My Secret to Tell

by Natalie D. Richards

“You talked a big talk, Nelson,” Joel says. “Deacon would take the fall. Emmie’s evidence would disappear. Everything would be in hand for this run. Isn’t that what you said? I sent that girl to your damn doorstep with the coordinates!”

  Nelson and I both jerk at Joel’s volume.

  A scuffle on the ground tells me Perry is coming to. He lifts his head with a groan. Joel sighs and draws his right leg back. He’s aiming for the sheriff’s head, but I can’t look away. Not even when the kick connects, Perry’s head snapping left violently.

  The sheriff’s face drops to the dirt again.

  Unconscious?

  Dead?

  My stomach rolls, saliva gathering fast in my mouth. Deacon must see the scream in my eyes, because he nudges me, shakes his head over and over, willing me to be quiet.

  “How long do we have until backup arrives?” Joel says matter-of-factly, heading to collect the backpack.

  “I told them I had it. Tom saw some other mess on the waterfront, but they’ll send someone sooner or later.”

  Joel clucks. “That other mess is Charlie Jones going down. We’re blown, Nelson. You’d better get a move on.”

  Nelson hesitates, face drawn in panic, and then dawning horror. His shoulders set in a way that makes it clear his mind is made up. Then he runs for the trees. Joel doesn’t pay attention, just picks up the backpack and unzips it, checking the contents.

  A shadow passes in front of the window, and Deacon pulls me back. A whiff of fish and tobacco filters through the opening, assaulting my already queasy belly.

  Thorpe.

  I gag and force a slow, deep breath, trying not to think about Joel’s shiny shoe connecting with the sheriff’s head.

  “The kids aren’t in the woods,” Thorpe says.

  Joel shrugs, slinging the bag over one shoulder. “I have what I came for. I’ve got a client waiting and a palm tree with my name on it. I don’t give a shit what you do with them.”

  He tosses Thorpe a passport. “Charlie got nailed earlier. So, don’t have too much fun before you head out.” He pulls out a thick bank envelope and chucks it at Thorpe too.

  “What’s this?” Thorpe asks, holding up the envelope.

  “Did a little last-minute banking. A power of attorney is a beautiful thing.” Joel smirks. “Consider it a retirement gift. Or a retainer for your next lawyer. Next time you get strung up for trafficking, I’ll be sipping rum out of a coconut.”

  Joel’s laugh crawls up my back like a scorpion. I cringe, waiting for the sting, but it never comes. I watch him turn to slink down the dock. Thorpe stomps through the yard and into the trees. They’re going to go. It’s going to end, just like that.

  I hear the clack of Joel’s footsteps on the wooden dock, and Deke grits his teeth so hard I can hear it. Joel was like family to him. The thought of what he must be going through hits like a hammer to my ribs.

  Deacon looks at me and then looks at the door.

  “Just a few more minutes,” I whisper. “Until we’re sure they’re gone.”

  “He’s going to get away with it,” Deke says.

  I cringe because he’s not as quiet as he should be, and then I see his face. The rage carves the hollows under his cheekbones into something dangerous.

  He’s going to do something.

  I reach, but he’s too quick, wrenching the door open so hard it slams into the inside wall.

  He’s going after Joel.

  • • •

  It’s like one of those dreams where you can’t run. Your legs are too heavy, and the air feels honey-thick. It takes me hours to get through the door. Crossing the yard will take a century. I scream for Deacon, who’s halfway down the lawn, his eyes on the boat and the white-haired man who was supposed to save us.

  “How could you do this?” Deacon screams. “How?”

  Joel startles, shoulders jerking as he turns to see Deacon barreling down the yard. Deacon reaches the dock, but Joel’s already untied the skiff. Joel climbs aboard and pushes the boat back into the water, and Deacon stalls out, hands fisted.

  “You lied to us!” he shouts. “Used us!”

  “I did what I had to do,” Joel says, one hand on the steering wheel. I see the glint of his diamond ring and my stomach twists like Deacon’s expression.

  For a minute, I think Deacon might run to the end of the dock, maybe jump in after him. But instead, his shoulders droop.

  “Why us?” he asks.

