My Secret to Tell (19 page)

“Not overnight, I don’t think.”

“Would Thorpe look for us there?”

“Look for us in a tourist trap?” he asks. “Seems like the last place we’d go. Thorpe will expect us to get help. Or to run.”

I hunch over, still hugging myself. “This
is
running, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t running,” Deacon says. “It’s hiding.”

It feels like both, but I nod anyway, and Deacon puts the boat in gear.

Cape Lookout is a typical barrier island, scrubby trees and sand crowned with a single slender lighthouse. That lighthouse is all I can see at first, black-and-white diamonds trailing up its sides. It hasn’t been manned since the fifties. Back then, ships depended on the lighthouse to warn them away from the deceptive shallows of the sound. Now, it’s little more than a tourist attraction—a North Carolina icon for key chains and refrigerator magnets.

Still, I feel safe under its watchful eye as Deacon motors us closer. We bring the skiff right up to the beach on the sound side of the island. It’s imposing tonight, the diamond pattern too stark against the black sky. It’s quiet on this side. You can hear the wind moving through the yaupon and switchgrass.

I glance up at the top of the lighthouse, which is dark, dark, dark. Then
light
. It rotates into view, impossibly bright and strong, casting a beam over our heads and into the water. Then it’s gone, rotating around once more. I turn away, trying to tune out the pins and needles rolling up my ribs.

“Tourists will start showing up as soon as the sun rises.” Deacon slips from his Southern drawl into a Midwestern twang. “Got to get those shells, don’t-cha know?”

I laugh as Deke hops into the water, looking like a modern-day pirate as he hauls out the front anchor. I follow after him—less swashbuckler, more drunk puppy—sloshing through the water in my soggy sweatpants. I wobble, almost losing a flip-flop, plunging my arm into the dark water to retrieve it.

Deke laughs at me from the shore, so I chuck my wayward shoe at him. “Laugh all you want. Next time we’re at Clawson’s, you can talk about who’s clumsy as I wipe the floor with you at the dartboard.”

Deacon hauls the rope up the beach, securing it around the trunk of a shrub. “I still say you put a hex on the darts.”

“You have crap aim. Stop making excuses.”

I collect my shoes in one hand, letting my toes press into the cool, damp sand. Maybe three hundred yards down the beach, there’s a dock where the ferries drop off tourists to view the lighthouse. I’m guessing that’s where we’re headed. Deacon pulls the zippers shut on the backpack and slings it over his shoulder.

“This feels like a horrible idea,” I say with a glance at the bag.

“Well, I can’t leave it here, can I?”

Probably not, but I still hate it. I force myself to look at the island instead. You can hear the faint roar of the ocean on the other side, but this side is just cicada song, rising and falling in a different kind of wave. I frown at the barren docks.

“When do you think the first boat will come?”

He shrugs, falling into step beside me as we head toward the walkway that cuts across the island. “Seven? There’ll be private boats earlier than that. We’ll be able to steal a phone before you know it. Try to relax.”

“I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of relaxing. And we’re not stealing a phone.”

He shoulders into me. “We can say ‘borrowing’ if you like that better.”

“Let’s just keep walking. If we walk, I don’t have to think about the black-market diamonds strapped to your back.”

“If we stop, I could pick one out for you,” Deke offers. At my look, he laughs. “Kidding!”

“I know. It’s just…they almost got away with this, Deke,” I say, the wind blowing my damn hair across my face. I push it back. “How are you so calm with that?”

“Because they aren’t getting away with it now.” His mouth hardens, his cheekbones going extra sharp under the moonlight. “They won’t leave without this bag, and they won’t find us here. They’ll get caught. And I won’t pay for what they did to my dad.”

I stop and look at him, seeing the anger he’d been missing for so long. “You thought you were going to go down for this, didn’t you? And you accepted that.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I accepted it. I obviously chose to dodge Perry. I’ve been living on the run or whatever.”

