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.
I give him a couple of treats and lock him back in his cage before heading to the sick bay to visit any recuperating critters. Dr. Atwood’s vet tech, Joann, is here taking notes on the sleeping toy poodle across the room. She crosses to a German shepherd mix with cockeyed ears and a freshly sewn gash down his neck.
“Is this the one Dr. Atwood rescued?”
“Found him in an alley like that. The gash was probably six inches long.” Joann shakes her head and checks his food. “He still needs a name.”
Deke does most of the naming around here. If it were left to the rest of us, we’d just start picking from the phone book after a while, but he always comes up with something clever. The dog rests his chin on his paws and looks up at me with weary eyes, one ear flopped over. I feel you, buddy.
“So what do you think?” Joann asks. “Punky? Floppy?”
I think there’s a reason Dr. Atwood leaves the naming to Deke. But instead of saying that, I reach through the wire bars and gently rub the bridge of the dog’s nose. He closes his eyes but still seems tense.
“Sarge. Let’s call him Sarge,” I say.
She chuckles and measures some antibiotics into a syringe. “When Dr. Atwood rolled this one into surgery, I wasn’t so sure. He’s got that mean look about him. Like he’s up to no good. Some dogs just look that way, I guess.”
Some people too.
Joann looks at me out of the corner of her eye, and I know where this is going. She’s got gossip. And I have a feeling I’m not going to like the topic today.
“You look fit to burst, Joann,” I say, knowing she’ll tell me one way or the other.
“Oh, I am. I am. It’s about the situation with the Westfields.”
I pick up a few stray paper towels and spray down one of the stainless steel counters. “I don’t know much. He’s doing better. They’re moving him to a physical therapy facility soon.”
“No, no, everybody knows that.” She waves me off, hanging her clipboard on a hook. She comes close to me, her nose wrinkling. “I’m talking about the rumors about Deacon.”
My heart punches out a hard beat. “What about him?”
“Dr. Atwood told me Wednesday that Deacon was taking time off, and then the sheriff turned up yesterday, right in the middle of the adoption rush. He was asking all kinds of questions.” She drops her used needle in the sharps container.
“Questions about Deacon.” My voice is a dead thing, but my heart’s running rabbit-wild.
“Yeah. He didn’t say anything, of course, but it sure looks like Deacon had a hand in it. The sheriff kept hinting around that we should all keep our eyes open and be careful.”
I scrub the counter harder, gritting my teeth. The sheriff isn’t just building a case—he’s lighting torches and handing out pitchforks. Deacon was right. He’s going to go down for this.
If I was sure he did it, that would be okay, but I’m still not convinced.
“Deacon’s a lot of things, but I can’t imagine him violent,” I say. “Can you?”
Joann steps back, nods too quickly for me to believe her. “Oh, sure, but you never really know a person, do you?”
“I guess not.”
Sarge yelps in his cage, and I rush over, making soft noises as I push his water closer. “You pulled those stitches, didn’t you, buddy?”
He laps the water, then gently bumps into my hand, and I laugh, scratching his ears.
“You have a way with him,” Joann says. “That one can be a real turkey.”
“He’s just hurting is all.”
Joann refills a tub of cotton swabs with a laugh. “That’s why I keep saying you should think about veterinary school.”
“My mom’s pretty set on doctor or lawyer. It’s a family thing,” I say with a smile.
“A veterinarian is a doctor,” Joann points out.
“My mom doesn’t see it as the same. She’s got tunnel vision,” I say with a rueful laugh.
“Mamas always do.”
Maybe, but probably not like mine. Still, even if she did support me again in marine biology or veterinary medicine or whatever, I’m not sure I’d take it. Beaufort has plenty of vets, so there’s a good chance I’d have to move. Who would Mom have left then? No one, that’s who.
When I head out, the heat’s stickier. It lingers in the grass and turns liquid thick in my lungs. I’m tempted to duck into the Cru for an iced mocha or maybe head home and stand over an air-conditioning vent. But I can’t shake the conversation with Sheriff Perry out of my head. r />
He’s so focused on Deacon, he could miss something. The injustice of it picks at me all the way down the block. If they don’t investigate this properly, someone could end up getting away with it. Deacon’s an easy suspect, but is he actually guilty?
Would Perry notice either way?
I find my way to the Westfield Charters dockside office again. I’m not sure what I’m thinking. Is there going to be some clue lying on the deck of one of the boats? It’s ridiculous.
The boats are up and running with tour times on the dry-erase board, but there’s no one in the office. A sign on the window informs customers the ticket booth will reopen at one o’clock. I check my phone.
Twenty minutes from now.
Would there be anything in the office? Any sort of proof? I doubt someone’s going to leave a pair of blood-spattered boots behind, but maybe there’s a note on a time sheet or some sort of disciplinary charge that might give someone motive.
God, it’s such a long shot. But it’s better than no shot at all. If something assault-related jumps out at me, I’ll call Joel so he can report it. If not…no harm, no foul, right?
Heat rushes into my cheeks at the idea of snooping, but I have a key for tidying up and checking supplies. It’s hardly breaking and entering. I’ll pop in, see if they’re low on batteries or tape. Maybe sweep the floor if the broom hasn’t ended up on one of the boats.
Cold sweat trickles down my back as I unlock the door. I close it behind me, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. It’s a tiny, dark box of a building, no bigger than a bathroom. The heat seems to push the walls closer, and a potent mix of fish and brine taints the air. A row of yellow slickers hangs on the far wall, and a few thermoses and lunch bags litter the bench beneath that.
There’s a counter with a locked register that they usually prop on a tall stool in the open doorway. I don’t blame them. I couldn’t imagine sitting in this sweatbox taking money through the small dirty window beside the register.
Standing around isn’t comfortable, so I straighten the time sheets right away and then pick up stray pens while my heart beats twelve million times a second. This was a bad idea.