“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.”
I look down at the drops of blood on my sweatpants. “Okay, I’ll clean it up. Is there a first aid kit?”
“Behind my seat.”
The water is calm, so Deacon drops anchor and I pull out the kit, unclasping the hinges. I unwrap my hand from the sweatshirt and take my first good look. It’s as ugly as it feels, a two-inch gash starting in that webbing between my thumb and forefinger and ending at the bottom of my palm. Definitely needs stitches. But right now, all I’ve got is a couple of rolls of gauze and a guy who’s probably going to puke over the side in the next thirty seconds.
I find first aid wipes. It’s slow work, cleaning one-handed, but I manage. There’s antibacterial wash, so I squirt some of that all over, clenching my teeth to try to hold in my cry.
Okay.
Almost there.
Just need some gauze and some pressure. Probably a lot of gauze.
I press, and the pain pulses to the rhythm of my heart. I rest my head against the back of Deacon’s seat and close my eyes. I’m too woozy. Need to get it together here.
Deacon takes a sharp breath, and I turn my head to the side.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I just need a second. It’s hard one-handed.”
I feel the seat shift and the shuffle of his feet. When I open my eyes, Deacon’s crouched in front of me, looking ashy but determined.
“What do you need?” he asks.
I put on a brave smile. “I can do it.”
“Please let me help.”
“Deacon, I know you can’t do this. It’s okay.”
“Like hell it is.” The color’s coming back to his face, but it’s bringing anguish along with it. “I couldn’t help my dad when he needed me. What if it’s Chelsea next time? I can’t stay like this. Tell me what to do.”
I take a breath and reach for him with my good hand, my fingers brushing along the inside of his wrist. “I need the gauze and some tape, please.”
“Okay.”
It takes him twenty minutes to get the job done. His hands shake, and he has to stop every few seconds. There’s at least once when he heads to the side of the boat and I’m sure he’ll throw up. But he doesn’t. He tapes the final piece of bandage in place and sags in relief.
“See?” I say, grinning. “No problem.”
He rolls his eyes, but when I kiss him, his lips go soft, and his hand cradles the back of my head. “You think way too highly of me, Emerson May.”
I flex my fingers, feeling the pull of the cut and the tape. “Well, I still wouldn’t recommend any future plans as a surgeon.”
“Ah, I won’t need med school. You’ll be a doctor of some sort.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe I won’t decide for a while.”
“That sounds like a good plan. I approve.” He arches a brow, and the old Deacon shines through.
My shoulders relax as we take off again. Deacon pulls into the dock of the abandoned house fifteen minutes later.
I can’t see the driveway from here, but Joel’s not waiting in the yard. The morning is bright though, turning the water on the sound into a mirror. I hop out of the boat first, taking the rope he tosses and looping it around the pole. Deacon takes it from there, so I look up at the house, the back of my neck prickling.
It’s all quiet. The hammock is swaying just a little. The back door is shut tight. The only thing I can hear is Deke working on the boat and a gull crying somewhere in the distance.
“I’m going to go around the front and see if Joel’s car is here,” I say.
Deacon ties another rope while I head up the side of the house so I can see the driveway. There’s a shadow of a vehicle on the grass. My smile blossoms.
“Joel! We’re out back,” I call, breaking into a jog.
My feet stutter at the edge of the house as the car comes into view. It isn’t Joel’s BMW. It’s a Beaufort police cruiser.
A voice thunders in the backyard, shouting fast, angry words. I can’t make them out, but they turn my heart to stone all the same.
I pivot in place, something heavy dropping through my stomach. I stumble back toward the dock. My vision smears into blurs, leaving glimpses of the scene in the yard. The small, sagging house. The hammock swaying in the sun.
Sheriff Perry with his gun drawn.
And Deacon with his hands in the air.
Chapter Nineteen
Deacon is face down on the ground, and my insides are grinding to dust. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but watch and listen as Perry screams at Deacon to kick his legs and arms apart. Red-faced and panting, the sheriff moves around, patting Deacon’s back with one hand, up the sides of his legs. Looking for a weapon.
I flinch when the nose of his gun presses into the back of Deacon’s head.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Perry says. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The sheriff perches on Deacon’s back, fixing a shiny metal cuff on one wrist and then reaching for the other, all the while droning on about rights to an attorney. When Deacon is cuffed, Perry holsters his gun.
“Do you understand these rights as I have presented them to you?”
“Yes.” Deacon’s voice is muffled in the grass. How did Perry find us? How is any of this happening?
Perry pulls Deacon up to his knees, and our eyes meet. My soul splinters, comes apart. Deacon says nothing and everything in that look.
“Run,” he mouths.
No! I can’t run. I need to stall until Joel gets here. Because this isn’t ending here. It can’t end this way. Not after everything.