I
tsk
, looking up at the lighthouse as we pass. “It’s lucky you know me. Joel’s going to retire eventually, and you’re obviously going to need lawyers in your life.”

“I’m still not convinced you’re going to be a lawyer.”

“Joel thinks I have a good shot at the prelaw program.” We’re halfway across the island, and you can hear the Atlantic now, waves curling in and out, slave to the moon above.

“You have a shot at anything you want. I just think you’ll come to your good senses.”

“I seem to be lacking in good sense these days,” I say, smirking at him.

“Too true. Running from the law. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Me either.” I pause to look up at the lighthouse. It’s strange being close to it, seeing the cracked exterior and faded paint. Still, it’s an imposing thing, this black-and-white sentry standing guard in the darkness.

The wind is up on the ocean side. It cuts through my wet clothes the second we hit the sand. I cross my arms over my chest and pull up the hood on my sweatshirt.

“You’re cold,” Deke says, putting an arm around me. “We can go back.”

“No, I like it here.”

The sea is pretty at night, dark waves lapping at the untouched sand. The sky’s just starting to lighten, the coming dawn veiling the stars. God, my mom is probably worried sick, but there’s no helping that now. I nod toward a disrupted area on the sand.

“That could be a turtle nest, you know.”

He smiles at me. “Then it’s a good thing we don’t have a flashlight, yeah?”

I squeeze his hand and grin. “What are you going to do when you’re free? When this is all just a bad memory?”

Deacon stops, his expression turning somber. “You asked me what would happen after this, and I didn’t answer you.”

Given his look, I’m not sure I want him to answer now.

His brows pull together, and my stomach tenses. If he busts out any version of a “you’d be better off without me” speech, I
will
smack him.

I start first. “What’s going on?”

He shakes his head a little and steps closer. “You do realize this is not a match made in heaven, right? I mean I’m—” Deacon pauses, watching me carefully. “Okay, I can see by your face I’m saying this badly.”

“Then say it better.” My words come out pointy. “Because this feels like a ‘we should be friends’ talk, and frankly, Deke, if you wanted to be friends, you shouldn’t have kissed me. You should have just left it
alone
.”

“Hey.” He reaches for my shoulder and sighs when I pull away. “I wanted to kiss you. I told you I wanted to kiss you for a while. But you’ve wanted to kiss me for a lot longer.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “So it’s a contest? Who wanted who longer?”

“No, it’s…” Deke looks skyward. “Man, I’m so bad at this. I just think you’ve got me on a pedestal, and I’m not going to live up to the hype.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I snort and push my windblown hair behind my ears. “You can spare us both this awkward talk. I get it.”

“No, you definitely don’t,” Deacon says. I start walking, and he growls behind me. “Damn it, Emmie, would you stop and let me get this out?”

I turn back to him, hands up. “Maybe I don’t want to hear what you’re saying! Because this? I
knew
to expect this, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“I don’t want it to hurt.” He strides up close to me. “I just want you to think about it. About that pedestal I talked about.”

“You’re not on a pedestal. I could write a
grocery list
of the things I wish you’d change.”

“Exactly. But you think I
will
change all of those things. You think I’ll hero up one day, stop driving too fast and go be…hell, I don’t know…an accountant or something. The point is, you believe in me
so
much.”

My bitter laugh is lost in the crash of a wave. “Gee, Deacon, that sounds terrible.”

“Hell no, it doesn’t,” he says. “The world needs people like you, Emmie, but the world isn’t going to repay you for all that belief by living up to your expectations.” He tugs on a strand of my hair and smiles. “I like you. You’re smart and steady and damn funny when you want to be. You’ve got a solution for everything. You can save anyone.”

“Except you, right?” My mom’s words boomerang back, echoing in my ears. “Because you don’t want to be saved.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want. There’s no saving me from
this
. You want to march back into town and just, what? Pretend the last week didn’t happen?”

