My Secret to Tell Read online

  “You’re starting to wonder if I did it too,” he says.

  I don’t deny it. Maybe Joel is right. We’re all capable of darkness. Isn’t Landon proof of that?

  He slumps onto a bench, and I take the other end. I hear him shift, and then his fingers graze mine. It’s too much, the rough feel of his fingers feathering over my palm, tracing the line of my thumb. Makes it hard to think.

  “Emmie, I’m sorry you’re mixed up in this.” His arm curls around my back, tugging me against him. The sudden heat and closeness make me dizzy. “But I’m glad you’re on my side. You’re about all I’ve got right now.”

  My throat tightens. I am all he’s got, and I’m smart enough to know that he could be using that. Using the way I feel about him.

  Chelsea wouldn’t push her own brother away for no reason. Joel wouldn’t be worried for nothing. Am I so desperate to see good in Deacon that I can’t see what everyone else is seeing?

  No, I have seen it. The anger. The fighting. The blood on his hands.

  He really might have done this.

  A chill runs up the back of my neck, and I push myself out of his embrace. It feels like peeling off bits of my own skin.

  I try not to see the hurt in his eyes. Surprise too.

  I’ve never denied Deacon a thing. If he asked me for the moon, I’d have figured out a way to rope the damn thing down. But there are too many questions and not enough answers. I have to trust my head, not my heart.

  Deacon nods. Just once. His face shutters, and his mouth goes tight. “I get it. I do.”

  “Deke, please. Talk to someone. Go to the police. Or Joel.”

  He smiles thinly. “You’ve been good to me, Emmie. You always are. I promise I’ll leave you out of it from here.”

  I hear a smattering of laughter from somewhere down on the boardwalk. Tourists probably. I can’t answer him, so I stare at my feet and silently curse the tears blurring my vision.

  “You should go home,” Deacon says. “Chelsea will come around. Dad should be out of the ICU in the morning, and she’ll probably apologize all over herself.”

  He sounds far away. When I look up, I see him walking backward. He’s leaving, and I need to let him go. I close my eyes so I don’t have to watch him disappear.

  “Emmie, is that you?”

  I turn at the sound of my name. It’s Seth, I think, standing just past the Dockhouse on the far side of the street. Yup, Seth. The yellow zip-up hoodie is a dead giveaway. He’s with a couple of other guys I can’t make out—Caleb and Liam if I had to guess—and they’re probably heading home from the Cru. In a town this small, we run the same circuit over and over.

  We exchange a wave, and he says something to the guys with him. Great. He’s coming over. Probably to see if he can walk with me. I swipe my damp cheeks and slap on a wide grin as he crosses the street.

  Down the boardwalk, I hear a familiar motorcycle start. Deacon. The engine roars, and I can almost feel the bike moving underneath me. But I’m still right here, exactly where I’m supposed to be. Far away from him.

  • • •

  When Seth offers to walk me home, I have no choice but to accept. Mom would throw a fit if I turned down a perfectly polite offer like that. It’d be bad manners.

  I’m pretty sure my mom has a crush on Seth for me. He mowed our lawn all last summer and even carried in her groceries if he was around after a shopping trip.

  He’s a good Southern boy, she always says. Being Georgia born, she has a slower drawl, thicker than mine. She’s from a long line of debutantes, so it makes sense that she’d pick a boy like Seth for me. Her family rode horses and held tea parties and married long lines of Southern doctors and lawyers. Old money. That was Mom’s legacy—until she got pregnant.

  Grandma snipped her neatly out of the family line then. My brother was supposed to change all of that, live the kind of life Mom was meant for. Now I’m up to bat. Every single time Mom looks at me, I know some part of her sees me as the last shot. Her final chance to get things right.

  “Sure is a nice night,” Seth says, reminding me that I’m not alone and should probably be saying something.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m beat.”

  “It’s all right. Quiet is fine.”

  We turn away from the shops and restaurants along Front Street, and quiet is exactly what we get. We’re in the world of front porches and tidy flower boxes. Postcard perfect, even under moonlight.