Determination pushes strength into me. “Are you going to arrest me too, Sheriff? Because I know why you’re after Deacon now. I figured you out.”
The sheriff turns, fingers grazing—but not pulling—the gun on his hip. “Emmie, you’ve put me in a difficult situation here. You’ve interfered with a police investigation, aided a known suspect. You’d still be on the run right now if your mama hadn’t thought to check the tracking log on your phone.”
“My mom just reinstalled that program. There wouldn’t be a log.”
“There’s always a log when there’s a good parent involved,” he says. “Those programs are made to run in the background for a reason.”
My cheeks flush. She lied to me, told me she trusted me, but all this time she cou
ld have kept tabs if she wanted? Was she that paranoid? Because of Landon? It doesn’t matter now.
“What you’re doing is wrong and you know it,” I say.
“Young lady, you need to do a lot less talking and a lot more listening,” the sheriff says. “Do you understand that I’d be well within my rights to arrest you here and now?”
He actually sounds like he’d regret that, and the good guy act is pissing me off. He jerks Deacon up, drags him through the yard and toward his cruiser in the driveway.
I run and grab the backpack from the dock, because he must not know what we have in there. Thorpe must not trust him with the details. I find him out front by the car, and my head is buzzing like a hornet’s nest.
“Thorpe is hiding things from you. Do you know what he’s doing? Do you know how much this is worth to him?” The sheriff ignores me. We’re at the edge of the driveway, but it feels like the edge of a cliff.
My anger is white hot, but my voice is quiet. “Why won’t you answer me, Sheriff? Is he paying you to ignore me too?”
“Emmie, don’t,” Deacon says.
The sheriff whirls on him with rage on his face. “Don’t you start, boy!”
Deacon drops his head and goes still. I set the bag at Perry’s feet.
“I already told Joel about what’s in this bag,” I say. “He’s already called the state police for Thorpe and Charlie too. It’s over. You ignoring me isn’t going to change that.”
“The state police?” Perry wipes his brow, a dry laugh sputtering out of him. “Emmie, what on earth are you talking about?”
He should be scared, but he just looks confused. And I’m not so sure it’s an act, but it has to be, doesn’t it? It has to be. “How can you keep acting like you don’t know? Everybody says you care about this town, but what did it take to buy you off? A boat? A nice, shiny watch?”
The sheriff frowns, looking suddenly older. Smaller. “That watch was a twenty-five-year anniversary gift from my wife.”
Deacon looks up, watching Perry with a crease between his brows.
My ribs go tight. Tighter. Is he telling us the truth? Did we have it wrong?
“Emmie,” the sheriff starts again, much more gently. “I don’t know what sort of craziness this boy has put into your head, but you’ve got to face reality here.”
We were wrong. Unless he’s hiding a serious talent as an actor, the sheriff isn’t involved in this. He could have helped us.
I lift my chin. Maybe he still can.
“Please just look in the bag. Please, Sheriff. We need help, and I think maybe I was wrong to not come to you.”
“You think so, do you?” I don’t know if it’s the waver in my voice or if he does it just to shut me up. But he heaves a sigh and picks up the bag. I watch him paw through the maps and paperwork. He seems dismissive until he finds the passports. His eyes narrow at the names and then his gaze jerks to Deacon. Then me.
“There’s a zipper.” I say. “In the back.”
I can tell when he finds it, because he frowns. He pulls the lining loose and peels down the second layer until the box is revealed.
“It’s diamonds,” I say. “They aren’t polished. Or cut or whatever.”
“Where did you find this bag, Emmie?”
“On the big fishing boat. The Clementine.” Relief washes over me in heavy waves. I was wrong about the payoff. Wrong about him. He can help us. I let out a sigh. “We think they were smuggled, or are being smuggled, I don’t know. We thought if we could just prove—”
“Still trying to do my job for me,” he says, but I can tell he’s not angry now. He’s worried. He opens the latches, runs a finger over a couple of the diamonds, shakes his head.
“Is this your bag?” he asks Deacon, and for the first time since this mess started, it feels like a real question. He wants an answer, not another piece of wood to add to Deke’s pyre.
“No, sir,” Deacon says. “You’re looking for Kevin Thorpe and Charlie Jones.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” Perry says, but he pulls the radio off of his belt and calls out something in code. I can’t make out much other than “immediate backup.”
Deacon catches my eye and shrugs, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing and hearing. That makes two of us.
Perry’s shoulders settle after the call. I hear a car turn onto the one-lane road. There are only three houses down here, so traffic is rare, but when it drives past the two houses closer to the main road, my ears prickle.
“That’s probably just Joel,” I say. “He’s supposed to meet us here.”