“Deke, I’m not that naive. I know it won’t be easy. It’ll be weird at first.”

“It would be weird
permanently
. This doesn’t end. I’m probably not going to jail, and that’s amazing. That’s all you, Emmie. That’s how you
did
save me. But I still have an addict dad and I’m still not going to college and I’m still the guy who’s going to spend the rest of his life dragging dit-dotters out on one boat or another.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I say.

“No, there’s not.” He tips up his chin. “I’m proud as hell of our business, and I know I can keep it going. Make it stronger.” He touches my face then, smiles fondly. “But you’re a college girl. You’re going to join a sorority and get a job in Raleigh or something. You’re going to be amazing, and frankly, you might decide you wish you’d done better for yourself.”

“For myself.” The laugh that comes out of me is brittle. Sharp.

Deacon doesn’t catch it. “Yeah, for you. You’re so loyal and decent, you wouldn’t leave me even if you wanted better. I don’t want that for you. Or for me.”

“So you think you know better than I do about what I’d want?”

Deke sighs. “I just want you to think about it.”

“I
have
thought about it. And no, Deacon, you’re
not
the wise choice. In so many ways. But then, neither is being a lawyer, because it’s not what I really want deep down inside—but hey, working with animals isn’t smart either, right? Because I might not have a solid job. Or I might have to move away from my mom, who needs me.”

His shoulders pull back with a deep breath. “Hell, Emmie, don’t go to law school for your parents. Of course, there’s a risk in choosing something else, but you should do what
you
want to do.”

“Yes, I should.” Saying it feels good. I stand up straighter. “I need to stop making every choice with someone else in mind. My parents. Even you and Chelsea.”

“Yes,” he says, shoulders dropping like he’s relieved. “That’s part of what I’m trying to say. I want you to think of yourself.”

“Then let me be selfish! I selfishly choose you, Deacon.” I watch him take the words in, like he’s not quite sure I’m speaking the right language. His face breaks me open, touches all my raw places.

I take a breath. No reason to back down now. “The only real question is, do
you
want this? Because I’m not one of the girls who’s going to stroll in and out in a week. I’m going to get on your nerves. Pester you to go to homecoming.”

“Now you’re talking crazy,” he says, but he’s smirking.

“Maybe. But what’s it going to be? This shouldn’t be the hard part, Deke.”

“It isn’t,” he says, hand reaching for my face. “It isn’t hard.”

I’m afraid to move and shatter this moment. I want to cling to it, to the look on his face that makes me feel like living, breathing magic.

I’m more afraid to give him the space to argue, so I close the space between us, wrapping my fingers around his wrists. Deacon exhales, and his mouth moves to mine, and we’re not quite kissing, but in some ways it’s better. We’re breathing each other in. Holding on tight.

It’s almost enough to make me forget that dawn is coming, but when I open my eyes, I see the promise of it. The sky is purpling at the edges. The stars are fading away.

Morning will be here soon. We’re not out of the woods. Not yet.

The first tourist pickings are slim. The boat drops off eight passengers, a family with two squalling preschoolers and two other pairs. The parents have phones—phones they’re passing back and forth between the kids while they haul more bags of toys and towels and snacks than I can count. Another couple heads straight to the beach, wearing sturdy shoes and expensive-looking cameras around their necks.

“Those two?” I ask, pointing at them.

Deacon shakes his head. “Those phones aren’t leaving their pockets.” He points at the last couple lumbering out. Two girls. College age from the look of it. They’re both carrying giant purses and wearing easy-off knot dresses.

Phones are no longer a problem. Keeping the tourist bunnies off of Deacon might prove interesting though.

“You’re right, the girls are perfect.” I lie down on the bench, my wet, sandy legs in Deacon’s lap. “Pretty sure you can handle the heavy lifting here.”

“Huh, I pegged you for the jealous type.”

“Well, you pegged wrong.” I flop my arm over my eyes to block out the rising sun. “I’ve seen half the girls from Ohio hit on you on their way through town. I’m used to it.”