  Seth bumps into my shoulder. “Hey, Caleb’s trying to arrange a shack party after the Pirate Invasion. Pretty sure he just wants a shot with Twyla, but it could be fun.”

  “Could be,” I echo. “You guys are going to make sure no one brings those big lanterns though, right? It’s turtle nesting season.”

  “You and those turtles. They’ve got plenty of beach, you know.”

  I tilt my head and frown. “But they’re drawn to light. Those lanterns might look like the moon, and then they won’t make it to the water.”

  He laughs. “Wow, I feel like some sort of turtle terrorist now.”

  I shake myself, force a chuckle. “Sorry, I’m off my soapbox. I promise I won’t try to get you to join PETA on Sunday.”

  He bounces a little with each step. “You’ll be too busy swooning to try.”

  My argument with Deacon comes back to me. I stop midstride and turn to Seth. “I really like you, but it’s not like that. You know that, right?”

  “I really do. It’s not like that for me either anymore.” He suddenly puts a hand on the back of his neck like he’s blushing. “Thing is, I was wondering if you might give me some advice on…Chelsea.”

  My laugh is automatic, almost enough to make me forget about the incident at the hospital. But soon enough, her cruel words are echoing in my ears, and my smile falls flat.

  “How is she?” he asks. “How is her dad? Do you know anything?”

  “Yeah, I was at the hospital earlier,” I say, careful to walk around a bit of gum on the sidewalk. “Things are looking better. He has a long road ahead of him, but I think he’s going to pull through.”

  “Scary stuff.” Seth nods at me. “Must be hard on you too.”

  Chelsea screaming at me? Joel suspecting Deacon? Walking away from a boy I can barely remember not loving? Yeah, hard is one word for it. But it doesn’t hold a candle to what they’re dealing with.

  “I don’t know,” I finally manage. “Mostly I’m worried about them.”

  “Me too. But I don’t think we’re worried about the same thing.”

  I glance over, crossing my arms. “What are you worried about?”

  His lips thin, like he’s not sure he should say. “I think Deacon might try to take advantage of you in all this. I know you’re friends, but that guy is kind of a loose cannon. My dad says a bunch of people in town are talking. Mom says he hasn’t been to the hospital.”

  Seth’s mom is a nurse, true, but I doubt she’s watching the hospital security monitors. I lift my chin. “Actually, he was there today.”

  “Well, good. That’s good. But be careful with that guy, okay?”

  “Deacon wouldn’t hurt me.” It isn’t wishful thinking. No matter what else I might question, I’d bet my life on that.

  “Okay, I give,” he says. I stop on the corner, and Seth shrugs. “Love is blind, right?”

  “I don’t…” I can’t say I don’t love him, so I just trail into nothing, letting the crickets fill the silence.

  “You still cool with going Sunday? It is possible to just hang out. No agendas, I swear.”

  “Sure, I need to get out of the house.” I stop, looking up at my street sign, knowing his house is a block the other direction. “Thanks for walking me.”

  “Anytime. Sunday at seven then. No plans, so you’ll just have to deal with it,” he says.

  I laugh and wa
ve him off. Down the street, I spot the yellow glow of the windows in my house. Ralph is probably sprawled inside the door, waiting for me. Mom’s waiting too, I’m sure. Time to face the music.

  I quicken my pace, practically jogging up the steps. Inside, I smell apples and old wood—like usual.

  “I’m home,” I call out. I peel off Deacon’s sweatshirt and hang it up in the closet, trying not to think about my arms around his waist or his look when I pulled away from him. Even if I push those memories out, there are a hundred more to take their place.

  Mom’s right where I expected, gold reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose and e-reader in hand. She looks up, and her hair, which she’s worn in a neat blond bob since her fortieth birthday, is long enough to hang in her eyes a little. Very unlike her.

  “Figured you’d rather wait to do this in person?” she asks.

  “I’m really sorry. My battery was low.” True. “I turned it off just in case some emergency sprung up.” Not so true.

  She doesn’t look as angry as I suspected though, so I drop a kiss on the top of her head and sit down on the other end of the couch.

