by Kami Garcia
“This isn’t how I wanted things to go between us.” He sighs. “I wasn’t happy about the reason you moved in, but I wanted you here. It felt like our chance to get to know each other and make up for lost time.”
“It’s called lost time for a reason. You can’t get it back once it’s gone. You want to get to know the old Frankie, not me.”
“You’re wrong. I know death affects people, and I warned your mom that Noah’s would change you. But your mother hears what she wants.”
I tried to tell her I wasn’t the same person, too. But Mom chalked it up to a temporary case of PTSD.
Dad watches me the way he always does—measuring my responses, noting my body language, judging. “I don’t care if you play the piano or go to Stanford. I want you to be yourself—the fearless little girl who drew on my bathroom walls with lipstick and wanted to help me catch bad guys. As you got older, that girl disappeared.”
The red lipstick smudges are still there. “Every kid likes to play cops and robbers. It had nothing to do with being fearless.”
He tries to make eye contact. “I disagree. I think it’s the reason you’re interested in a kid from the Downs. He takes chances, something you never used to do.”
I’m not with Marco because of some subconscious need to rebel. He hates the risks I take, just as much as my dad would if he knew about them.
“Is this what you wanted to talk about?” I ask. “It’s pretty pointless, since I’m not seeing him anymore.”
Dad leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Not the reaction he was hoping for, I guess. “I’m trying to protect you. Marco probably seems like a nice guy, and maybe he is. But he’s also a felon.”
“You don’t know that for sure.” I push my chair away from the table and stand. “I’m going to my room.”
“Someday you’ll realize I’m doing this because I love you,” Dad calls after me.
I’m raw—my frayed emotions ripped to shreds and tied back together in ugly knots. “Don’t use love as an excuse to hurt me. Find something else to call it. If you loved me, you’d never treat me like this.”
“That’s not true.” Dad stares at me, looking shell-shocked.
“Lots of things aren’t true, but it doesn’t stop people from believing them.”
* * *
I’m in my bedroom, thinking about Marco when my cell vibrates. I can’t stop myself from smiling when I read the text.
miss you angel
I run my fingers over the words, and my chest aches.
me 2
A bubble of tiny dots appears as he writes back.
feels like i’m still holding you. is
that crazy?
i wish
The bubble appears, and I wait for Marco’s text. When it doesn’t come through after a few minutes, I text again.
you still there?
yeah
My hand shakes as I type the next message. Now that I know how dangerous Marco’s life really is, it’s easy to imagine dozens of scenarios that would prevent him from responding.
what’s wrong?
His response comes more quickly this time.
feels too good to be real. like i’ll
wake up tomorrow & you’ll be gone
How can I tell him I feel the same way without making it worse?
i won’t. promise
till tomorrow
nite
I want to read the words over and over so I take a screenshot and e-mail it to myself before I delete the messages and the photo from my phone. Erasing Marco’s messages feels like I’m letting my father chip away at something precious that belongs to me. But Dad is more than just a nosy parent. He’s a cop.
A cop with the power to destroy Marco’s life.
The thought terrifies me, and I’m sick of being afraid.
I yank my journal out of my backpack. Writing makes me feel strong. It helps me dig through the rubble in my head—bits and pieces of memories that don’t fit together yet. I want to be strong enough to stand up to my dad and prove him wrong.
Strong enough to face the past and remember.
For Noah and me, one moment changed everything. It took his life and altered mine. Broke his body and my memory.
I’ve asked myself a thousand times if Noah would still be alive if either of us had done just one thing differently.
If we had left the house a half hour earlier or later.
If we had picked a different club or danced to one more song.
If I had gone out to the parking lot with him.
Playing what if will drive you crazy, but I can’t help it.
Abel still plays it when he thinks about the night his dad OD’d. What if his father hadn’t been alone? What if someone had called an ambulance when it happened? Would Tommy Ryder still be alive?
Those questions won’t bring back the people we loved.
But figuring out who killed Noah might bring me back. The answer is somewhere inside me.
I just need a way to drag it out.
An old episode of VH1’S Behind the Music flashes through my mind—the one about Tommy Ryder. Abel made me watch it with him a dozen times.
An interviewer with teased hair sits across from a leather-clad Tommy and asks the rock legend about his writing process. Tommy talks about the lists of words and phrases he makes, free association, and unlocking his subconscious. “The ideas are already in there, man. I’ve just gotta listen.”
Maybe I just have to listen, too?
It’s worth a try.
I open my journal and flip to a clean page, picturing the inside of the club just before I went out to the parking lot.
White mist from the smoke machine smells like strawberries and burnt matches.
The deejay in a room with a big window above the dance floor.
A bottle breaking.
Couples making out.
“Titanium” starts playing.
The soles of my wedges stick to the floor.
I have a headache and I want to leave.
The velvety texture of the black fabric in front of the door leading outside and static electricity in my hair.
Cars. Streetlights. The parking lot.
Cool air and the stench of stale beer.
More sticky stuff on the ground. My soles make a suction cup noise every time I take a step.