“I’ll just swipe the phone,” he says.

“You won’t have to,” I say in a singsong voice.

When he stands up, my nonchalant exterior cracks. I sit up with a frown, picking the paint peeling on the edge of the bench. I never contemplated what it would be like to be with Deacon. The boy flirts with retirees from Florida when he’s in tourist mode. I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it.

His walk changes to a swagger as he gets closer. Scratch that. He knows.

They respond just like I expect, with eager eyes and softly parted lips. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but they’re nodding like bobbleheads, and I don’t know whether to laugh or worry about what it’s going to be like when Deacon goes back to running tours.

Suddenly, Deacon whips around, pointing at me. The girls look over, and my cheeks go hot and undoubtedly red.

Busted.

I force a smile and a wave, and one of the girl puts her hand to her chest, an obvious “Aw” on her lips. If they’re disappointed, they don’t show it—but they both line up to hand over their phones.

He takes the one on the right, and they watch him go, their smiles only a touch disappointed.

“So you dropped your phone in the water, and I want you to call your parents so they won’t worry about you,” he says softly.

“And they bought that?” I arch a brow at him. “One of these days, your charms will fail.”

“My charms fail on you all the time.”

He hands me the phone, and I take in a breath that smells like hope. “All right, Joel. Pick up this time.”

He doesn’t answer the first time I call. Or the second. I frown at the phone, and Deacon paces. “Try texting him. He won’t recognize the number.”

“Good point.” I shift on the bench after texting, trying one more time.

Joel picks up on the first ring, and I gesture Deke closer, holding the phone between our ears. “Eddie, thank God! Your parents are worried sick. We’ve been calling all night. They say you’re with Deacon.”

“I am,” I say. “My phone got wet.”

“I’m just leaving Daffy,” he says. “I needed to get a power of attorney so I can get those records on Chelsea. Do you know they won’t let her call anyone?”

“I know. She texted me last night from her aunt’s phone. They took hers.”

Deacon interrupts. “We’ve got bigger problems to deal with. Thorpe and Charlie are smuggling. They were loading up the
Clementine
last night.”

“No, no, that’s the Christopher charter. He takes one out every month.”

“He takes the
Clementine
?” Deacon asks, sounding dubious. “Somehow I think we’d notice our biggest boat missing a couple of days a month.”

Joel takes a sharp breath, obviously struck silent.

I speak first. “Joel, it’s true. They were loading the
Clementine
. And we found a backpack with marked maps and lists of coordinates on board.”

“We found something else too,” Deacon says. “Diamonds. They’re still not…they’re uncut, but we’re pretty sure.”

Disbelief seems to balloon in Joel’s long silence. Finally, he clears his throat and his voice is small. “Are you sure about this?”

I swallow. “Yes. We think they’re setting up fake charter rentals. Like Mr. Christopher. Christopher is Thorpe’s son’s name.”

“No, no, his name is CJ—” Joel cuts himself off with a sharp breath. “My God…”

My heart pulls for him. He believed in people. Gave them a second shot, and this is how they’re repaying them.

“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.

Joel strangles out a noise, but Deacon continues. “Look, the problem is Thorpe knows we have these diamonds. And since the sheriff was already after us—”

“You’re worried about how it will look if you show up with them,” he says. “All right, where are you? Are you safe for the time being? Can I pick you up somewhere?”

“We’re at Cape Lookout,” I say. “We’ve got a boat, but we’re low on gas.”

It sounds like Joel is walking. Pacing maybe. “Maybe I could call the police. Send them right to you.”

“Joel, we think the sheriff might be in on all of this,” Deacon says.

“Eddie, Dink, that is just not—”

“He’s telling the truth,” I say. “I think he might be getting paid off. It’s bad, Joel.”

“Now, what on earth—”

“Look, we’ll explain it all when we see you,” Deacon says. “We just want you to go in with us.”

