the text, and I type a reply quick. Joel is already trying to get to you! Are you in danger?

  One minute passes. Then another. Terror is swelling in my chest, pushing into my throat until I’m choking on it.

  Chelsea?

  I sit on the side of my bed, staring holes into the screen of my phone. No typing indicator. Nothing. She’s just gone. I try Joel, but his phone goes straight to voice mail, so I stand up and pace a lap around my bed, my stomach pitching like the sea in a storm.

  Something taps at my window, and I jump half a mile off the ground. I pad quietly to the window and push back the curtain. My bedroom light illuminates his sharp cheekbones and all-the-colors eyes. His smile pulls at my stomach, dragging me closer. He’s still just like gravity. Even now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My hands are cold and shaking as I push the window open. Deacon starts to say my name, but I lift a finger to his lips and step into my flip-flops, waving him back so I can come out.

  He shakes his head, frowns.

  I kneel down until I can smell the salty sea air coming off his clothes.

  “Everyone’s looking for you,” I whisper. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know. I worried when you didn’t come.”

  My heart clenches. “I couldn’t, Deke. There’s a warrant out for you.”

  Fear flashes over his face, but he tucks it back fast. “Not surprising, I guess.”

  I hear the ticking of toenails on a wood floor and a thump upstairs. Ralph changing places in Mom’s room. I grab a sweatshirt from the end of my bed and return to the window.

  When I start climbing out, Deacon’s hand brushes my knee, trying to stop me. “Too dangerous,” he counters.

  “Don’t care,” I say. “And it’s my choice.”

  There’s one long beat while I wait for him to tell me all the reasons I shouldn’t come with him. Deke isn’t really one for shouldn’ts though. He takes my wrists and helps me out.

  We don’t go far. I lead him to the shed at the back of my yard, my eyes darting to the dark windows at the top of the house. Mom’s room overlooks the front yard, but if she goes to the bathroom or slips into the hallway—

  Stop it. She won’t see.

  My flip-flops do nothing to keep the cool, wet grass from tickling my feet, and my grip on Deacon’s hand does nothing to keep my legs steady. We wedge into the narrow space between our shed wall and the neighbor’s privacy hedge. There’s an uneasy feeling in the air, a sharpness to the night sounds.

  The last time I was with him, we were kissing like it was a medal-worthy competition. My mind flashes through images of my hands in his hair, his fingers at my waist. Thinking of it fills my belly with hunger and heat.

  I rub the goose bumps rising on my arms and press my back against the shed. Deacon stands across from me, melting into the shadows.

  “Chelsea is with your aunt and uncle. She said Perry is after us.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Well, she doesn’t have her phone. She was texting from her aunt’s phone. Joel thinks they hired a PI—I think it might be Vaughn. Do you think he’s advising them to keep Chelsea away from us?”

  I show him the text messages, and he scowls. “Could be. They might want full custody. Aunt Jane threatened once years ago.” He stops, shakes his head. “We need to call Joel.”

  “I tried. He’s not picking up. He said he was looking into it when I saw him earlier.”

  “Does he know Thorpe and Charlie are prepping a boat? The Clementine. I took my skiff over to Carrot Island and spotted it from the bird-watching trails.”

  I nod. “They are sending a boat out. Joel is back getting ready for a big charter client.”

  “It wasn’t a charter boat. Clementine is one of the bigger fishing rigs.”

  “Maybe Joel made an exception. Mr. Trumbull is a very big deal client. Huge money. And he’s really into fishing.”

  Deacon shakes his head, plunges his hands into his jeans pockets. “He still wouldn’t take this boat. We’re shut down for the deep-sea fishing runs without it, and those are our biggest moneymakers.”

  I press my lips together. “You said Thorpe was on the boat tonight?”

  “Yeah. Him and Charlie. Which is starting to make me think twice about Thorpe being innocent. Charlie could have covered for him. I didn’t think he’d do something like that, but…”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles. “Thorpe being gross I can definitely see, but Charlie too? He’s always so nice.”