  “Well, you still made curfew. You are dependable.” She smiles, but I can see something else in her eyes. I can read her like a book, so I know where this is going.

  She knows I’ve been to the hospital. I’m not sure she’s clear that I went with Deacon, and since the talk didn’t start with “You’re grounded forever,” she definitely doesn’t know we took his motorcycle. But she will know soon enough. Because part of me walking away from Deacon means coming clean about what I’ve done.

  “I went to the hospital with Deacon, and before you ask, yes, we took his motorcycle, and yes, I know you’re adamantly opposed to motorcycles and Deacon in general, and yes, I wore a helmet, and yes, I know I’m probably grounded until I’m thirty.”

  A slim brow arches above her reading glasses. “Well, my work here is almost done.”

  I press my lips together. “I’m not going to see him again until this is all settled, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  She lays her tablet facedown on the coffee table, and Ralph drops his giant head on my lap. I scratch his chin while Mom clears her throat.

  “I already knew about the motorcycle and Deacon. Joel called to give me an update and to see if I could take care of Hushpuppy tonight. He told me to go easy on you, because he knows you did it for Chelsea.”

  Chelsea. My mind goes back to her red face and cruel words.

  “He also mentioned she was a bit unfair to you,” Mom says.

  “Understatement.”

  “She got upset with you?”

  “Also an understatement.”

  “Well, this is tough, sugar. She’s probably feeling pretty lost.” I pull my feet up on the couch, and she pats my ankle. “Joel’s applying for emergency temporary custody so he can help out while Mr. Westfield is healing up, but they’ve got that aunt in Charleston. Jane, I think. Bless her heart, she means well, but she’s a bit of a meddler.”

  Now that I’m here in front of Mom, my guilt swells. “For the record, I’m sorry. I wasn’t setting out to scare you today. I just…”

  She scoots to the edge of the couch. “You got caught up in a situation you were trying to make better.”

  “Something like that.”

  She nods. “You do this. Your dad’s right, you do try to fix things. Ever since…”

  “Mom, I’m sorry.” My voice is soft, because I am sorry. The last thing I’d ever want is to remind her of the whole Landon situation. It’s too hard for her.

  Mom pauses a beat, and her smile is watery. “All right then. You’re off the hook this time. But I want you to steer clear of Deacon. I trust you, Emmie, but when it comes to that boy, your judgment is often…compromised.”

  “Okay,” I say. I want to tell her that I didn’t compromise my judgment tonight, because I did walk away. But all I can think of is Deacon’s face when I pushed away from him. I shake my head to clear the image.

  “Did Deacon walk you home?”

  “Actually, I ran into Seth in town,” I say before I think better of it. “He walked with me.”

  “Seth French?” She leans back and beams. “I sure do like that boy. A true Southern beau.”

  “Mom, one of these days, you’re going to realize we’re in a whole different century.”

  “And one of these days, you’ll see there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the benefits of being the fairer sex. My mama could have taught you a thing or too, Emmie.”

  Maybe. But her mama didn’t really like to think about me or Landon, let alone teach us things. We both look too much like our dad to please her upper-crust taste.

  “Well, don’t get too excited when I tell you I’m going out with him this Sunday. It’s not a date. I really don’t see him as anything more than a friend.”

  “Friends is a good place to start.” She stands up and touches the crown of my head. “You always make the best choices. Always.”

  This is why I make those choices. To see her shoulders relax and her brow smooth. I know in this moment she doesn’t feel like the girl who got pregnant too young or the mother who failed to raise her son right. She’s at peace. I’m not sure I can put a price on something like that.

  Mom steps over Ralph and heads for the kitchen. “I’ll fix you some tea. It’ll make you sleepy.”

  “I’m really not grounded?”

  Her voice trails out of the kitchen. “Consider this your single ‘get out of jail free’ card for the summer.”

  I can hear the familiar clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Ralph twists closer to me and drools on my shorts.

  “You need a towel, big guy,” I say, but my shorts are probably filthy by now, so I stroke his ears and let my head drop to the back of the couch.

