by Kami Garcia
When our lips touched, my fears fell away, and I felt safe for the first time since Noah died.
Noah.
My first kiss.
My first everything.
Why didn’t my body melt into Noah’s like that when he touched me? Why wasn’t it more intense? Maybe I’m so emotionally screwed up that I can’t tell the difference. It’s easier to tell myself that than feel guilty about the truth.
Noah was so many things … a kick-ass lacrosse player and a terrible speller, a guy who would never turn his back on a friend or pass up seconds at Thanksgiving, the kind of guy who seemed so perfect that you wanted to hate him until he admitted all his flaws. He should’ve been the guy who melted me with a kiss. Not Marco.
Intensity isn’t what I need.
Guys like Marco want girls they can get into bed. I’m not that girl. So why does his kiss still haunt me?
When it comes to Noah—the real ghost in my life—I find myself turning to the journal I started for Mrs. Hellstrom’s class. Maybe writing Noah’s story gives me a place to put all the fears and emotions I can’t express out loud.
And maybe it will help me remember.
I pull the notebook out of my backpack and turn to a blank page.
Noah died in a parking lot in the Heights, seven days before his eighteenth birthday.
Most people know that part of the story.
The son of a wealthy Washington, DC, entrepreneur being beaten to death on the pavement outside a club sent the local media into overdrive.
Every detail related to the crime became public knowledge.
Noah’s time of death.
His blood alcohol concentration.
When the reporters ran out of relevant information and I refused to talk to them, they settled for whatever they could dig up. Interviews with Noah’s teachers as they clutched tissues and chronicled his years of academic success. Photos of him wearing his lacrosse uniform or standing next to his father in the suits Noah hated wearing. His favorite food (Hawaiian pizza) and his favorite subject (history, according to his mom—but in reality, study hall).
The only parts of the story the press never figured out were the ones that actually mattered.
Who killed him.
And why.
* * *
Abel texts me way too early on Sunday morning, to ask if he can come by and talk. I’m still angry with him, but he never gets up early unless he has to, and Abel doesn’t do serious talks. Those are two red flags.
I meet Abel in front of Dad’s building. He sits slouched in the driver’s seat of his Land Cruiser, staring blankly at a plastic tricycle on the grass. I knock on the passenger-side window, and it takes him a moment to react.
He hits the unlock button, and I climb in next to him.
“Sorry. Rough night.” Abel runs a hand over his face. He looks like crap. The shadows under his eyes are dark enough to pass for bruises, and there’s no sign of his easy smile.
“What happened?”
Abel tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “Lex told me she doesn’t want to see me anymore. I’ve never been dumped by someone who refuses to be my girlfriend.”
“You lied to her more than once. What did you expect?”
“I screwed up. I get it. But this is about more than that. She’s been looking for an excuse to bolt.” Abel picks at a hole in his T-shirt. “After everything that happened this summer, I thought things would finally work out with us.”
“What do you mean by ‘everything that happened this summer’?”
He shakes his head. “I figured Lex told you. I guess it didn’t mean anything to her.”
“What? You have to give me more than that.”
“We hooked up … more than hooked up.” He hesitates, like he wants to get the next part just right. “We were together, like a real couple. Even if we never talked about it. But the closer we got, the more it scared her. She used the gambling as an excuse to walk away.”
Together, like a real couple.
They slept together. That’s what he means.
It’s the part Lex keeps leaving out. My best friend lost her virginity with our other best friend, and she didn’t tell me.
Why am I surprised? I spent the whole summer avoiding them both. But Lex kept calling and e-mailing. She never gave up. She even picked me up on the first day of school and acted like nothing had happened.
Abel rests his forehead against the steering wheel. “Who ends a relationship before it even starts?”
His question plays on repeat in my mind, daring me to answer.
* * *
It’s after midnight, and I’m in the kitchen getting a drink when I hear the apartment door close and the sound of keys hitting the counter. Dad is home.
I’m not in the mood for an argument.
I’ll just ignore him.
When I see my father, I stop short.
His perpetual five-o’clock shadow resembles the beginning of a patchy beard, and the long hair around his face that he normally slicks back hangs in his eyes. He looks like the kind of guy I would cross the street to avoid walking past. Dad slouches deeper into the dark hoodie he’s wearing over a pair of baggy jeans and boots.
“Sorry about this.” He gestures at his clothes. “I always changed out of my work clothes before I picked you up at your mother’s. But if you want to catch criminals, you have to look like one of them.”
“It’s fine.” I shrug.
“How about a truce? Maybe we can talk like a regular father and daughter.” He’s offering me an olive branch. Dad kicks off his boots and puts them in the hall closet.
“You said not to put shoes in there.”
“I said not to put your shoes in there. That’s where I keep my work clothes.”
Now I’m curious.
When I was young, the hall closet was off-limits because that’s where Dad kept the lockbox for his gun. I’ve peeked in the closet a few times since then, usually around Christmastime when I was searching for my presents. But it’s always the same old stuff—ugly jackets and what I assumed were Goodwill donation boxes.
I take a closer look.