Where is he?
Noah’s baby-blue polo shirt.
A figure. Slim but muscular, average height, wearing untied work boots and dark jeans.
Noah sees me and subtly shakes his head.
A fist to Noah’s face, and my pulse races.
I duck between two cars and peer around the back. Liquid seeps through the knees of my jeans.
A voice that doesn’t belong to Noah. “We can do this the easy way, the hard way, or my way.”
“Screw you,” Noah says.
The next thing I see is a fist.
Noah’s head snaps back.
Blood—thick and viscous, like red maple syrup.
Noah’s body falling …
I hear his killer’s voice in the fuzzy way you hear things when there’s water in your ears or a pillow over your head.
We can do this the easy way, the hard way, or my way.
My hand shakes and I drop the pen.
During the last flashback, I didn’t remember the conversation between Noah and his attacker. Am I imagining it?
No.… What the killer said was too specific, and I’ve never heard anyone say that before.
Realization settles over me, and my next thought seems impossible. After all this time—all the pain, the guilt, and the what-ifs—I remembered something.
CHAPTER 30
DEAD-END DREAMS
Mornings are the hardest. I fall asleep and Marco takes over my dreams. The first moments after I wake up—when my lids are still heavy—those dreams feel real. Dad isn’t investigating Marco, and he isn’t stealing cars. Spending time with Marco doesn’t require s
neaking around, and no one is watching our every move.
Then reality sets in, and I have another day of lying and hiding ahead of me.
Thanks to Lex, the next week takes on a predictable pattern. She picks me up early to help me with chemistry before school—at least that’s the story we tell Dad. Marco meets me in the basement near the Shop classroom, and we steal some time alone before Chief shows up. Then we spend another twenty minutes in the Shop room, where chemistry tutoring takes place, along with hand holding under the worktable.
Chief isn’t stupid. He knows Marco and I are together. He seems almost hopeful every time Marco shows me how to balance an equation, as if he thinks Marco is a step away from getting back on the AP track.
Being so close to Marco makes me desperate for a repeat performance of our make-out session in Lex’s pool house. I want to run my hands over his skin and feel his hands on mine.
It’s Friday, one week since Marco told me he loved me, and I finally remembered an important detail from the night Noah died. My heart and my mind are getting stronger. That’s the reason I haven’t shared my breakthrough with anyone yet. I need to see the killer’s face, and I’m close.
The steps creak above me, and my heart leaps. But instead of the sound of high-tops pounding the steps, these footfalls belong to someone moving more slowly. Chief rounds the corner of the landing a moment later. This morning he’s wearing a Pennzoil cap and a NASCAR jacket over his short-sleeved button-down. He spots me and adjusts his cap.
“Where’s your other half?” He walks past me and unlocks the door.
“He’s not here yet.” I fail at hiding my disappointment.
Chief puts a travel mug on his desk and thumbs through a stack of papers. I settle into my usual seat—the same place I sit during Shop class—and check my text messages.
Nothing.
Without Marco, my chemistry homework reads like a secret code. I draw circles in the margin of my paper. I hate the way we have to sneak around to spend time together. But the fact that he steals cars bothers me even more. I understand why he’s doing it, but I still think Marco should tell the police what he knows. If he’s so determined to save Deacon, they could go in together.
“Something bothering you?” Chief leans back in his chair and tugs on the bill of his hat. “You haven’t done much writing.”
I rub my forehead. “I know.”
“Does it have anything to do with the boy who sits right there every morning?” He points to Marco’s seat. “And stares at you like the sun rises and sets because of you.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “He does not.”
Chief laughs. “I’ve known Marco a long time, and I’ve never seen him look at a girl the way he looks at you. That boy deserves some happiness.”
It’s easy to see why Marco respects Chief so much. He cares about Marco.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Chief pushes up the bill of his cap. “Is it about chemistry? Because I didn’t do so well when I took it in school, and that was a long time ago. They even renamed some planets since then.”
“It’s not about chemistry.”
“All right. Then shoot.”
“Do you think it’s okay to do the wrong thing for the right reason?” I ask.
Chief adjusts his hat, and for a moment he’s quiet. “It depends on what the right reason and wrong thing are. But I figure it’s better than doing the wrong thing for the wrong reason.”
I tilt my head and smile. “That’s obvious.”
“Not always. Fear makes the wrong thing seem right sometimes.”
I walk over to the table in front of his desk and sit on the top. “What do you mean?”
“Fear is like a ten-cent magician. If you watch the trick a couple of times, you see the flaws and you know how the magician is doing it. But the first time, that same trick looks good. When we’re scared, we don’t always think things through. We react. It’s human nature. Fear can make the wrong decision feel right.” He runs his fingers over the patches on his NASCAR jacket. “By then, it’s too late.”
I point at the NASCAR patch toward the top. “Why did you leave?” I immediately regret asking. The question is too personal. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”
He holds up his hand, indicating that it’s okay. “I gave up too easy. Remember when we talked about shifting gears when a car’s on a hill?”
