My Secret to Tell (8 page)

“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 wave 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.

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 the 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.”

The sheriff hooks his thumbs in his belt. “I’ve had a lot of people tell me that someone just
couldn’t
do something. But everyone is capable of doing bad things, Emmie. Nasty, terrible things.”

Now he’s talking to me like I’m very slow. Or very young. I bite my lip and adjust on the couch so I don’t say nasty, terrible things in response.

“What possible motive would he have?” I ask because I’ve been wondering the same thing all night. Throwing a wild punch would be one thing, but what happened to Mr. Westfield? That took time. Persistence.

“I’m not going to discuss an ongoing investigation with you, Emmie, but that boy has a well-documented problem with authority.”

“That doesn’t mean he’d hurt his own father.” I flinch because I shouldn’t be arguing. I shouldn’t be involved in this at all, but the sheriff seems
so
determined.

“You mean he wouldn’t
hit him
, Emmie? He’d never ever do something like that?” His questions are greased fishhooks, and I can feel them pricking into my skin, trying to catch me.

I don’t want to lie, so I look down at our smooth wood floor. Mom takes a breath that sounds shivery.

“My word, Martin, you mean to tell me that boy struck his father?”

“I believe he did, but my larger concern is the way he’s steering clear of the hospital, steering clear of the people who need answers. See, after the attack, Deacon didn’t go where you might expect a boy to go.”

My insides sink like rocks in a pond. Mom takes the bait. “You know where he went?”

“Emmie, would you care to fill your mama in?”

His words sling themselves bone deep. Someone told him. Not just any someone either. Chelsea did this. She sold Deacon out and didn’t warn either of us. Anger and hurt jockey for position in my head.

“Emmie?” Fear wins out when Mom says my name. I can see it written all over her face. She thinks it’s starting all over again. Her second child, her last hope. I’m about to fail her too.

I don’t dare look at her. I keep my eyes on Sheriff Perry’s horrible hair and command my heart to slow down. Right this instant.

The sheriff bends down until I can see the red veins spidering across the whites of his eyes. “Emmie, you’re a good girl. I know when your friend showed up needing help, you only wanted to do the right thing.”

I nod automatically, wanting to look agreeable. But I’m only half focused. My mind is flipping through images of Deacon in my bathroom. The bloody T-shirt and stained wipes. I double-bagged them and put them in the outside trash, but I wasn’t worried about the police then. I only worried about my mom. But now…oh God, could I get in trouble?

Am I an accomplice?

The sheriff leans back like he’s got all the time in the world. “Now, this boy came to your house. Bloody. Looking for help. What kind of help could he need from you with his daddy laid up in the hospital?”

I can tell by his tone he doesn’t really want an answer. It all feels scripted. I’m the good girl. Deacon’s the bad boy. And none of this is about finding the truth. It’s about building a case.

I swallow hard and start. “Deacon came to my window. He tried to help his dad but panicked. Like I said, Deacon can’t handle blood—he completely shuts down. It has something to do with when his mom died. He came to get help cleaning up.”

“Emmie!” The shock and horror in Mom’s voice sting.

“You helped this boy clean up from a crime scene,” Perry says. “Do you realize that, young lady?”

“I do now.” I straighten the corner of the folded afghan. It’s curled up, so I smooth it flat. Over and over again. “I told him to go to the hospital, but he was scared people would think he’s guilty.”

“When you’re guilty, people often do.”

I frown and adjust the afghan again. My hands are slick with sweat and shaky, but I clear my throat. “Sheriff Perry, Deacon said that his dad isn’t too popular with a lot of folks around here. I noticed Mr. Thorpe down at the docks had bruises on his knuckles like he hit someone.”

“Mr. Thorpe has an alibi, so why don’t we turn this conversation back to Deacon? Where is he now, Emmie?”

My breath comes in sharp as a knife. “I don’t know. I met him at the cemetery earlier, and then I saw him last night at the hospital—but not since.”

The sheriff heaves a sigh, obviously not happy. And obviously not interested in the possibility of another suspect. Deacon’s his guy. I squirm in my chair. Pick at the afghan again.

“Sheriff Perry, are you positive that none of the men who work for Mr. Westfield are behind this? Several of them are ex-convicts.”

“Are you questioning my ability to do my job, Miss May?”

“No, sir,” I say, ducking my head. “I’m sorry if it seemed that way. Some of them just had a rough look about them.”

“Being ugly doesn’t make a man guilty any more than being handsome makes a man innocent. Something to think on, Emmie.”

Mom’s cell phone rings on the charger in the kitchen. She looks over and then back at us, worry pinching her face.

“Mary, go on and get that,” the sheriff says. “We’re about done, and I’m sure Emmie can walk me out.”

“Of course,” I say, adding a big smile to hide my shaking.

Mom shuffles to the kitchen with a muttered apology, and I head for the door with the sheriff, who leaves his cup without another sip.

He pauses on the mat, adjusting his belt with its gun and handcuffs. I force myself to stay calm, because I’m pretty sure all his posturing is custom-tailored just for me.