He pauses, hesitates. “All right, then I’ll come. I’ll meet you. But I’m sending the state police after Thorpe and Charlie right now. There’s no changing my mind on that.”

“Can you meet us on Lennoxville Point road?” I ask. “It’s off of Mulberry. There’s a little house at the end of the road. Around the curve, back past the rest.”

“I’ll find it. I should be there within the hour. If you really think Perry’s involved in some way, you best not talk to anyone. He’s probably got APBs out for you, so stay out of sight until I can get you guys to some real authorities.”

“Okay,” I say, heaving a relieved sigh. “That sounds really great.”

Joel clears his throat. “Dink, are you still there?”

“Yeah?”

“Daffy said he remembers a mask. Like a…uh, ski mask? He can’t be sure, but he thinks it was a bigger guy too. Perhaps Thorpe…well, what’s important is that your father knows you didn’t hurt him.”

Deacon swallows hard. “All right.”

“I’m sorry,” Joel says, voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have said—I’m just truly sorry, Dink. More than you know.”

Deacon closes his eyes, and I see his shoulders hitch. Just once. I thank Joel for him and end the call. Then I pull Deke close and hold him steady. I watch the dolphins play over his shoulder, free and happy. He will be too, soon.

By the time we give the phone back and start heading to the skiff, the tide’s gone out. The boat’s resting in sand, and Deacon’s anchor is tangled. He’s wrestling with it, and I’m pacing grooves into the beach. I want to go. I want this over with.

Joel’s call has me nervous. I feel like anyone could be on Thorpe’s payroll at this point, so when I see a familiar white-and-blue boat pulling into the dock, my fingers go numb and tingly.

“Deacon.”

He follows my line of vision, eyes narrowing when he sees the vessel and the two men in uniform aboard. I don’t know exactly who they work for, but they look official. Important.

“It’s all right,” he says, but he’s tying quicker now. “It’s Park Service, not the police. They’re just patrolling.”

“If Perry put out a missing persons notice, they would get it though, right?”

Deacon’s lips thin, and he pauses to watch the boat. “Not sure. I wouldn’t panic yet.”

He says he wouldn’t, but he starts coiling the rope faster. The patrol boat stops at the pier, where the girls we borrowed the phone from are sunbathing. My shoulders hunch as the captain talks to them from the water.

Are they talking about us? Is the brunette pointing our way?

“Let’s push her out,” Deacon says. “Give me a hand?”

I tear my gaze away from the NPS on the hull of the Park Service boat to push our own out. I don’t like that they’re here. It’s like I can feel eyes on us, following us across the sand.

I adjust my grip on the lip of the bow as we shove into the water. My feet stumble, and my hand slips. Sharp pain lances through my palm. I swallow my hiss down under a swell of fear. Something warm rolls down my fingers. Drips.

No. No, no, no.

The patrol boat is cutting around the pier, and my ribs are shrinking a size with every breath. I’m bleeding, and they will see. Worse still, when Deacon sees, he will freak out and then they’ll feel they have to help me. They’ll call for more help. Paramedics.

Perry could hear about that call.

“They might be coming to check on us,” he says.

He hasn’t seen yet. I glance down, and my stomach rolls. Yeah, it’s not good. There’s blood dripping. I’m going to need stitches.

Deacon hops in the boat and comes to the bow to help me in. “Let’s get you in the…” I tense as he trails off, the color draining from his face.

“Deke, it’s okay,” I say.

He stumbles back until he slumps onto a seat.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I look around. The NPS boat is moving slow, but it’ll be here soon. Only one boat between us, another skiff with a middle-aged man.

“I need a towel,” I say. He ignores me, staring blankly into the distance. “Deacon! A towel, a shirt—
something
.”

Still no response.

I yank my borrowed sweatshirt off, leaving me in a tank top. I wrap the sweatshirt around my hand and tie it in a knot. Then I splash water over the blood on the hull and wade toward the ladder on the back of the boat. It’s bobbing and slick, and I’m climbing one-handed.

