My Secret to Tell (3 page)

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
da
d
! 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.”

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 waterfront, 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.

A shiver rides up my spine. Maybe I should tell someone this is going on. It could affect business, create rumors. They don’t need that.
Someone
should know.

I’m halfway through dialing Joel’s number when I hear them talking. My fingers hesitate and my ears strain. A group of kids passes between us, and I will them to move faster. I probably shouldn’t be trying to listen. Okay, I definitely shouldn’t be listening. But I want to know. If they arrest this scary guy, then Deke can breathe easy. I can bring him to the hospital, and Chelsea will be able to get some rest.

I can tell right away Nelson is fishing for something. He gestures at the bigger guy’s hands. Even from here, I can see the right one is discolored. Bruised maybe. My heart squeezes out an extra beat seeing that. I can’t be sure, but it looks much worse than Deacon’s hands.

“Looks like you’re a little busted up,” Officer Nelson says. “Care to tell me how that happened?”

“Fishing’s a rough business.”

Nelson doesn’t look convinced. “Is it now? Where were both of you last night?”

“On the boats until eight,” the big one says. “Look, we ain’t what you’re looking for here. Westfield’s got a line of enemies up and down this little stretch of coast.”

I miss something Charlie says, but then he scratches the back of his neck. “He pays my check, so I don’t ask questions, you know?”

Officer Blond and Boring takes notes without emotion, but the smile underneath Nelson’s moustache tells me he smells a lie. “I’ll be checking with your boss. Seven o’clock, you said?”

“Eight.” This from the big one.

“Mr. Thorpe, Mr. Jones.” Nelson offers their names as a farewell and heads out, his partner a pale shadow behind him.

I take a deep breath and look down at the time sheets in my lap. It’s easy enough to find them both. My finger touches each of their clock-out times. 1700. Which is five o’clock, not eight o’clock.

My vision shrinks down to those four digits on the page—the ones that prove they lied through their teeth.

I look up, but the officers have disappeared. Thorpe is still there though, eyes scanning the boardwalk, that bruised hand rolling into a loose fist at his side.

Okay, stop jumping to conclusions. They didn’t say they were working, just that they were on the boats. Maybe they were just relaxing. Maybe there was an off-the-clock meeting.

Or maybe they attacked Mr. Westfield.

My hands prickle with sweat. If they’re involved, they wouldn’t stay in town. Why aren’t they running? And why am I still here, holding time sheets the police probably need to see.

I glance at the boardwalk again, but I don’t see either officer. Not surprising. Everyone in North Carolina is down here. I’m not sure I could find an elephant dancing the samba. God, I hate days like this.

I’ll call Joel. This is way outside my job description. Across from me, Thorpe trudges down the dock back to the boat. They’re loading passengers, and my shoulders hunch when I catch sight of his hand. He definitely looks like he’s been in a fight.

Even if they had nothing to do with Mr. Westfield, I don’t want that guy seeing me with the time sheets. I don’t want him seeing me—period.

When I’m sure they’re distracted enough with the boat to not notice, I walk quickly to the opposite side of the next stretch of shops, an outdoor strip mall with archways beckoning visitors from both the boardwalk and the street. I stop beside the Whaler Inn, time sheets still trapped between my clammy fingers. I fold it and tuck it into my bag so I can call Joel.

He picks up on the second ring, and relief rolls over me. “Joel, thank God. I’m freaking out a little here.”

“Well, whatever it is, freaking out won’t help.”

“I think it’s warranted this time. I was just picking up the time sheets, and there were police officers interviewing Charlie and Thorpe on the docks. I think they lied to them.”

“You think the police officers
lie
d
?”

“No, no. Thorpe and Charlie. The police were asking them about last night, about Mr. Westfield. They said they were on the boats until eight.”

“Sounds about right.”

“But I have the time sheets right here, and they say five o’clock. I didn’t know if I should run after the police or call you or what. I could bring them in right now.”

“The time sheets? I don’t need them. Those two do contract work down in Morehead City. Cleaning and such. I’d have to check the logs there, but I think that’s where they were.”

“But, Joel, Thorpe had really busted-up knuckles too. Like he’s been hitting someone. What if he attacked Mr. Westfield? What should I do?” I take a sharp breath, a new thought jarring me. “What if they run? I mean, they could steal a boat, right? Maybe even take hostages.”

Joel gives a soft, short laugh. “Neither of those boys is taking anyone hostage.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because those gentlemen are on parole. I’m pretty sure Charlie’s on GPS monitoring, and Thorpe’s desperate to hold this job. He’s had a hard time finding one.”