The ugly coats hang crammed together on the rod—canvas construction coats, hoodies, and a tacky leather jacket. The boxes are still there, too. One is full of shirts and thermals, and the other holds shoes and belts. The only new additions are the stack of jeans and a black knit hat on the shelf above the rod.
“Why do you keep all this ugly stuff in here?”
Dad turns on the kitchen faucet and digs his nails into a bar of green soap he keeps next to the sink. “I can’t wear my regular clothes when I’m on the street.”
I understand why he needs a different car when he’s working, but different clothes?
“If RATTF raids a chop shop or we make a home arrest, undercover troopers like me wear ski masks. But criminals pay attention to details, especially if they can’t see your face. A jacket with a patch or a rip in a specific spot, a discontinued pair of sneakers—that’s how they ID us. A trooper on the Homicide Team had his cover blown because a suspect recognized his high-tops.”
I sit down at the table. “Were they an unusual color?”
“Nope. Just red and white. But one of the sides was worn down from the way the guy walked. Combined with the color, that was all the suspect needed.” He dries his hands and grabs a Diet Pepsi.
“Why haven’t you told me about anything like that before?” I know the basics.
My father is a Maryland State Police trooper on a task force that targets auto theft rings and chop shops. On the street, people think he and his partner, Tyson, are car thieves. But I had no idea that Dad has two separate wardrobes or that he wears a ski mask during busts.
He shrugs. “You never asked.”
It’s true.
“Your mom wasn’t a big fan of talking about my job. I just assumed you wouldn’t be, either.” Dad finishes off his Diet Pepsi and grabs another can. “There aren’t a
lot of happy endings. We bust a lot of crews, but it’s hard to nail the brokers who make the deals to sell the stolen cars and parts. Unless we catch them and break the chain, a new crew will crop up, and it starts all over. You don’t want to hear about depressing stuff like that.”
“Wait. You quiz me about things like how to track the route a kidnapper drives if I’m blindfolded and the fastest way to get out of handcuffs before he kills me, but you think your work stories are depressing?”
“Those are—”
“Critical life skills,” I finish for him. “I know. But practicing serial killer evasion isn’t exactly a mood booster.”
“I worry, that’s all. I wanted to be home more while you were getting settled, but we’re in the middle of an investigation.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t usually work this many nights. I never asked if you were uncomfortable staying alone.”
“I’m not alone. Cujo is here.”
“Your mother called to check on you, and she wasn’t thrilled when I mentioned it.”
“Since when do you take orders from Mom?” It’s an obvious move on my part, but it usually works. “If something happened, Cujo would protect me, right?”
The Akita barks when he hears his name.
Dad nods. “He won’t let anyone come through the door unless you let them in.”
“Then everything is fine.”
“Would you tell me if it wasn’t?” He leans against the counter, watching me.
It’s a cop thing. He’s looking for a gesture or an expression that will reveal what I’m feeling. But what Dad knows about me is surface-level stuff. That’s how well he knew the old Frankie. When it comes to the new Frankie, he doesn’t have a clue.
CHAPTER 17
PROXY
Lex pulls into Lot B on Monday morning, and I look for Marco’s Mustang. I spot the sloped back end right away. But today he isn’t standing next to his car with the hood popped.
The lightness I felt on the ride over instantly vanishes, replaced by the familiar weight that I’m tired of carrying. After a weekend of thinking about Marco—or trying not to—I wanted to see him. I’m still angry about what happened between us at the party, and I didn’t plan to talk to him. But I won’t lie. The way he kissed me … it felt like more than a hookup.
I don’t see Cruz, either, or her yellow Nissan.
English will suck more than usual.
Lex picks through the receipts and gum wrappers on her console. “Do you see a folded piece of loose leaf paper anywhere? It’s my calculus homework.”
“Hold on.” I push around the empty soda cans on the floor with my foot. “If you cleaned out this car once in a while, you wouldn’t lose things every five minutes.”
“Thanks for the tip, Mom.” She leans between our seats and digs through a mountain of clothes.
Across the street, students pile out of a yellow school bus parked in front of the admin building. As it pulls away, I catch a glimpse of Cruz on the sidewalk, her long ponytail swinging behind her. She’s walking next to Marco, cradling her arm.
Is she wearing a cast?
They enter the building through the side door near the stairs to the basement.
“It’s not up here, Lex.” I grab my backpack and get out. “I’m going inside. I need to get something out of my locker before English.”
“Okay.” She gives me a strange look. Last year I would’ve waited for her.
“See you later.” I close the car door and rush across the street. I didn’t talk to her about Abel. I’ll bring it up later.
When I get inside, I jog down the steps to Shop. The metal door is cracked open, like someone forgot to pull it shut.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Marco’s voice drifts into the hallway.
“Because you would’ve done something stupid.” Cruz sniffles.
I peek through the crack. They’re standing in front of the Camaro with Chief.
“She’s right,” Chief takes his cap off and scratches his head. “And the cops are who you should be calling.”
Cruz doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who cries easily, and if Chief wants the police involved, then whatever happened must be serious.