I haul myself in awkwardly, hearing the drifted conversation from the other boats. They can’t be more than a hundred yards away. My hand throbs like a warning. We have zero time.

Deacon hasn’t moved. Hasn’t spoken.

“Deacon, don’t look at my hand. Look at the boat. They’re coming over.”

I fumble into the driver’s seat and start the motor, leaving it at an idle.

Deacon closes his eyes, shudders. I say his name again. Check the NPS boat. It’s drifting away from the other skiff, starting the engine. I grip the steering wheel, and my cut screams.

My whimper gets Deacon’s attention. He locks onto my gaze, eyes dark with terror. But we can’t do a slow come-down from his panic now. Not with Park Service officers closing in and me probably seconds from bleeding through the sweatshirt.

I take a shaky breath. “Deacon, listen to me.”

His face twists, and I can see him trying. He’s breathing hard. Pushing for control.

“You need to fake it. Right now. Or they will call for help, and I don’t know who that help will be, do you hear me?”

I lift my uninjured hand to wave at the NPS boat. I push a smile I’ve seen my mom wear a thousand times.

“I need you right now, Deke.” I say it low, right through my grin. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

His voice is a croak, but it’s there. He’s looking at me. Shaking and breathing too hard, yes, but he’s not lost in that dark place. He’s here with me.

The NPS boat cuts the engine, pulling up to our starboard side. Ball cap and a white polo. No badge of any kind, thank God.

I grin wider but keep my injured arm down in the boat. “Morning!”

“Good morning,” the officer says, a smile creasing his well-lined face.

My smile has frozen to my lips. I try to take a breath and try to come up with something to say. All I can think about is how long it will take them to see that Deacon is ghost-white and drenched in panic sweat.

Oh God, I have to say something else. I have to say something.

“Morning,” Deacon says.

My throat unclenches, and I take a breath.

“Heading out already?” the officer asks. “It’s going to be a good day.”

“Just stopped by for low tide,” Deacon says. “No luck on the sand dollars though. Might check out the horses on Shackleford.”

The captain nods, but I can’t tell if he’s smiling now. At this angle, his face is lost under the shadow of his hat. I feel like it’s been too long since anyone spoke, but I don’t know what to say. The silence stretches, and my eyes focus on the little black walkie-talkie strapped to the captain’s hip.

Has it been five seconds? Or fifty?

Someone crackles over the radio, and my jaw goes tight. The captain checks it and says something I can’t make out into the microphone. Seconds feel like centuries while I wait for him to command us off the boat. Maybe call the police. But he raises another friendly wave and starts his engine.

“Y’all be careful out there,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” I say, flashing teeth as he turns away.

I put the skiff in gear and start driving. My joints feel like rubber bands and my stomach constricts. I might throw up. Deacon looks like he’s
definitely
going to throw up. Or maybe he already did and I didn’t notice. I take us out a little way from the island, and then he gestures at the wheel.

I get up without another hint. I have no clue where to go. I could be steering for Bermuda right now. He’s still shaky and pale when he settles into the captain’s seat, but he takes the wheel and opens the throttle wide.

• • •

We head through a narrow strip of water between Shackleford Banks and Cape Lookout to get back to mainland. Deacon guides the boat on autopilot, and I sit, shivering on the bench, too cold and shell-shocked to form a plan.

Deacon leads us along the edge of Shackleford Island, finding a little inlet where he cuts the engine, leaving us bobbing. Absently, I search for horses, but they’re hiding too, I guess.

“What are we doing?” I ask when he doesn’t start back up. “We need to get to the house, don’t we?”

“Your hand,” he says, and his gaze is drifting over me, fixing on the sweatshirt I’ve got wrapped around it.

“It can wait.”

Deacon lurches forward, like he might heave, and then jerks his head away, panting. “Doesn’t look like it. You’re dripping.”