My Secret to Tell Read online

  But tying the bag brings my own questions. If Deacon cleaned up the blood—even if he tried—why isn’t he at the hospital? Why is he here?

  My mind flashes back to the argument outside Joel’s office, the dark looks he shot his father. I take a step back, and pain blooms in Deacon’s eyes. Not just pain. Hurt.

  “I didn’t do it, Emmie,” he says, voice rough.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” His sigh is a shudder. “I couldn’t. You know that.”

  I do know that, but I also know what I’m looking at. Something happened with him at that house. I just don’t know details. Interrogation will have to wait though. He needs to get out of here and to the hospital with Chelsea. Right now.

  “I have to go,” he says.

  “Good. Right. I’ll find out what room your dad’s in.” I go for my phone to text Chelsea.

  He roughs his dark hair up with his fingers. “I can’t go to the hospital.”

  Fear moves in, cold and slithering in my belly, those bandages on his knuckles looking more sinister by the second. “You said you didn’t do this.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then you need to go. It’s your dad. Chelsea’s alone in there.”

  He shakes his head. “Joel’s with her. He’s better at this kind of thing.”

  “Joel isn’t you, Deke. You’re her brother.”

  He paces another lap in front of my sink, and every breath comes faster and sharper for both of us. Everything I’ve ever known about Deacon is weighing against everything I’m seeing. I’m not sure I like the way the scale is tipping.

  Because he looks like he’s guilty of something.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice as raw as I’ve ever heard it.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re afraid of me. I can’t stand seeing you afraid.”

  But I am afraid. Afraid of him? For him? I don’t even know. Deke’s the saver of spiders. Rescuer of cats stuck in porches. He doesn’t hurt people. Not ever.

  So act like it!

  I force myself to touch his arm. It’s like grazing a live wire. We both go still.

  “Just tell me what happened,” I say. “Reader’s Digest version.”

  His face crumples up, and then I hear the unmistakable crunch of tires in the driveway.

  Mom.

  Deacon’s face goes hard, and he eyes the door, the window, and then me. I’ve known him long enough to get the look in his eyes. He doesn’t want her to find him here.

  That makes two of us.

  I flinch when Mom’s engine shuts off. The car door wrenches open and then closed. She’s on the back steps, and I still have so many questions he doesn’t have time to answer.

  Deacon moves to my bathroom window, and I help him with the old, fiddly locks. It scrapes and grunts. We get it halfway open before it thunks to a stop. There’s almost but not quite enough space for him to get out.

  He grips the frame. Pushes hard, but it’s good and stuck.

  The back door jangles—the owl wind chime I made in fifth grade singing out my mom’s arrival.

  “Emmie? Sugar?” Her voice is both faraway and right next to me.

  I open my mouth and find a tone that isn’t blatant terror. “Just a minute!”

  I flush the toilet and turn on the water to buy some time. Then I take Deacon’s hand and drag him into my bedroom. I trip over my slippers, and Deke tugs my curtains aside. He’s halfway out, the glow from the streetlights catching across his face. Half angel and half demon. That’s how he looks when he reaches for me.

  I hold my breath, wondering if I should say something. Call for my mom. Turn him in. But, God, it’s Deacon! There has to be an explanation for this.

  “Please believe me, Emmie. Please.”

  I want to answer, but I don’t. I brace my hands on my open window frame and watch him escape into the night.

  • • •

  Hospitals have a smell that gives me the creeps. It’s not just the industrial cleaners or the faint whiff of bodily fluids that can’t be washed away. It’s a scent that seems to drift up from the linoleum floors and out of the pale yellow walls.

  A carefully coded message crackles through the intercom, and I grip my shopping bag from the drugstore a little tighter. Two new nail polishes and a stack of magazines. We bought them this morning before coming in. Mom held off opening her antiques store. Wednesdays bring a lot of midweek “we’ve had enough of the beach” tourists, so this is a major deal.