  “I wouldn’t believe it either if they weren’t on the docks. I can’t think of a single reason for them to be down there right now. It’s shady. I thought maybe we should call the sheriff.”

  “I don’t know what they’re doing,” I say, “but there’s more you should know before we call anyone. Perry took me in for questioning today—”

  He steps closer, eyes dark. “Questioning?”

  I touch his arm. “I’m okay. But I think Perry’s getting paid to keep quiet.”

  His breath catches. “Like hush money? Are you sure?”

  “It’s just a guess. I don’t have proof. I talked to Deputy Nelson about the coordinates yesterday, and he really listened, but I think the sheriff shut down his investigation. I saw Perry yelling at him today, and I started putting things together. The sheriff has a new fishing boat and a brand-new watch. An expensive one. Plus, he’s been on you like white on rice from the start.”

  “If he’s getting paid, then we don’t know who else is getting paid around here.” He looks around, as if there are people watching in the grass. Then he nods. “Chelsea’s right. We need to find Joel. Right now.”

  I nod and stroke his arm. “I know. He’s coming by tomorrow, but his phone’s going straight to voice mail. We have to hang tight, I guess.”

  “So we just sit and wait?” He scoffs, his jaw clenching.

  “Just a few more hours, and then I think this will all be over. We’ll come get you. Go to the FBI or the state police—whatever we have to do. Joel will know.”

  He steps closer to me, eyes suddenly swimming with worry. “Did the sheriff threaten you? Did you get in trouble over this?”

  I tense. “My parents are flipped out, so that’s not fun, but I don’t think Perry would do much to me. He really wanted to find you. He keeps bugging me because he knows I helped you. And that I have a thing for you.”

  His smirk should be registered as a weapon. “You have a thing for me?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, idiot. I make out with all the guys I run into in abandoned houses.”

  “Terrible habit. Guys can be trouble.” His voice is low, and his eyes are hooded.

  “Yeah.” My insides go hot, a smile creeping onto my lips. “This one’s been a real pain in my ass for years.”

  He laughs softly as he leans in, his hair brushing my forehead. “Yes, he has.”

  His hands leave scorch trails down the sides of my neck. I take a breath for strength, because we should probably be thinking. Or planning. But when he kisses me, all of that falls away. And I fall with it.

  My fingers curl in his belt loops, and his thumbs trace my jawline. This kiss is slower, deeper than the first. His mouth moves over mine until my limbs are heavy and my mind is loose. Deke pulls back to breathe my name, his rough fingers brushing my lips while he kisses my neck. I’m breathl
ess, dizzy—tumbling end over end into nothingness. But his arms cross tight behind my back, holding me steady.

  When we finally part, he runs his hands through my hair while we both catch our breath.

  “Why’d I wait so long to kiss you anyway?” he asks.

  I laugh. “Maybe you needed the danger to make it interesting.”

  He grabs my chin gently, gives me a dark look. “No. You’re interesting all on your own. You always have been.”

  A chill snakes up my spine, under my hair. Will I stay interesting? Because Deacon moves fast, especially when it comes to girls.

  “And when this is all over?” I ask. “When your name is cleared and life goes back to ordinary? What then?”

  A car pulls to the curb near the house. We freeze, checking the yard. It wouldn’t be easy to see us from the road, but maybe. If someone looked hard enough.

  I fist my hand in the front of Deacon’s shirt and pull him into the shadow of the shed. Which means pulling him right into me. I press myself harder against the wall, and Deke palms the shed next to my shoulder.

  “You should go,” I whisper.

  “Don’t wanna,” he says. His smile is a crime.

  His hands slide over my hips, and then that smile is at my mouth. It’s dangerous kissing Deacon. I thought it would fill some years-long craving, but it only stokes the fire.

