I Know a Secret

Fifteen

Blue eyes looks surprised to see me standing in his doorway. It’s been nearly two weeks since we slept together, since I sneaked like a thief out of his bedroom. I haven’t tried to contact him, not once, because sometimes a girl doesn’t need any more obligations in her life. It’s too much work trying to keep a man happy, and I have my own needs to look after.

Which is why I’m now standing on his doorstep: Because I need him. Not him, specifically, just someone who’ll make me feel safe again after the unsettling news I read on the Boston Globe website. I’m not even sure why I chose to run to him. Maybe it’s because instinct tells me he’s reliable and utterly harmless, someone I can turn my back on without worrying about a knife sinking between my shoulder blades. Maybe because he’s a relative stranger who won’t know the difference between truth and the fiction I occasionally spin. All I know is, for the first time I can remember, I’m hungry for some human connection. I think he is too.

But he doesn’t seem eager to invite me in. He just frowns at me as if I’m some pesky neighborhood evangelist he’d love to get rid of.

“It’s cold out here,” I say. “Can I come in?”

“You never even bothered to say goodbye.”

“That was shitty of me. I’m sorry. I was going through a tough time at work and I wasn’t myself. And that night I spent with you, it sort of overwhelmed me. I needed time to think about what happened between us. What it all meant.”

He gives a resigned sigh. “Okay, Holly, come in. It’s, like, ten degrees out there and I don’t want you to catch pneumonia.”

I don’t bother to correct him that you can’t catch pneumonia from the cold, and I just follow him inside. Once again I’m impressed by his townhouse, which feels like a palace compared with my dinky apartment. Everett is what my late mother would have called a quality acquaintance, a boyfriend worth cultivating. I fear I’ve already fouled things up between us, and he’s too nice a guy to throw me out yet. He’s wearing blue jeans and an old flannel shirt, so it must be his day off, which gives me time to make things right between us. We stand for a moment in awkward silence, regarding each other. I’m mesmerized by the blueness of his eyes. His hair’s uncombed and his shirt’s missing a button, but those details only make him seem more genuine to me. For once, a man I don’t have to be wary of.

“I want to explain why I left without saying goodbye,” I tell him. “That night we met, you — well, you took my breath away. I couldn’t help myself. I jumped into bed with you way too soon. And the next morning, I felt... ashamed.”

His gaze instantly softens. “Why?”

“Because I’m not that kind of girl.” Actually, I am that kind of girl, but he doesn’t need to know that. “When I woke up the next morning, I knew what you probably thought of me, and I couldn’t face you. I was too embarrassed. So I climbed out of bed, put on my clothes, and...” I let my voice trail away and I sink onto his sofa. It’s a beautiful black leather sofa, very comfortable and certainly expensive. Not something I could ever afford.

Another point in his favor.

He sits down next to me and takes my hand. “Holly, I understand exactly what you’re saying,” he says quietly. “I may be a guy, but I felt the same way, jumping into bed with you so soon. I was afraid you’d think I was just using you. I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of jerk. Because I’m not.”

“I never thought so.”

He takes a deep breath and smiles. “Okay, shall we start over?” He holds out his hand. “Hello, I’m Everett Prescott. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

We shake hands and grin at each other. Instantly, everything’s all better between us. I feel warmth flood through me, not a sexual flush this time but something deeper. Something that takes me by surprise. A connection. Is this what it’s like to fall in love?

“So tell me, why did you come back?” he asks. “Why today?”

I look down at our hands, joined together, and decide to tell him the truth. “Something awful happened. I saw it on the news this morning.”

“What happened?”

“There was a man murdered on Christmas Eve. They found his body on Jeffries Point pier.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“The thing is, I knew him.”

Everett stares at me. “God, I’m sorry. Was he a good friend?”

“No, we just went to school together, in Brookline. But the news shook me up, you know? It reminded me that anything can happen to us. At any time.”

He puts his arm around me and pulls me against him. I press my cheek against his soft flannel shirt and sniff the scent of laundry detergent and aftershave. Comforting smells that make me feel like a little girl again, safe in Daddy’s arms.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Holly,” he murmurs.

It’s something my father always says, and I don’t believe him either.

I sigh against his shirt. “No one can make that promise.”

“Well, I did.” Everett tucks a hand under my chin and lifts my gaze to his. He’s studying me, trying to understand what has shaken me so deeply. I’ve told him about Tim, but that’s only part of the story. He doesn’t need to know the rest of it.

He doesn’t need to know about the others who’ve died.

“What can I do to make you feel safe?” he says.

“Just be my friend.” I take a breath. “That’s what I need right now. Someone I can count on.” Someone who won’t ask too many questions.

“Would you like me to go with you to the funeral?”

“What?”

“For your friend. If you’re this upset about his death, you should go. It’s important to acknowledge grief, Holly. It will give you closure, and I’ll be right beside you.”

There could be advantages to having him accompany me at Tim’s funeral. He’d be an extra pair of ears to listen in on gossip, to gather information about how Tim died and what the police are thinking. But there’d be dangers as well. At Sarah Byrne’s funeral, I’d been quick to slip away. At Cassie Coyle’s funeral, I was able to pass myself off as a college classmate named Sasha, because no one recognized me. But Everett knows my name is Holly. He knows a bit of the truth, not all of it, and that’s enough to complicate any lies I need to tell. There’s an old poem that goes: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive, but that’s all backward. Real problems don’t come from deception; they come from the truth.

“I can be your rock, Holly, if you want me to be,” he offers.

I look into Everett’s eyes and see the definite gleam of infatuation. Yes, he could be useful, in ways I’m only now considering.

“What do you think?” he says.

I smile. “I think I’d like that very much.”

But as our lips meet in a kiss, it suddenly occurs to me that a rock isn’t just something to cling to, something to keep you safe. It’s also something that can drag you down, down under the waves.