  Joel’s answering laugh is cruel. “Because you were easy. It’s just business, Dink. Nothing personal.”

  His words ignite the rage all over again. Deacon storms down the dock, spewing an endless streak of curses. He’s going to jump for the boat. I stumble after him.

  “Deacon, no!” I shout.

  A dark blur moves in from the woods on the left. Thorpe plows into Deacon’s back, takes him down hard halfway down the dock. I scream as Deacon hits face-first, Thorpe’s knee grinding between his shoulder blades to keep him down.

  “Much obliged, Kevin,” Joel says.

  “Obliged enough to give me the keys to your car? Looks like you’re heading out early.” Thorpe bumps his chin toward the water pointedly.

  Joel laughs. “Good guess. Might want to look into a paint job quick,” he says with a wink, then he flings the keys overhead, like he’s pitching a baseball.

  When Thorpe snatches them from the air, Deacon squirms, earning a punch to the kidney for the effort. I cry out, but Joel barely gives us a perfunctory glance. Then he puts the boat in gear and he’s gone.

  The roar of the engine fades, leaving Deacon’s groans in the air. Thorpe’s fist is at his side. His other hand is knotted in Deacon’s hair, pulling his face off the dock. I curl my fingers in, fury burning up my middle.

  “You won’t be so pretty when I’m done with you, you little shit,” Thorpe says.

  I fly. No plan at all, just my body sprinting down the yard and leaping onto Thorpe’s back. I sling my arm around his meaty neck. The slick feel and rancid smell sends the sting of bile into my throat. Thorpe curses, releasing Deacon long enough to shake me off. I come loose like I weigh nothing, thudding painfully into the ground behind him.

  I scramble to my feet, and there he is, red-faced and breathing hard as he reaches for me. Deacon attacks him from the back, kicking at his leg, punching his torso.

  “Run, Emmie!” Deacon says between hits. “Get help!”

  I lunge again, but I’m clumsy this time, my foot going wide. Thorpe dodges me, swinging a heavy fist around at Deacon’s temple. Then another to his solar plexus. And another to his eye. It’s so fast the punches blur together.

  Deacon crumples, throwing an elbow into Thorpe’s leg while groaning at me. “Run! Run!”

  Another hit from Thorpe and Deacon goes down without a sound. Thorpe doesn’t waste a breath. He comes for me.

  Adrenaline fires through me like liquid lightning. I knock over the grill in Thorpe’s path. Topple one of the rusty chairs. Fling the glass jar of shells at his head. It connects with his shoulder, shatters.

  “You little bitch!” he howls.

  Nothing left to throw, so I run. Past the house, through the yard, pumping my legs for everything they’ve got. I’m almost to the trees. I have to get help. Have to.

  I start shouting in the woods, underbrush scraping at my bare arms. No one answers, and I can’t see the road. I fall silent, because it hits me. I can’t hear Thorpe, but he’s in here somewhere. Hunting me.

  My stomach wrenches, warning me that it might revolt. Something’s moving. Rustling in the trees. Footsteps. Not an animal either—the tread is all wrong.

  It’s him.

  I think I hear an engine, but I can’t be sure. Is it the police? I’m sprinting now, dodging around underbrush and through the older, thick-trunked trees. I pause to turn and hea
r Thorpe’s feet thudding, cracking twigs and dry leaves as he moves. He’s closer.

  Too close.

  I stop at the edge of the trees, listening. Where is the engine I heard? Is the backup here?

  “Going somewhere, blondie?”

  Thorpe is right behind me. I break through the trees I’m in and risk bolting across the neighbor’s yard. I see a flash of shiny silver fender on the road. Please.

  I scream for help over and over, until my ears burn and my throat hurts. I’m pushing for the road, for that car. He’s behind me, but I don’t stop. I fall once, but I’m right back up. Still screaming. I can make it. I can do this.

  I’m two steps from the road when a thick arm hooks me around the waist. I gasp and the stench of cigarettes and fish assaults me. I shout and claw into Thorpe’s arm, my ears ringing.

  I squirm and kick. Throw an elbow into something soft. Something fleshy that makes Thorpe curse.

