by Kami Garcia
Daniel walks beside me holding the milk crate in place.
“Cyclops could die,” I say. “We need to take him to an animal hospital now.”
Cruz rolls her eyes and climbs in the backseat. “You’re going to a lot of trouble for a one-eyed stray cat.”
Cyclops is more than a stray cat. There’s only one person who understands that, and I can’t call him.
* * *
The waiting area in the animal hospital smells like antiseptic and wet dog. I’m alone, holding a pair of shredded boxing gloves in my lap.
“I don’t do hospitals,” Cruz announced as soon as we pulled up to the building. Ava helped me carry the milk-crate cage inside and then retreated to the car and her sister.
The vet took one look at Cyclops—a ball of matted hair and blood—and rushed him through a door marked MEADOWBROOK DOWNS VETERINARY HOSPITAL STAFF ONLY.
That was eighteen minutes ago.
I called Lex and told her Cruz was driving me home. I didn’t tell her about Cyclops. If he doesn’t make it, I want to be alone when the vet tells me. It feels like Cyclops is Marco’s cat and, in a weird way, like he’s mine, too.
Outside the window a skyful of stars blink above me, and it’s easy to forget I’m in the Downs. Marco doesn’t have the luxury of forgetting. I realize that’s what he meant when he said the stars look different from the Downs.
My cell rings, and I make the mistake of answering without checking the display.
“Frankie? Where are you, and why aren’t you home yet?” Dad. Perfect.
“I’m at an animal hospital. A cat from the rec center got mauled by a dog.”
Silence.
“If you don’t believe me, feel free to come down here and check out the cat blood all over my clothes. Or call Miss Lorraine.”
“When are you coming home?” he asks.
So much compassion. “When I find out if the cat is okay.”
“I’m calling you in forty-five minutes.”
“Fine.” I hit end without saying good-bye. Tense doesn’t begin to describe our relationship.
My cell rings again and I ignore it. Dad can text whatever he forgot to say. I’m sure he’ll call back in two minutes anyway. I pull my knees up tight against my chest and rest my forehead against them.
The knotted rope of bells on the hospital door jingle and Marco walks in. He stops, and the door hits his back. He has fresh bruises on his face. A cut runs down the center of his bottom lip, and a ripped T-shirt is tied around the knuckles on his right hand.
My first day at Monroe was the only time I’ve ever seen a mark on him.
I point at his lip. “What happened?”
Marco shrugs and leans against the wall beside the door. “Ran into a guy’s elbow.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor.
“And your hand?”
He frowns and turns his wrist, as if he forgot about the injury. “A guy ran into my fist. Do you care?”
I rest my chin on my knees. “Of course I do.” I shouldn’t say more, but I can’t stop myself. “I’ve never not cared about you.”
“Sofia called and told me what you did for Cyclops.” He glances at the door designated for employees only. “You could’ve gotten hurt. Why would you do something crazy like that for a stupid cat that doesn’t belong to you?”
“Maybe for the same reason you feed him.”
Marco rubs the cut on his lip with the side of his hand, and my heart skips. “How long have you known?”
“Since before…” I kissed you. “The night of the party.”
He sits in the chair next to mine. “Throwaways like me and Cyclops have to stick together.”
Hearing him talk about himself that way makes me want to kill his father … and mine. “Don’t call yourself that. Please.”
Muffled voices drift into the waiting area from the other side of the door. A moment later, a vet comes out.
“Is he going to be okay?” Marco asks.
The vet tucks her hands in the pockets of her white coat and gives us a sympathetic smile. “It’s hard to say. Your cat lost a lot of blood, and he’s in shock.”
Marco reaches over and takes my hand. The familiar buzz starts in my fingertips.
“If he makes it through the night, I’ll be more optimistic.” She holds out a bill.
Marco takes it and follows her to the counter. He opens his wallet and pays in cash. I bet all the money I had left racing Ortiz.
“Leave a number and we’ll call you if anything changes,” she says.
“Thanks.” Marco scribbles down a number.
She slips through the door and we’re alone again.
“I left your number.” Marco drops down into the seat next to me and takes my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine. He stares straight ahead. “Cyclops can’t die.”
“He won’t.”
He nods, and his gaze falls on our hands. “I miss you.”
My heart aches. “Me too. But that doesn’t change anything.”
“It should.”
“We’ve been through this. I’m the daughter—”
“Of a cop, and I’m a car thief,” he says softly. “But if I wasn’t?” Marco watches me. He’s playing what if, and I already know how the game ends.
“Are you saying you stopped stealing cars?” I already know the answer.
He frowns and bites his cracked lip.
“You have to stop acting crazy and take care of yourself.” I can’t stand the thought of what else he might be doing—and if any of it involves other girls. “Sofia needs you.”
I need you—that’s what I want to say.
“I know.” Marco’s hand tightens around mine. He closes his eyes. “But when I’m racing or fighting, it’s the only time I don’t…” He pulls our hands against his chest, and his heart beats against my fingers. “Hurt.”
“Marco—” My voice shakes along with the rest of my body. I’m not strong enough to protect us both. I pull away from him and rock forward, holding myself together.