But the car stops with a soft squeal of brakes behind the curve of the road, where it’s lost in the trees. Wouldn’t Joel pull up to the driveway? My throat tightens.
The sheriff picks up his radio again. “What is your ETA, Tom? Over.”
“I’m by the bridge. Eight minutes out. Over.”
The faint click-click of a car door opening follows. We strain to see, but there are too many trees and shrubs around the house and driveway. Perry’s wary eyes move across the shrubs with intent.
“Isn’t that backup?” I ask with faint hope, but the sheriff’s lips go thin. His eyes narrow to slits as he slowly draws his gun. My whole body clenches tight.
Something rustles in the trees, and the sheriff steps forward, gesturing us further behind the house. He looks left, then right. This isn’t the same man who picked at me or bad-mouthed Deacon. This is an officer of the law who thinks he’s in danger.
Another rustle. The sheriff follows the sound with his gun, but continues to watch the entire line of trees. Whatever or whoever is out there is getting closer.
“Sheriff?” I breathe, my voice a knot of fear on my lips.
His voice is low and steady as he unhooks a ring of keys from his belt, pressing one into my hands. “Get that boy in the house, Emmie. Get in that house and get down. Right now.”
He talks into his radio again, low, quick commands with numbers I don’t understand. Deacon’s still cuffed when he follows me into the back door. We’re across from the kitchen, but there’s a window where I can still see Sheriff Perry, gun drawn, glancing left and right.
Deacon shoulders into the door, pushing it softly. It closes with a snick, and I see Deputy Nelson coming out of the trees behind Perry. I slump with relief.
“It’s just Nelson. It’s fine,” I say as I unlock Deacon’s hands.
Deacon rubs his raw wrists. Outside, the sheriff starts to turn—to talk to Nelson is my guess—but Nelson stays behind him, like he’s sneaking. I’m going to ask Deacon about it when I see something in Nelson’s hand. It’s boxy and strange, but he’s holding it in front of him like a firearm.
Like a gun.
Time grinds to a stop, and my breath goes buoyant in my lungs as Nelson aims right between Perry’s shoulder blades. I open my mouth to scream—to warn Perry—but before I can, the sheriff goes unnaturally stiff.
“Emmie, down!” Deacon whispers, curling an arm around my shoulders.
I crouch low beside him, so dizzy that the room is going gray around the edges. Deacon’s swearing under his breath, but I’m stunned into silence. Outside, I hear a strange tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. What is that? Is that the gun? I glance out to see Perry facedown on the ground, two thin wires trailing from his back to the gun in Nelson’s hands.
“What is that? What is he doing?” My whisper is panicky.
Deacon leans in close, his words soft against my neck. “It’s a Taser. He’s okay.”
Another crack as Nelson’s elbow comes down on the back of Perry’s skull, and I pull in a breath that I’m sure will come out in a scream. I bite it back, swallowing hard. Help will come. Help will come in seven minutes. Maybe six now.
Oh God, please let them get here before Joel. Please don’t let Nelson hurt Joel too.
> Deacon scoots on his knees across the floor, looking out the front window. I can’t rip my eyes off the scene out back, Nelson tilting his head as he looks down on Perry. Like he’s checking out a mouse he just found in a trap.
“What do you want to do with him now?” Nelson asks.
I jerk because it’s almost like he’s talking to us. But then I see someone coming around the side of the yard. Tall and broad shoulders. Unbuttoning his suit jacket.
His gray suit jacket.
Deacon looks back my way, catches sight of the new man too. His face goes ten shades paler in an instant. “What the hell?”
He stole the words from my mouth. Because I can’t be seeing what I’m seeing. But I am. It’s him.
It’s Joel.
Chapter Twenty
Joel tugs at the cuffs on his jacket, and Nelson looks worried. Gone is the aw-shucks officer with the cream cheese on his moustache. This new Nelson terrifies me. And he’s holding up his hands in deference to Joel.
My head is fuzzy, and Deacon’s body has gone rigid behind me.
“We can still sort this out, Joel,” Nelson says, placating. “Perry didn’t see me. Nothing has to change. We’ll find the boy, and you can get back to business.”
“Every business has an expiration date.” Joel shakes his head. “You make a lousy dirty cop, Nelson, you know that? Deacon showing up at the house that night? That was a gift. But you wasted it.”
Deacon looks like he’s been slapped, and I feel like the ground has disappeared, like I’m flailing for footing in a new, awful world.
“I had Perry convinced,” Nelson says, “but that kid was a ghost, Joel. He was nowhere. You should have had Thorpe at the hospital.”
“Thorpe already did his job!”
It’s not possible. Even looking right at this, I can’t make my head stretch around it. I reach for Deke with a trembling hand and squeeze his shoulder. He’s the only thing that feels real anymore.