  Mom hustles beside me, arm linked with mine as we head past the vested volunteers and easy listening music in the lobby.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to do flowers too?” Mom asks. “We could grab some from the gift shop.”

  “I don’t think they can have flowers in ICU,” I say. I’m not sure if it’s still true, but we had an ICU nurse at the high school on career day. She said it’s highly restricted. People in the ICU are on the edge of life and death, and every tiny thing can upset that balancing act.

  With that in mind, I probably shouldn’t be worried about flowers. I should be worried about how Deacon affects that balance. I didn’t tell anyone he came to me. Not my mom or even Chelsea, though I tried to text her twice. God, I just hope that’s the right choice.

  Mom squeezes my arm. “Well, I love your ideas with the polish and magazines.”

  The elevator on the left gives a soft bing as we approach. A thin man with dark circles under his eyes and a pack of Winstons wheels an IV behind him as he heads for the lobby. Presumably for a smoke break he could probably do without.

  Inside, I press the button for the fourth floor, and the doors swish closed. The elevator lifts, and my stomach drops away. Chelsea’s dad is in the ICU, hooked up to machines, fighting for every breath. I think of my dad. Bristly beard and flannel shirts in the winter. What if my dad were in here?

  I jerk when the doors open. We’re right at the edge of the waiting room. I hear the soft warble of more announcements over the intercom, the tinny murmur of a television in the corner. A haggard woman sleeps fitfully in an uncomfortable-looking chair. My stomach bunches up. I want to leave.

  But I need to stay.

  We step off, and Mom touches my shoulder. “Emmie, you don’t have to do this. You can wait downstairs, and I can take this to them.”

  “I need to be here for Chelsea.” I smile at her. “That’s the way you raised me, right?”

  Mom lifts her chin, touches my cheek. We walk into the waiting room, and Mom speaks with the nurse at the information desk while I resist the urge to straighten a painting of flowers.

  “They’re visiting with him now, but I’ll let them know you’re here,” the nurse says.

  They? They meaning Chelsea and Deacon? A smile flutters across my lips. God, I hope so. If he’s here, everything is okay.

  Mom returns and repeats what I just heard. I nod, and we take a seat on two cushioned chairs. I try to ignore the woman who wakes up to take a call, where she tearfully relays information about failing kidneys and not much time.

  I smooth the plastic bag and try to look around. There’s not much to see. A coffee station. Boxes of tissues. Racks filled to bursting with untouched magazines. I tighten my grip on my own bag, suddenly feeling uncertain.

  Maybe this is a terrible idea. Nail polish feels childish in here. My chest constricts. I should have done something better, something she might actually—

  The heavy door that leads into the ICU opens, and I stand up. There’s Joel, tall with his shock of white hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Those eyes are sad today.

  He’s got his arm around Chelsea. She’s still got a scab on her knee, and that cuts right through me. It happened last week when she tripped off a curb, texting. Her dad had laughed about it when we
stopped by the dockside office. Last week, he was laughing, and today, he’s in here, fighting for his life.

  She lifts a tissue to her face, and Joel squeezes her in, kisses the top of her head, and says something I can’t hear. It must be about me, because Chelsea looks up. I drop the bag and cross the room, and we wind up tangled in a hug somewhere between the chairs and the nurse’s station.

  Her sobs bring my own. It’s been that way since forever.

  “You came,” she says into my hair.

  “Of course I came. I wanted to come last night.”

  She leans away from me and wipes her swollen eyes. I find her a fresh tissue and push her hair back behind her shoulders.

  She gives me a weak smile. “Always the mother hen.”

  “Can’t help it.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  I look over to where Joel’s nodding with my mom, filling her in on details, I’m sure. I don’t see Deacon. I don’t think he’s here, or Chelsea would say something.

  Everything that happened swings back at me like a sledgehammer. The blood on his hands. The fear in his eyes. What did I clean up in my bathroom?