“No cops.” She spits out the word like it is cigarette ash in her mouth. She turns her back on Chief, offering me a clear view of the white first-aid sling supporting her arm.
I burst into the room, not caring if I’m intruding. “What happened?”
Cruz swipes at her eyes with the back of her uninjured hand. “My dad went after my little sister Teresa and”—she raises her arm in the sling—“I got in the way.”
“He hit you?” I’ve seen plenty of movies with abusive fathers—drunks stumbling around in dingy white tank tops, the ones the kids at the rec center call wifebeaters. But none of my friends’ fathers had ever laid a hand on them.
“More like he grabbed it and twisted.” She closes her eyes. “It’s not the first time.”
“It’s the last time, or he’ll end up in the ground.” Marco shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and stares at the floor like he’s trying to drill a hole in it.
The last time I saw him we were kissing … and yelling. My lips tingle just thinking about it. Why is that kiss so hard to forget?
Marco looks up. I try to turn away and avoid an awkward moment, but I’m not quick enough. His eyes soften, and I feel the kiss all over again.
I turn my attention back to Cruz, where it belongs. “What are you going to do about your dad?”
She bites her nails. “I’ve got bigger problems right now.”
Bigger than her dad practically breaking her arm?
“Maybe Chief is right about calling the police,” I say gently.
“Whose story do you think my mom will back up? His or mine?” Cruz swallows hard. “I’ll get thrown out of the house.”
Chief drops down into the passenger seat of the doorless Camaro, stone-faced. “Or the police believe you and lock him up.”
Cruz shakes her head. “Until Child Services gets the police report, declares my mom an unfit parent, and sends my sisters to foster care.”
Marco slides his cell out of his back pocket and reads a text. His expression darkens. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Cruz asks.
“Deacon knows.” Marco bolts for the door.
“I’m coming with you,” she says.
He stops. “No, you’re not. If Deacon sees you in that sling, he’ll kill your dad. Stay here.”
Her bottom lip trembles as Marco tears up the stairs. I walk over and loop my arm through her uninjured one, the way Lex does whenever I’m upset.
Cruz looks over at Chief. “If Deacon finds my dad before Marco gets to him…”
“He won’t really kill your father, will he?” I ask.
“I don’t think so, but with Deacon … you never know. He’s unpredictable. It’s the reason we broke up. That and his temper.”
“Did he hurt you?” After hearing what Cruz’s father did to her, I’m afraid to hear the answer.
“Cruz is probably the only person he’d never hurt.” Chief takes his cap off again, then puts it back on a second later. “I failed with Deacon. Got to him too late. A kid can only take so many beatings until the good gets beaten out of him, too. It’s a damn shame. The only person I’ve seen in years who drove a car better than Deacon or Marco is you.”
The color drains from Cruz’s face, and she covers her mouth. “I’m supposed to race on Thursday, and I’m right-handed.” She can’t shift.
Chief climbs out of the Camaro and points an angry finger at her. “You shouldn’t be racing at all, unless it’s on a track. You and Marco are going to get yourselves killed. What will happen to your sisters then?”
Her hand shakes. “I don’t have a choice. Someone has to pay the rent, buy food—”
“I’ve heard this song before.” Chief dismisses her argument with a wave. “When Deacon got expelled. When Marco dropped out of all hi
s AP classes. When you and Marco started racing. I’m ready to hear a new one.”
Marco was in AP classes? Why would he drop out?
The bell rings.
“Get to class.” Chief takes a seat in his chair. “Unless you’re ditching, too.”
Cruz’s shoulders sag as she heads for the stairs.
I wait until we reach the top before I steer her toward the stairwell. “Can you postpone the race until your arm heals?”
Trying to talk her out of racing is a waste of time. She can’t snap her fingers and change her situation just because I ask.
Right after Noah died, mom begged me to pull myself together—to hang out with my friends at Woodley and pick up where I left off like Noah’s death had never happened.
Can’t we move on? she asked me a hundred times.
Can’t you forget? That’s what she really meant.
I can’t rewrite history any more than Cruz can find a job that pays a seventeen-year-old enough to cover rent—or trade a father who hurts her for one who takes care of her.
“It doesn’t work that way.” She wipes underneath her eyes with the hem of her shirt, and the mascara smudges disappear. “The race is Thursday night. If my car isn’t in it, it’s an automatic loss.” She inhales. “I won’t be able to make rent, and I’ll owe money I don’t have.”
“How much?” I still have two hundred dollars.
“Twelve hundred.”
I could swallow my pride and ask Mom for the money. But Cruz probably wouldn’t take it, and the offer might offend her. I have another idea. “You said your car has to be in the race. Does that mean someone else can drive it?”
“Yeah, but—”
“What about Marco?”
“Nobody would ever be stupid enough to agree to let Marco drive proxy. He’s too good.”
Think.
“What about someone nobody knows? Someone who has never raced before?”
She shrugs. “I guess. But if the person doesn’t know anything about racing, they’d have no chance of winning.”
“I will if you teach me.”
Cruz stares at me like I’m crazy. “You would do that?”