  I push him back, chuckling. “You have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  His groan will be my ruin. I’m already pulling him back when I hear a car door. Then footsteps. Inside the house, Ralph bursts into a series of baritone barks, and my grip tightens on Deacon’s shirt.

  Someone’s here.

  Deacon’s hands press into my hips. I swallow hard. Harder. Wince when I hear my front door open and my mom’s voice ringing out.

  “She’s out back. I think he’s with her.”

  • • •

  We run for the back fence the second Perry’s flashlight beam hits the grass on my backyard.

  “Stay where you are so no one gets hurt!” the sheriff calls.

  His voice sends an adrenaline burn through every limb. I hit the fence and start climbing. Perry targeted Deacon. Shut down Nelson. People have already been hurt.

  I claw my way up the fence and over, moving into a sprint the second my feet hit the ground. The sheriff is swearing behind us. He climbs faster than I would have guessed, but we’re desperate. When he lands on the other side, we’re already halfway across Mrs. Kalnicki’s yard and stretching our lead.

  We turn left on Pollack, heading toward Highway 70, but after one block, Deacon tugs me in between two houses. He doesn’t slow when we lose the sheriff. Instead, he leads me east to Marsh Street, where he turns south, toward the water again.

  “We’re going back?” I gasp.

  “No. To Joel’s office. He might be there. Last thing Perry saw, we were headed for the highway anyway.”

  We hear sirens blare in the distance, and my spine turns to steel, my sweaty hand clamping on his arm. “Deacon? What are we doing? We’re running from the police!”

  “Just breathe. Try Joel again.”

  I fumble my phone out of my pocket to call, but Deke keeps us moving too fast for me to dial. We keep to the backyards on Marsh Street. I can already see the office, four houses away. We edge up the yards between the office and the house next door, staying closer to the neighbor’s magnolia trees. We’re both panting when we come to a stop.

  The back door is on a different lock, so we’ll have to use the front. A siren winds up nearby, and my heart thunders into my throat. It dwindles, moving north like Deacon expected. His smile says “I told you so,” but I’m too tensed to relax.

  We start to head toward Joel’s office. A flash of blue-and-white lights sprays ice through my veins. No sirens, just the lights this time.

  Deacon stops, pulling us back between the trees, pressing me against the neighbor’s white wood siding. I stand quaking like I’m half-frozen, and Deacon strokes my arms.

  “It’s all right,” Deke says, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt up over my pale hair.

  I try to breathe. Try harder to believe him.

  The cruiser slows at the corner of Ann and Marsh. I can hear the faint squeal of brakes, the hum of the engine. My knees don’t just shake—they practically vibrate.

  “He’ll head toward the highway like the others,” Deacon whispers.

  He doesn’t. He turns south, and my stomach rolls. My teeth chatter hard, though I’m not cold at all. Are we hidden? I think we’re hidden, but is it good enough? Deacon pulls me into his chest, and we hold our breath as the car rolls closer. Closer. It drives past, dragging to a stop at Front Street.

  I don’t breathe until it turns right, heading back into town. Away from us.

  After the cruiser, neither one of us says a word. We wait another minute, just to be sure, and then we creep up the porch stairs at the front of the office. Deacon uses his key. We open the door enough to slip into the dark front room. Only the lamp in Joel’s office is still lit. It’s quiet, and I don’t see any evidence that Joel’s been here.

  Did he drive to Charleston to get Chelsea? Is he still with Mr. Trumbull? I try to call, but it still goes straight to voice mail.

  We move quietly into Joel’s office. Deacon closes the blinds while I settle at the desk and turn on the computer. I force a breath in and squeeze my trembling fingers into fists. I glare at the smudges on Joel’s desktop—I did miss cleaning something—and shake my head.

  I need to calm down, make a plan. I text Joel a message to call and wait for the computer to boot.

  “Want me to keep trying him?” Deacon asks, taking my phone.