  I can’t think about that now. My focus and my worry shift to Chelsea. Her lips are chapped, and she looks tired. Even her signature diamond studs—a sweet sixteen gift from Joel—lack their usual sparkle.

  “Have you slept?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Eaten?”

  She shrugs, and I take her arm gently. “Come on. Let me get you a little something.”

  She stalls, and Joel walks over. He winks at me and pulls a long arm around both of us. “I knew if someone could get you to eat, it’d be this one. We’re real glad you’re here, Eddie.”

  I can count on Joel for three things: smelling nice, wearing gray suits, and talking people into things in the nicest way possible. Lawyer trick, he always tells me.

  “I’m going to stop by your office today,” I say, feeling a swell of gratitude.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he says.

  “No, it’s no problem at all. I’ll pick up the mail and get all your messages. I’ll bring them to you here so you don’t have to worry about them. I’ll even get the time sheets.”

  “I admit, that’d be wonderful. But…” He trails off, always worried to overwork me.

  I put my hand on his sleeve. “Joel, there’s so little I can do. I know you and Mr. Westfield are friends. You should be able to be here.”

  Chelsea needs an adult she can trust. She needs someone strong enough to handle this.

  “If you’re absolutely sure,” he says.

  I grin. “Positive.”

  After that, I take Chelsea downstairs to the cafeteria. She follows me through the line, glassy-eyed and stumbling as I load her tray with everything I think she might consider eating. We sit down at a quiet table away from the TVs, and after she takes a few bites, I decide it’s safe to ask about Deacon.

  “Has Deke been here? I tried to text you.”

  “Sorry, I had to turn off my phone in the room.” She puts down her spoon with a frown. “He hasn’t. He was there when it happened, I think. I was still getting stuff out of the car. Joel went in first and found Dad. He saw Deacon leave. Said he looked panicked.”

  “He was. He came to my house. I helped him get cleaned up. It looked like…” I don’t want to tell her what it looked like, because it will scare her. “I think he tried to help your dad.”

  She looks up, shock and fresh tears glimmering in her eyes. Then she swallows. Nods. “That’s what I thought. Thank you for being there for him. Where is he?”

  I sag. “He said he couldn’t come. He seems totally flipped out—worse than I’d ever seen him—but it was a lot of blood. I figured you’d know what was going on.”

  “But I don’t.” She squeezes her hands together so hard I can see her knuckles go white. She’s scared. “I know he freaked. You know how he—”

  “I know.”

  Chelsea shakes her head. “I didn’t see much because Joel tried to keep me out, but I saw a little. It was bad…” She trails off, lost in the ugly memory. “I get that he ran. I know how he is, but where is he? I need him here. It’s our dad. Our dad! How can he not be here?”

  “Chels.” I cover her hand with mine, desperate to calm the pain. She’s shaking. It feels like it’s coming from the inside out. A dull ache wads up beneath my ribs. “What can I do for you? How can I help?”

  “You’re letting Joel stay. That helps.” She pushes a spoon through her yogurt, a furrow creasing the space between her brows. When she speaks, her voice is pipsqueak soft. “Do you think he did this too?”

  She means Deacon. I don’t have to ask to be sure. I blow out a slow sigh and straighten her napkin. Brush a stray crumb off the table.

  “No,” I finally say, and most of me believes it. But then I frown. “Why did you add the ‘too’? Are people accusing him?”

  “Lots of people, I think,” she says. “Maybe even Joel.”

  “Everything in me says no,” I say. “Deke is a lot of screwed-up things.”

  “But not this kind of thing. I know.” Chelsea looks relieved. “He’s never hurt anyone.”

  “He doesn’t step on spiders,” I add. Then I sigh. “But he’s not helping his case by acting so weird.”

  She closes her gold-green eyes. “He shouldn’t have run at all. Now he’s probably worried sick that Joel thinks he’s guilty, but who could blame him? It looks bad.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  She bites her lip and sniffs. “He isn’t answering his calls, Emmie. I’m…I want my brother. I want him here. I’m scared.”