  He lifts me off the ground, and I’m trapped, tucked under his arm like a rag doll. I scream again and flail. A sweaty hand slams into my mouth. Blood coats my tongue, mingling with other tastes I can’t and don’t want to identify.

  “Hold still, pretty,” he sneers, ducking low into the grass. “You’re going to come with me. Find a way to pay for that stunt with the jar.”

  I flail, elbows and heels in every direction, and finally, finally, his hold breaks. I hit the ground. The pain is lightning-sharp. Can’t stay down. I force myself to my knees. Crawl to my feet.

  “Get up here!”

  Thorpe’s hand is in my hair, dragging me up, harder and higher until I’m screaming and on my feet. He pulls the waistline of my pants so hard they cut into my skin, and all around me is his putrid smell. Sweat and sea and cinnamon.

  Cinnamon. I hear a metal click-click that I’ve never heard in my life.

  I’m pretty sure it’s a gun. And it’s close.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Let her go,” someone says.

  Thorpe’s hand untangles from my hair, and I fall to all fours, palming the grass beneath me while I try to catch my breath. I look over my shoulder, finding Thorpe, hands raised, and the dark metal gleam of a gun at the back of his head.

  Vaughn is holding the gun.

  “Kevin Thorpe,” he says, pulling something from his waistband. “You’re under arrest for transportation of stolen goods and for the assault of James Westfield. Now listen good, because I’m only reading you these rights once.”

  I try to catch my breath, listen as Thorpe’s rights continue, a steady stream from the familiar dark man with the nice smile. Vaughn.

  When he’s done with the rights, Vaughn turns Thorpe around so he can’t look at me. Or maybe so I don’t have to see him.

  There’s more noise in the trees, and I’m scuttling backward on the ground when a man and a woman—both wearing bulletproof vests and earpieces—come into view. They take Thorpe from Vaughn, and that’s when I realize Vaughn’s wearing a vest too, one with FBI printed across the front. My eyes move back toward the road. The shiny bumper isn’t a car—it’s an unmarked van. Vaughn isn’t a PI. He’s an FBI agent.

  He reaches down to help me up, still smiling. “My name is Special Agent Bennett. Vaughn Bennett. I’m with the FBI, and I’ve been working undercover.”

  I grab his arm as soon as I’m steady. “Deputy Nelson got away. And Joel! There’s a man—tall with white hair. He left on Deke’s boat. You have to—”

  “We’re pursuing Nelson now. Mr. Carmichael was intercepted. Looks like he was meeting a larger vessel just east of the inlet. The boat might have had enough gas for that, but it wasn’t enough to run from the Coast Guard.” He smiles. “We’d have been here earlier, but we were finishing up with another suspect on the docks.”

  Charlie. That really is why Tom didn’t come.

  My head is swimming, and my cut has broken open. I can feel blood seeping into the gauze. I sniff back sudden tears. “Is Deacon all right? The boy my age.”

  “Mr. Westfield is just fine,” he says. “We’ll worry about the rest. For now, I want you to breathe, Emmie. Can you do that? The ambulance should be here any minute.”

  He lays a steady hand on my shoulder, and it’s then that a few tears spill down my cheeks.“I heard you talking to Chelsea that day. I found your note too, but the rain smeared it.”

  “I wanted you to steer clear of Thorpe. We weren’t sure who was involved, but my money was on him. I’d hoped the warning would get you to talk to me.

  “Why didn’t you just call me?”

  “Mr. Carmichael’s business involved lots of people in the community. If I’d been sure of reaching you directly, I would have, but your family plan only had phones listed for Tim, Mary, and Landon May.”

  Because I took over Landon’s phone. One more way I slid neatly into his place.

  “Chelsea’s on her way home. We know she’s safe now,” Vaughn says. “I’m sorry if I frightened you that day in the store.”

  I nod absently. “How did you find us today?”

  The smile is back. “Chelsea called this morning from Charleston.”

  “Joel was going to try to find her in Charleston,” I say, feeling a stab of anger. “She could have been in danger.”

  “The only interest he had in finding Chelsea was figuring out who she was talking to and how much we knew. And we did have her aunt’s house under guard. After filling Chelsea in on the truth, it was too dangerous to leave her here.”