“You know, your mom and dad went through a lot when Landon…” He trails off with a parody of a frown. “Well, it’d be a real shame to watch them deal with another child making poor choices.”

I don’t know how to reply, so I stay quiet, schooling my expression to a blank slate. He studies me, turning his hat around in his hands while I stare at the sweat stains on the liner.

Finally, he settles it on his head. “We’ll talk soon, Emmie. Real soon.”

“Thanks for coming by, Sheriff Perry,” I say, feeling frostbite crawling up my arms.

“Sure thing.” The sheriff grins, and I don’t think of salesmen now—I think of wolves. “And, Emmie? If you see Deacon again, you be sure to give me a call, you hear?”

My smile is the biggest lie I’ve ever told. “Absolutely.”

• • •

After two days on total lockdown, I feel like I’m about to come out of my skin. Mom didn’t just ground me; she practically cuffed me to her side—from the mandatory tagalongs to the antiques shop all the way down to tense dinners and early nights. It’s been miserable. My paranoia is in full swing when I head downstairs Sunday morning. Chelsea hasn’t returned my calls or texts, and Mom’s hovered way too close to risk a text to Deke.

I collect a stack of letters and stamped postcards on the kitchen counter. Sale notices for some of Mom’s regular customers. I could definitely stand to do something nice for her.

“Want me to drop these by the post office?” I shout.

Mom comes out of the laundry room, basket under one arm and cheeks pink. “Are you headed out?”

“I need to run by the shelter.”

“You’re on schedule?”

“Just for an hour to feed and walk the dogs. Then I want to stop by Joel’s to see if he needs anything. I could drop these in the mailbox at the post office if you want.”

She presses her lips together. I can tell she wants to talk about the sheriff’s visit, or maybe she just doesn’t believe me. Confrontation isn’t Mom’s specialty though. She’s good at social hour and condolences and making complete strangers feel like friends.

In the end, I help her out. “Mom, I’m sorry about Deacon. I really am. I know you’ve got your reservations about him, but he’s my friend, and he was scared. I just wanted to help.”

Her brow puckers, but I know she’s torn. She’s raised me to be a helper, to do the right thing. “Well, so long as you’ve learned your lesson, we can put this behind us.” She flashes a bright smile, ready for a subject change. “Are you coming back here before your big date?”

“Not a date, Mom. We’re just friends.”

“You’re coming back to get ready though? Need me to press anything out for you?”

“No, I’m meeting him there. And,
press something out
?” I laugh. “We’ve really got to get you out of the shop. The antiques are starting to rub off.”

She ignores the barb to frown at my outfit. Eh, she might have a point. I’ve got on a white tank and a pair of cutoffs. Pretty underwhelming for a night on the town. Even our town.

Thing is, this is Chelsea’s forte. I’m not great with finding the right pair of earrings or knowing which shoes work with which skirts. But I want to try to make things better with Mom.

“All right, what would you prefer?” I ask.

Her relief shows with a big breath. “A nice dress. Maybe some pumps?”

“We’re going to Clawson’s. I’m not sure pumps are required.”

Mom’s face falls a little. She tries hard to respect my “girls are not pretty
things
” stance, but she’s also a former homecoming queen, raised in the land of Southern belles. I spent an insane amount of my childhood zipped into a variety of pink, frothy dresses. They all itched something fierce.

“I suppose I’m old-fashioned,” Mom says. “We used to really do it up for an evening out, but I guess that’s just silly these days.”

I soften with a smile. “No, maybe you’re right. How about we split the difference?”

Her face lights up. “A skirt?”

“I’ll even throw on some lip gloss, but my sandals stay. I’m walking all over town, so heels of any sort are out of the question.”

“Well, you’ve got lovely feet, so I see nothing wrong with that.”

I bite back the urge to tell her that there’d be nothing wrong with it if my feet
weren’t
lovely. Right now, I’m just glad we’re okay again.

I head to my room and switch to a gauzy shirt and a shorter khaki skirt. I even throw on a necklace. When I return, my mom is beaming.

“Please don’t get too excited,” I say. “I like Seth—”

“Oh, I like him too!”

Wow. Is this the part where she tells me she dreams of a spring wedding and grandbabies with Seth’s nose?

“—but we’re just friends,” I finish. “Really.”

If Mom’s disappointed, she doesn’t show it. Just pushes some hair behind my shoulder and smiles. “Be sure to powder your nose before you meet him. You’ll get shiny in all this heat.”

I smile. She gets a free pass on all the crazy comments right now. As long as she’s happy again.

After dropping Mom’s stuff at the post office, I stop by the shelter. It’s closed on Sundays, but we still have staff for basic care.

I take out the dogs in groups, giving them a quick stroll and fresh water with their food. I save Rocky for last, rubbing his shoulders and letting him wander the dog room after the walk. He looks around with sad brown eyes, and I cringe like I’m personally responsible for Deacon’s absence.