  I squeeze her fingers and square my shoulders. “Then that’s something I can do. I’ll find him for you.”

  Chapter Three

  I straighten Joel’s stapler and step away from the desk, careful to stay in the one strip of plush beige carpet I haven’t swept. Then I back my way out, vacuuming through the front office until I’m coiling the cord and putting everything back in the cleaning closet.

  Okay, what did I miss?

  Mail is opened and sorted. Messages are in my purse. Just need to go pick up time sheets from the docks and I’m good. I breathe in the smell of lemony wood polish. Better. Clean is always better.

  On my way out, the phone rings. I frown at my pretty vacuum stripes, but the trilling of the ringer bugs me like lint on a sweater, so I make my way across them as carefully as I can.

  It’s the second line blinking, so it’s a Westfield Charters call. “Westfield Charters, this is Emmie speaking.”

  “Yes, I need to speak with Joel.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s out of the office right now.”

  “Well, that’s a real pity.”

  I don’t know his voice, but he sounds rich. Joel arranges the charters for the high-profile Westfield clients, and they’ve all got the same decadent-as-velvet voice. Like even the words they use cost twice as much as mine.

  “This is Mr. Trumbull,” he continues.

  “Yes, of course. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “You can get me in touch with Joel,” he says. “I have arrangements for later this week, and I’m sure old Joel wouldn’t want to lose my business to someone more available.”

  I cringe at the sugary edge to his threat but force a smile into my voice. “I know we have you in the books, and I’m sure Joel will be happy to speak with you. He’s in a bad reception area, but I’ll see him this evening. Will that work?”

  His pause is long enough to make it clear it won’t work. But before I can change my offer, he’s back, crisp and polite. “By tonight then. I have your word, Emmie?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The sunshine outside thaws me from the frosty call. I take the long way to the wate
rfront, heading past the maritime museum. July is tourist season, so the boardwalk is thick with sticky-looking families and well-dressed yacht folks with shopping bags looped up their arms. I spot a couple of Mom’s bags, which is good. Money seems tight lately.

  Past the shops, the docks stretch along Taylor’s Creek. I can see the tall grass on Carrot Island and past that the sound. The Atlantic is somewhere beyond all that—always hard to tell where the sound ends and the sea begins.

  The harbor is crowded today, sprawling white yachts nudged in close to skiffs and slim sailboats. The pedestrian traffic isn’t much better. I spot the line of tourists waiting at Westfield Charters, most of them fanning themselves with the color brochures. In the tiny dockside office, I find Charlie, a weathered redhead with a scruffy beard.

  “Hey, Charlie, can you hand me the time sheets? I’m taking them to Joel.”

  “Sure thing, sweet pea,” he says. He hands them over with a smile and moves on to the next customer quickly. Too busy for chitchat, so they must have a boat leaving soon.

  I scan the time sheets for Deacon’s name while I walk around the opposite side of the office, hoping for a break from the crowd. A black line is crossed through the week by Deacon’s name. So he marked himself off? Quit? Or did somebody just get sloppy with a pen?

  I bump past someone and look up to find friendly eyes, a neat moustache, and a badge.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, holding up my hands.

  “No problem, miss.”

  The police officer—P. Nelson, according to the name tag I practically rubbed off his shirt—moves past me, the radio on his belt chirping. He’s got a partner in tow, blond and older. Both are pleasant but forgettable by most standards, but a pang stabs at my gut. They’re walking toward the Westfield office. They’re here about what happened to Chelsea’s dad.

  I swallow hard against the lump swelling in my throat as they disappear. Seconds later, they’re back with Charlie, who whistles with two fingers in his mouth, waving someone in from the boat.

  The guy who joins them would make my mother cross to the opposite side of the street. He’s large, tattooed, sweating heavily enough to leave dark stains down the gray sides of his Westfield Charters T-shirt.