  My eyes feel heavier than they have in ages. I let them drift shut. When I open them again, I’m stretched out on the couch. There’s a pillow under my head and an afghan draped over my shoulders. Mom’s doing, I’m sure.

  I roll over, turning my face away from the bright early-morning light streaming in through the windows. The floor is still bathed in shadow. There’s our rug. Frayed. A gigantic lump of black. Ralph. Two ratty sneakers lined up beside the table. Mine.

  Ralph hears something before I do, his head emerging from the mountain of fur to tilt in interest. Mailman maybe? He usually comes later in the morning on Friday though. The doorbell rings while I’m folding the afghan. My heart stutters.

  Chelsea.

  It has to be. She’d never leave things like this with us.

  I rush through the living room, but my smile withers before it can bloom. It isn’t Chelsea on my front porch, or Deacon, or even Seth. It’s the sheriff.

  Chapter Eight

  Sheriff Perry has a smile that could sell insurance and the worst mop of mouse-brown hair I’ve ever seen. It’s like a bad toupee, except that it’s tragically attached. He sits back on our big, comfy couch, with his icky smile in place and his legs crossed in that guy way—one foot propped on the opposite knee. My gaze tries to stay on his face, but it pulls continuously to the gun at his side. He’s got a Batman-worthy belt of tricks—gun, cuffs, mace, something else, another set of cuffs. Wow. Overkill much?

  Thank God Mom was already up and dressed—if she’d left for work, I’d be doing this alone. She bustles around the coffee table, bringing in some banana-nut muffins and coffee. I swipe one and peel off the yellow paper wrapper.

  “I sure appreciate the coffee, Mary. Did you hear it hit ninety-six yesterday?”

  “Ninety-six?” Mom asks. “Well, that’s something.”

  “Yes, indeed.” He takes another sip, and I stare at his straw-like hair and faded uniform shirt. Even the Timex strapped to his wrist is dishwater dull. Perry sets the cup carefully on one of t
he lilac-embossed coasters. The radio on his belt crackles. Another excuse for me to look at the gun and for my stomach to do a barrel roll.

  “Well, ladies, as much as I hate to visit on official business, I’m afraid I’m here to ask a few questions.”

  “Questions?” Mom asks.

  The sheriff puts away his “be your best friend” smile and looks right at me. I feel like there’s a red laser target dot on my forehead.

  “Questions for me.” I don’t bother posing it as a question.

  “Mr. Carmichael said that you arrived at the hospital yesterday with Deacon Westfield.”

  “Yes, sir.” I force myself to bite off a hunk of muffin so I don’t look as nervous as I feel.

  “Did Deacon drive you home?”

  “Yes. He wouldn’t leave me there without a ride.”

  Mom tucks hair behind one ear. “Sheriff Perry, what’s this about? Is Deacon in some sort of trouble?”

  It sounds like she’s expecting a yes. Maybe even wanting one.

  “We’re just trying to get some answers.” The sheriff abandons his coffee and scoots forward on the couch. “Now, Emmie, I know you want to find out what happened with Mr. Westfield as badly as the rest of us.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “So you understand we’re trying to get to the bottom of things.”

  “Do you think Deacon is at the bottom of this?” I ask. His self-satisfied smirk is all the confirmation I need. My throat goes dry.

  “That boy’s had his share of trouble,” Perry says.

  “But for speeding tickets. Traffic things, right?” My voice sounds weak, even to me.

  “Charles Manson started by rearranging furniture. Did you know that?”

  He’s comparing Deacon to an infamous psychopath? My worry ratchets into real fear. Deke’s guilt is a possibility. I know that. But it looks like a cold, hard fact for Perry.

  “I know how this probably seems to you, but I hope you’re considering his history,” I say. I hesitate. Maybe Deacon’s fears aren’t mine to share, but if it could save him… I shake my head, mind made up. “You might not know, but he actually can’t stand the sight of blood. It shuts him down. I don’t think he could do this. Ask Chelsea or Joel or even his dad. We’ve all seen it.”