  “That’d be great. I’m going to see if there are coordinates listed on our charter rentals.” I select my profile on the server and sign on. “I also want to see what’s coming up on the schedule. Maybe there is an explanation for Thorpe and Charlie being down there tonight. Maybe we’ll even get lucky enough to tie one of them to the coordinates from the receipts.”

  “Thorpe almost always volunteers for the fishing charters that request crew members with the boat, so he’ll be tied to everything. But not Charlie. I don’t know how he fits in.”

  “Well, that’s why we’re looking, right?” I wrinkle my nose. “I thought your dad and Joel tried to keep Thorpe away from customers.”

  Deacon chuckles. “We keep him away from girls on account of his total douche-baggery. But I’ll give it to him—he knows his way around a fishing boat. His dad was a shrimper and his grandpap worked on a tuna rig, I think. Out of South Carolina.”

  “Maybe he has more criminal records than Joel thinks,” I say, clicking through the charter schedule. “See if you can pull up a record for him in South Carolina on my phone.”

  We both click quietly, me checking the charters and Deacon searching my phone. I spot entry after entry with Thorpe’s initials in the crew section. I sigh. “You’re right. Thorpe is assigned to practically everything. So how would that work? Is he faking customer calls to order charters that he uses for smuggling?”

  “Maybe.” Deacon looks up, brow furrowing. “Or maybe they’re using the whole business right under our noses. Think about it. Their clients let them know they’re setting up a charter to move whatever. The customer calls the office, talks to you or Joel. It all looks legit. And then they contact Thorpe or Charlie with the real coordinates and details.”

  “But wouldn’t your dad and Joel figure it out?”

  Deacon shakes his head. “I don’t see how. Dad and Joel agree on the charter price—they take the sales calls. They don’t serve as crew, and they don’t set them up. It’s Thorpe and Charlie every step of the way. Hell, they even clean the boats when they’re done.”

  “They could be hiding anything,” I say. My gaze drags back down to my screen. I s
pot my name on one of the forms, and my throat tightens. I recognize my careful comments about ordered supplies. Airtight storage bins. I remember the call now. Charlie, not Thorpe. I rub my hand over my face. It isn’t the first time I’ve taken a supply call from him.

  “Deke, I helped them,” I say, my voice cracking. “I took a call from Charlie a month ago. I ordered storage bins for them, for a charter. There are notes right here. I’ve done it other times too. My name is on those receipts because they called me to order stuff. I helped them do this.”

  “Emmie, you didn’t know.” He doesn’t look up from my phone screen, but he must have found something good, because I can see his fingers go still, his eyes tracking back and forth. He sucks in a deep breath when he’s done. “Found a news article from a few years back that mentions Thorpe with a couple of other guys who got arrested, but I can’t find anything on the court system. The charges must have been dismissed.”

  The back of my neck tenses. “What was the charge?”

  Deacon’s expression is steely. “Trafficking cocaine.”

  I can feel the panic rise, but I push it back down until it’s a burn in the pit of my belly. “They should track that stuff bet—”

  I cut myself off midsentence with a gasp. Tracking. My phone has tracking. If Mom thinks about it, she’ll know how to find me. There’s a decent chance she’s thought of it already. “Deke, turn off my phone.”

  “What?”

  “Turn my phone off! Power it down!”

  “Okay, okay.” He’s pressing buttons, looking confused, and then his expression clears. “Location tracking,” he guesses. “Do you think they’ll have checked it yet?”

  “No idea. We shouldn’t stay too long,” I say. Then I move the mouse to tomorrow’s date, checking quickly. “Two charters tomorrow, one out of Morehead City. I’ll bet that’s Mr. Trumbull—it’s got Joel’s name listed. And then there’s the monthly thing too. Mr. Christopher’s charter. I’m sorry, I should have thought of it sooner.”

  Deacon’s head jerks up. “Mr. Christopher?”

  “Yes, he charters a boat the last weekend of every month.”