  “So you’re the one who took her phone.”

  He nods. “Yes, ma’am. And her aunt and uncle were under strict instruction to take calls from no one. I didn’t count on Perry finding her aunt’s cell phone number. Chelsea called after he spoke with her. She gave us the address, said she believed this is where Deacon would hide. She didn’t trust Perry enough to tell him.”

  “She knew. She knew and she didn’t sell us out.” I feel teary again. “The sheriff isn’t involved, he protected us. Is he all right?”

  “He’s plenty banged up, but he should be just fine.”

  After all those ugly confrontations, after everything…he was the one who saved us. I swallow thickly and hear new sirens.

  Vaughn nods, keeping that hand on my arm to steady me. “That’ll be the ambulances.”

  They both head past us, to the house at the back. Vaughn taps something I’m guessing is an earpiece, but I shake my head.

  “I can walk. I want to see Deacon.”

  After a quick assessing look, Vaughn leads me down the road. I stumble over the grass when I see behind the house. Officers in FBI vests—bulletproof vests—are everywhere. Some help Perry, who’s sitting up now, near the hammock. Others cluster on the tiny dock. Three boats bob in the water now—Deke’s and two I don’t recognize, one with a bar of lights across the top. Police boat. Lots of guys over there. My stomach squeezes. Is Joel one of them? Is Deacon?

  Paramedics hop out of the squad, and an agent, another woman in an FBI vest, helps Deacon up and starts walking him toward us. He isn’t cuffed. He isn’t arrested.

  Relief hits me like a wall. My knees go limp, and my arm flails, catching Vaughn’s sleeve to steady myself.

  “Let’s get you to the ambulance,” he says, but I pull away from him.

  “Deacon.” My voice fails, losing his name in a crackle of breath. I try again. “Deacon!”

  He whirls, one eye swollen shut and a bruise shadowing his jaw. We stumble across the grass, and I’m sort of expecting Perry or Vaughn or someone to stop us. No one does.

  He draws short a couple of feet away, eyes darting toward my bandaged hand. Blood seeps through the gauze—a bright red bloom against the white. I think of hiding it but remember what he said about getting better at this. I have to let him try.

  He sucks in a breath that shakes. “Emmie—”

 
; “Just close your eyes,” I tell him. “Just close them.”

  As soon as he does, I hurl myself at him. The hug is too hard, so rough we’re stumbling a little to stay upright. But Deacon doesn’t loosen his arms, so I don’t either.

  “Did he hurt you?” His words are muffled in my shirt.

  “I’m fine.” I slide my good hand down his warm back. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I…”

  He trails off, and I hear the sound of footsteps on the dock, then on the grass. Deacon’s fingers bite into my ribs even harder, his arms flexing as he lifts his head and looks that direction.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  I disentangle myself, turning to see Joel on the dock, looking our way. I keep myself pressed to Deacon, my arms around his waist. I can feel that he wants to lunge.

  With at least ten agents with guns, I don’t think there’s a chance in hell of that happening, and Deacon stills, jaw grinding. He must see them too. Even cuffed and being led to the waiting FBI van, Joel keeps his eyes right on us.

  “Did you give Dad the pills too?” Deacon snarls. “You did everything else. Used us, lied to us, framed me for this whole damn mess.”

  Two of the FBI agents start to move in between them, but Vaughn holds up his hand. Shakes his head. Probably best to get all the details he can. I see Joel’s blue eyes go soft, and he smiles a smile I’ve seen a thousand times.

  It always seemed genuine until today.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Dink. You’re like family to me.”

  Those are my words he’s using, and his sweet-as-honey voice sets the hair on the back of my neck on end. Deacon makes a sound between a growl and a sob. I hold him tight but force myself to look hard at Joel’s face. He looks like the nicest guy in the world. Even now.

  Vaughn flicks his hands, and the FBI agents lead him away, and fury burns up through me, sudden and bright.

  “What about your dead family?” I shout after him. He doesn’t flinch. “Or the director you know so well at Duke. Was any of it true?” I shout after him.

  “It was what you wanted to hear,” Joel says. “That’s what matters.”