“I understand why you left, Frankie. You deserve someone who can pick you up at your house for a real date. Not a guy your dad is trying to lock up.” Marco gathers me in his arms and kisses the top of my head. “I wouldn’t want my little sister to date a guy like me. I wish I’d met you earlier—before I made all the wrong choices. I love you.” He’s out of his chair and through the door before I have a chance to say a word.
CHAPTER 37
COLLATERAL DAMAGE
My cell rings right after first period the next morning. “Hello?
“I’m calling from the Meadowbrook Downs Veterinary Hospital for Frankie Devereux,” the woman says.
Knots tangle in my stomach. “This is Frankie. Is Cyclops all right?”
Say yes. Please say yes.
“He isn’t doing well. He developed a staph infection after surgery. You might want to come see him tonight.” Because he’s dying.
“Is it okay if I come late tonight?”
“We’re open twenty-four hours. You can visit your cat whenever you want.”
My cat.
I end the call without saying good-bye. After the milk crate and the boxing gloves, the one-eyed cat is still going to die. I can’t save him—just like I couldn’t save Noah from getting beaten to death in a parking lot. I can’t save Marco and Sofia from losing each other. Or Cruz from her father or Abel from gambling or Lex from her fears.
I can’t even save myself.
* * *
Things can’t get any worse. It’s a stupid expression.
Things can always get worse. And in my experience, they usually do. So when I get a 911 text from Lex at the end of Shop, I’m not surprised.
“What’s the deal?” Cruz asks, reading over my shoulder.
“I don’t know.”
The bell rings and I head for the hall to speed-dial Lex.
She picks up on the first ring. “You have to get over to Abel’s house now.” I hear knocking in the
background. “Open the door, Abel!”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I came to talk to him this morning, and he wouldn’t answer the door. I knew he was home because I saw him in the window. His mom is out of town, but I still have a key from this summer, so I let myself in. He’s locked in his room, and there’s all this banging.”
“What kind of banging?”
“How am I supposed to know if I can’t get in there?” She’s borderline hysterical. “Can you just take a cab and get over here?”
“Okay. I’ll be there soon.”
I hang up and Cruz holds out her hand. “Well, what’s the deal?”
“Something is wrong with Abel, and I have to get to his house.”
“Ava can drive us.” Cruz pulls out her cell and starts texting. “You already tempted fate once.”
“There’s no time.” I hold out my hand and Cruz gives me the keys.
It takes us fifteen minutes to get to Abel’s house.
Lex meets us at the door and she gives me a strange look when she sees Cruz. “He’s still upstairs. Come on.”
The second-floor hallway usually looks like a gigantic issue of Rolling Stone magazine—complete with framed gold records and photographs of Abel’s dad with other rock legends. Today there is nothing on the walls except nails.
“Do you think we need to take the door off the hinges?” I ask.
Cruz bends down in front of the door. “Or we can use a credit card, but I can’t do it with one hand.”
Lex hands me her platinum card.
“Now what?” I ask Cruz.
“Run the card down between the door and the jamb. When you feel the card hit something solid, jiggle the knob until you can slide the card in front of it. Then open the door.”
“Okay.” It’s a lot easier than it sounds. On the second try, I feel a piece of metal inside the door move. I turn the knob, and the door swings open.
Lex gasps.
“Holy shit.” Cruz stares, wide-eyed.
I’ve probably been in Abel’s room fifty times, and it never looked like a self-storage unit before. Boxes are stacked against the walls, from floor to ceiling—some labeled with a year or the name of an album. Other boxes overflow with clothes and leather jackets, concert photos and memorabilia. Framed albums, most likely the ones that used to be in the hallway, are stacked against the wall. But the guitars are the craziest part. Guitar hooks cover an entire wall, and more than a dozen acoustic and electric guitars hang from the hooks by the necks.
“It looks like we’re in the basement of the Tommy Ryder Museum,” Cruz whispers.
Abel is sitting in the middle of his bed, surrounded by stacks of paper and photos.
Lex runs over and wraps her arms around him. “You scared the shit out of me. Why did you lock yourself in here? And what is all this stuff?”
“I’m trying to keep my mom out.” His green eyes dart to the door, and Cruz closes it.
“Your mom is out of town,” Lex reminds him.
“She’s probably auctioning more of my dad’s stuff. I had to buy most of this back.” He waves his arm around the room.
Used scratch-off lottery tickets litter the floor. I pick up a long strip. “Is that why you were buying these?”
“My mom was selling everything—photos and tour jackets, the notebooks he wrote his songs in. Most of the time I had to pay twice as much to buy them back.” Abel looks lost. “That’s why I was gambling. I needed more money. I still remember the morning I found out he OD’d. My mom didn’t even tell me herself. Dad’s manager did the honors. For weeks I saw photos of my father in newspapers and tabloids—lying on the bed in a fancy hotel, with pill bottles scattered around him.” Abel closes his eyes. “His guitars and notebooks, his songs … That’s all I have left of him.”
Lex presses her forehead against his. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “That my mom was selling everything my dad ever touched, like a pill-popping pawnbroker? I’m not all that proud. She even tried to sell this.” Abel holds up a framed sheet of paper, his hand shaking. “It’s the first song my dad ever wrote. It’s never been recorded. And she was going to sell it.”