A sunburned woman in a purple dress brushes past me, so I drop my voice to a whisper. “They’re ex-
convicts
?”

“Now you know Mr. Westfield is passionate about giving people a chance to start over,” he says, but then he pauses. “You say Thorpe’s knuckles were bruised?”

“Yes!”

“Hm. Maybe I’d better head down to the police station. I’ll check with some of the other guys to see if anybody knows what happened to his hand.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll feel better if someone looks into it. Shoot, speaking of things I have to make you do, Mr. Trumbull called. He wants a call as soon as possible, but I swear his charter supplies are all ordered, and I prepared the receipt for him just yesterday.”

Joel sighs. “That man always wants something, doesn’t he? I’ll take care of it. When are you stopping back by the hospital?”

“Tomorrow morning if you don’t need the time sheets. It’s getting late, and I still have an errand to run after dinner.” The lie goes sour in my mouth. Finding Deacon isn’t exactly an errand, but I promised Chelsea. I need to at least
try
to find him.

I hear muffled voices in the background. Joel tells someone he’ll be right there. Then he’s back. “Emmie, I’ve got to get in there. The doctors are making rounds. Thanks for calling about this. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes. See you soon.”

Sooner than tomorrow if I can find Deacon.

• • •

I find Dad at our kitchen table when I get home. He’s drinking out of his favorite coffee cup and reading the paper. It’s almost like he still lives here. Almost.

Mom and Dad share custody of me and our Newfoundland, Ralph, now. They’re not divorced, just separated. Which means we do holidays and school events and sometimes dinner like everything’s the same as it’s always been. Until you mention Landon. Mom and Dad have two speeds when it comes to my brother—fight about his bad choices or pretend he doesn’t exist.

Dad grabs a dishtowel from the counter to get what looks like calzones out of the oven.

“Tim, you know where I keep the potholders,” Mom says, but she pulls out a stack of plates for him nonetheless.

“Haven’t used a potholder in thirty-nine years, Mary. Not going to start now.” He pushes a calzone onto a plate. “How’s James doing?”

Mom sighs, leaning back against our kitchen island. “They’re concerned about some swelling in his brain, but they’re relieving pressure—”

“Relieving pressure?”

Mom gives him a look that she still thinks I can’t interpret. She’s wrong. That look means
We’ll discuss it later when our daughter can’t hear
, but they really don’t need to bother. “That probably means they’re drilling holes in his skull,” I say, because I’ve watched enough medical shows to guess. Mom blanches, so I must’ve been right.

I scratch Ralph’s ears and take the plate Dad offers because it will make them happy. Actually eating it is another matter. I can’t eat right now with Joel maybe talking to the police and Deacon God knows where and not answering his texts. He needs to go see Chelsea so we can get this stupid mess straightened out.

I square the calzone on my plate and fold a napkin in half, wishing I had a pen to make a list. I need to stop by their house. Feed the cat. Pick up a sweatshirt for Chelsea, because she’s probably staying at the hospital. She’ll need a toothbrush and—

“You all right, Emmie?”

I jerk my gaze up to my dad. “Sorry. Fine.”

“It’s such a shame,” Dad says. “Plenty of murmurs around the docks today about it.”

I perk at that. Mom glances at my calzone, so I saw off a corner. “What kind of murmurs?” I ask.

“Nothing you should worry about,” Mom says.

“She’s not a baby,” Dad argues, turning to me. “People are guessing who might have done it. Westfield wasn’t exactly well liked, so there’s a long list.”

“He wasn’t?” I pull back, trying to imagine it. He’s gruff, quiet. But disliked? “He always gives back to Beaufort, doesn’t he?”

“Sure, but he reaches deep into the pockets of the town first. Makes some people angry.”

“Now, hush, Tim. You’re going to worry her sick.” Mom brushes an imaginary strand of blond hair behind her ear. “You’re just saying that because you lost
that
contract with him.”

“What contract?” I ask.

“Engine maintenance on the boats,” he says, but then he leans in and winks. “It wasn’t
that
big of a contract.”

“Eight boats between here and Morehead City,” Mom says softly, washing off the calzone pan. “I’ll bet it was nothing to sneeze at.”

The air turns a little frosty, so I force a big bite and make yummy noises as I chew. Steam burns my tongue, and a wad of cheese lodges in my throat. I try to swallow, but the cheese is determined to choke me. I’m coughing like crazy, eyes streaming while the kitchen erupts into activity. Mom is so frantic, it’s like there are four of her, pouring me water, patting my back, asking Dad to
do something
.