I nod.
“I guess you could say I slid backward and crashed.”
“How?”
He takes off his hat and shapes the bill. “Lost a driver. The best one I ever crewed for.”
“He died?” I swallow hard.
Chief shakes his head. “No. But he killed his career, and it was my fault.”
“What happened?”
“That boy could drive a stock car like nobody I’d ever seen. But he was young and hotheaded. He wasn’t ready for NASCAR, not up here anyway.” He taps his head. “I hadn’t crewed for anyone that good in a long time. I pushed him too hard and threw him into races with seasoned pros before he was ready. I loved that boy like a son, and I should’ve been thinking about what was best for him.”
Chief frowns and tugs his hat on again. “My driver had a bad race, a real big loss. He blamed it on another driver—one who put his car into the wall and cost him the race. He threatened to tamper with the other guy’s car. It was just talk, but in organized racing, that’s as good as a death threat.”
This story is headed somewhere bad. “What happened?”
“The NASCAR commission banned him from racing. I tried to tell him there were other kinds of racing. I even offered to go with him. But he didn’t see the doors open to him, only the one that was shut. He went back to where I found him racing as a teenager, and I followed him. Decided I was done teaching kids how to race, and I started teaching them how cars work instead.”
Chief pauses and looks at me. “I’ve only seen one driver with as much natural talent behind the wheel. His son.”
My mind spins, and the pieces click into place. “Wait? You’re not talking about Marco, are you?”
“Wish I wasn’t. Marco’s life would’ve turned out a lot different if I hadn’t made so many mistakes with his father. I failed Marco’s dad the same way I failed Deacon. And myself. Like I said, I gave up too easy. In life, a person has to fight for the things that matter to them—and that includes yourself.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Marco will fight for his sister, for his friends, and I’m willing to bet he’d fight to the ends of the earth for you. But he won’t fight for himself. He only sees one door, Frankie. He needs someone to show him the other ones.”
* * *
The conversation with Chief leaves me reeling. Marco’s dad wasn’t just a monster who taught his son to street race so he could make money betting on Marco’s races. His father raced professionally—at the highest level. Why didn’t he teach Marco how to race on a track, or ask Chief to teach him?
Marco loves cars and he’s smart. He could’ve followed in his father’s footsteps and raced legally. Instead, he’s street racing and stealing cars.
With the exception of a few people rifling through their lockers or sitting on the floor doing homework, the hallways are still empty. I push through the double doors and cross the quad.
I feel around inside my backpack for my cell phone and walk toward Lot B. Marco is usually here by now.
Deacon’s hunter-green Firebird sits at the far end, parked diagonally across two spaces. Typical. I’ve never seen him on campus before, and I’m not thrilled to see his car. I turn around, still watching the Firebird, and I smack right into someone.
Hard blue eyes settle on me. From this angle, Deacon’s scars look straight, like one smooth slash instead of lots of jagged cuts. He rolls the toothpick in his mouth with his teeth.
“Have you seen Marco?” I keep my tone light.
He tips his chin toward the opposite end of Lot
B. “Something wrong?”
“No. I just wanted to talk to him before first period.”
Deacon watches me, slow and lazy like a tiger before it pounces on an antelope and tears it apart. His neck muscles twitch down to his shoulders.
“I’m thinking it’s better if you don’t.” He studies me from under the curved bill of his baseball cap. “Talk to him, I mean.”
“What?” I laugh, pretending that I think he’s joking.
Deacon turns the toothpick. Wearing a ribbed white tank without his hoodie, he looks bigger than he did the night of the street races. “You’ve been doing too much talking, and now you’ve got my boy’s head all screwed up.” He winds his finger in a circular motion next to his temple.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He reaches out and lifts a few strands of my hair and rubs them between his fingers. “A smart girl like you from the Heights…” He drops my hair. “I bet you can figure it out.”
I shrink back and hate myself for letting a guy like Deacon Kelley intimidate me. I know he helped Sofia, but I still think he’s scum. But he’s dangerous scum, so I play along. “You don’t like Marco dating a girl from the Heights. Is that it?”
Deacon raises an eyebrow and gives me his poor imitation of a smile. “Dating? Is that what you think you two are doing?”
Why did I use that word in front of him?
“I don’t give a shit who Marco screws.” Deacon lowers his voice. “You’re not the first girl he hooked up with from the Heights. He’s always had a thing for rich chicks.”
He is trying to upset me. I meet his gaze. “I guess you just don’t like girls like me.”
Deacon shifts his weight. “Hey, come on now. I never said I didn’t like you, Angel.” The word sounds toxic coming from him. “This isn’t personal. You’re a distraction, and me and Marco have shit to take care of.”
“What kind of shit?”
Deacon’s ice-blue eyes turn dark. “With all the talking you two have been doing, I bet you know.” He doesn’t blink. He’s analyzing my reaction, the same way Dad does. “Don’t you, Frankie?”
“Is this some kind of test? Because I’m not interested.” Lying to Deacon can’t be any harder than lying to my father.