Abel holds out the frame like he wants me to take it. I do. On the sheet of loose-leaf paper, song lyrics are written down the center in black ink.
“The Lovely Reckless”
Sleepwalking through life, damaged and scarred
Wishing and searching for the one thing I can’t name
Ugly and destructive, a vessel for the pain
Punishing myself for things I can’t remember Paying for ones I can’t forget
They find you in the darkness
And lead you back to the light
The lovely reckless souls that hear your battle cry
So beautiful and broken
Making wrong turn back to right
The world stops trying to destroy you
With weapons forged from tears gathered from your mistakes
Mending, stitching, sparing a heart that always aches
Forgiving myself for things I can’t remember Owning the ones I can’t forget
They find you in the darkness
And lead you back to the light
The lovely reckless souls that hear your battle cry
So beautiful and broken
Making wrong turn back to right
I wrap my arms around my friend. “It’s going to be okay, Abel.” I’m not sure how many times I repeat the words, but I don’t stop until I start to believe them.
CHAPTER 38
SILENT ECHOES
Marco doesn’t show up at school the next day, and I can’t stop worrying. Even Cruz doesn’t know where to find him.
Halfway through English, I get a text from him.
call me. i need to talk to u.
I can’t call him back without making things harder for both of us. At least I know he’s okay.
Abel and Lex are both out today, too. He stayed home to sort things out, and Lex is helping him until she has to get ready for the gala at the country club tonight. Unfortunately, I promised to go, too. Then I made the mistake of mentioning it to Miss Lorraine. She insisted on giving me the afternoon off so I won’t be late.
Without Lex around to pick me up, I’m stuck taking the bus. Last night I couldn’t sleep, and I’m feeling it today. My backpack feels like it weighs fifty pounds as I lug it across the rec center parking lot. I yawn.
“Long night?” The voice comes from behind me, and I yelp.
Deacon stops in front of me and twists the toothpick in the corner of his mouth as he watches me from underneath his hoodie.
Where did he come from?
“I’m worn out, too. I’ve been trying to figure out how I’m gonna find a driver to replace Marco tonight. We’ve got a big job, and he backed out at the last minute. He wants to ‘be a better man’ or some bullshit like that.”
I stop paying attention after he says Marco backed out of a job. Hope swells inside me. Is that the reason Marco texted earlier?
“So thanks to you, I’m a man down.” Deacon snaps his fingers. “Then it came to me. I was thinking about this shit all wrong. I’ve got the perfect driver standing right in front of me.”
“What?” Now I’m listening again. “I’m not helping you steal a car or anything else.” I cross my arms and jut out one hip, channeling Cruz.
The corner of Deacon’s mouth tips up and forms a dangerous half smile. “You’ve got balls for a rich girl, I’ll give you that much.” He narrows his eyes, and the smile vanishes. “This isn’t a game. My boss has orders to fill, and if he can’t deliver the merchandise, it looks bad and costs him money. Two hundred grand is a lot of fucking money. He’s killed people over less. And I’m not putting my life on the line for anyone. You got me?”
Stillness spreads through me, as if I’m inches away from a viper and a single breath could mean the difference between walking away
or getting bitten.
“Seems like this is a tough decision for you, so let me make it easy. You’re gonna take Marco’s place, or I’m gonna have a chat with the cops.”
When I don’t respond, Deacon pretends he’s shocked. “What? You don’t believe me? That hurts, Frankie. I’ve worked hard to cover my tracks … and make new ones. Guess whose footprint I used?”
My stomach bottoms out.
“I can tell from the look on your face that I’ve got your attention now, so let me break it down for you. I’ve kept track of all the illegal shit Marco has done in the last two years—every car he stole, every part he stripped. And I have plenty of evidence to prove it. Taped phone calls of Marco talking about jobs, lists of dates, pickup locations, and serial numbers of the cars he stole. I’ve even got pictures.” He holds up his phone. “You can pretend you’re texting and take a picture of just about anything these days. Marco is into some other bad shit, too.”
This is the power move in the game Deacon has been playing all along.
He reaches toward me in a lightning-fast movement and raises my chin with his finger. “Actually, that’s me. But the cops won’t know that. People believe what they see, and Marco’s dad is a car thief.”
“You would ruin Marco’s life over a car?”
“Better his life than mine.” Deacon turns his cap around. “And it’s a pretty sweet-ass car.” He glances from his cell to the street as if he knows he’s running out of time. “So here’s how this is gonna go down. There’s a party at the country club in the Heights tonight.”
The charity gala.
“Be out front near the valet at eleven. I’ll meet you there.” He hands me his cell. It’s open to a new contact page. “Add your number. I’ll text you with the details later. Just be ready to drive. If you follow instructions, nobody gets hurt … or goes to prison.”
“That’s it?” I don’t believe him. It sounds too easy.
“Yep. Nobody is gonna question a rich girl driving an expensive car in the Heights. It would’ve been a lot harder for me and Marco to pull off. Do what you’re told and there won’t be any problems.”