by Kami Garcia
Deacon’s cell phone rings. “What?” he barks at the caller. There’s silence as he listens to the person on the other end. “Bullshit. We already discussed terms. Tell that bitch we can do this the easy way, the hard way, or my way.”
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
Deacon’s conversation fades into the background. Doors open in my mind—one by one like dominoes, triggering a chain reaction. Memories collide and overlap as I struggle to process them.
The stench of puke and stale beer. Water glimmering on the asphalt. Noah’s baby-blue polo shirt …
I hear voices.
No.
I hear one voice. “We can do this the easy way, the hard way, or my way.”
The hard way, or my way.
The words echo through my head, and the memory comes into tight focus.
A guy standing in front of Noah—a guy wearing a blue baseball cap. “Give me your fucking keys.”
“The car has a built-in GPS chip, man,” Noah says calmly. “You won’t get very far. If you take off now, I’ll pretend this never happened.”
“You think I’m stupid?” The guy’s voice drops. “We can do this the easy way, the hard way, or my way.”
Deacon was there. I watch the scene replay in excruciating detail.
Deacon holds out his hand, but instead of handing him the keys, Noah tosses them toward the curb, and they fall into the sewage drain. “Screw you.”
Deacon turns his hat around, and his ice-blue eyes settle on Noah. “That was a mistake.”
Fists fly, blood spatters.
I want to scream at Noah and tell him to run, but I can’t find my voice.
Deacon throws a punch. Noah falls and his head cracks against the asphalt. But Deacon keeps hitting him over and over and over.
It’s all coming back now. Deacon standing in front of Noah, wearing a black ribbed tank and baggy jeans. The sleeve of tattoos on his arm that I hadn’t remembered before—the withered hand on his forearm reaching for a girl trapped in a birdcage.
“Are you paying attention, Frankie? Because I don’t like to repeat myself.”
It takes a minute for my vision to clear.
Deacon is off the phone, watching me.
I force myself to nod.
He killed Noah. He killed Noah. He killed Noah.
“Good. Then I’ll be in touch.” Deacon walks to his car. Before he gets in, he stops and looks back at me. “This conversation stays between us, or Marco ends up in handcuffs—and that’s the best-case scenario. You already have one dead boyfriend. I’d hate to see you end up with another one.”
A shiver runs up my spine.
He just admitted to killing Noah. He didn’t come right out and say the words, but we both know what he meant. I watch Deacon climb into the Firebird.
For months all I wanted to do was remember.
Now I wish I could forget.
CHAPTER 39
OFFENSIVE MANEUVERS
“Come on … pick up.” It’s the third time I’ve tried to call Marco since I realized the truth about Deacon. But my calls keep going to voice mail.
Where is he?
Cruz doesn’t know, either, which only makes me worry more. I need to tell Marco the truth about his best friend—a guy who saved his sister’s life and Marco thinks of as a brother—is a murderer. How do I tell Marco one of the people he trusts most has been setting him up? It will crush him.
But I don’t have a choice.
If Deacon lies to the police, Marco could end up in prison.
I can’t shake the image of Deacon punching Noah over and over in the parking lot. Even after Noah stopped moving, he kept swinging. I have to tell Marco about all of it—every hit and every threat.
Deacon Kelley is a monster.
What if Marco already knows?
My worst fear keeps rearing its ugly head. I close my eyes. Marco would never keep that kind of secret.
You know him. You held him when he cried, and he held you.
My head hasn’t left the parking lot at the Sugar Factory. All the things I couldn’t remember flooded back at once. But the initial fear I felt when the memory returned has transformed into something more powerful.
Rage.
Tonight I’m supposed to steal a car for the monster who killed Noah—a monster who is controlling me. I’m sick of being manipulated, feeling like someone is always pulling my invisible strings.
The only way to make it stop is to cut the strings myself.
I burst through the apartment door, and it bangs against the wall. I open the fridge, prepared to drink a Diet Pepsi even though I hate the stuff, and see a six-pack of Diet Coke.
I consider telling Dad everything … for about ten seconds. He would lock Deacon up, but the likelihood of Marco ending up in jail along with him is too high.
My father made it clear that he doesn’t trust me, so I can’t count on him. With Marco’s future on the line and the possibility of Noah’s death going unpunished, I have to rely on myself.
In my room, I stand in front of the dresser with the stupid flowers painted all over it—and six silver frames sitting on top. My hand hovers over the one that’s facedown, third from the left. I flip it over, my hand shaking.
Noah grins back at me. It’s the same grin he gave me when we rode down the big hill on his Mongoose when he was twelve years old. The same one he gave me when he beat up Bobby McIntyre.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Noah. But I’m going to make him pay.” I run my fingers over the glass.
Tonight Deacon Kelley is going to jail. Dad won’t believe his lies about Marco or anything else when Deacon shows up at the dockyard in a stolen car he forced me to drive. And Dad will finally catch the guy Deacon and Marco have been working for—the one who is blackmailing Marco. Telling Dad that Deacon killed Noah is the part I’m looking forward to most—that, and seeing that asshole in handcuffs.
Everybody wins.
Like any great plan, this one sounds crazy. It’s the kind of plan Noah would’ve come up with if he were still alive. I slide the back off of the frame, fold his picture into a small square, and tuck it in my bra.
Now I just need a dress. I rifle through my closet, hoping I packed at least one. A flash of satin catches my eye, and I smile. The dress my mother hates more than any other article of clothing I own hangs on the center of the rod. I bought it on a whim and never wore it.
Red satin.
Too short to wear at a formal party and too red to wear in front of my mom. It’s trashy and obvious—a sad cry for attention. Girls in the Heights don’t wear this type of dress.
But I’m not a girl in the Heights anymore.
* * *
“I still don’t understand why I have to come.” Cruz lounges across the backseat of the Fiat with her arms crossed.
“I’m not ready to face all those Woodley girls alone.”
“You’ve got Lex,” Cruz says.
“At least someone notices,” Lex says from behind the wheel. “Unfortunately, I can’t play bodyguard all night. My mom is hosting the gala, which means she’ll remember I exist. She’s already angry because I refused to ride in the limo.”
“Yeah. That would’ve been rough.” Cruz stares out the window at the mansions with sprawling gardens and circular driveways.
“Money doesn’t solve all your problems. Trust me,” Lex says.
“It would solve a ton of mine,” Cruz mumbles.
Lex glances at Cruz in the rearview mirror. “It didn’t solve Abel’s.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Cruz asks.
“Yeah. We called his dad’s manager, and Abel told him everything. He flew out yesterday and checked Abel’s mom into rehab.”
“She went?” I’m surprised.
“I’m not sure he gave her a choice.” Lex speeds past my mom’s house. “He’s going to help Abel, and that’s all I care about.”
Cruz sees the country club gate and sits straighter.
/> Lex stops at the guard station. “Hi. Lex Rivera, Francesca Devereux, and guest.”
The guard checks our names off a list and waves us through. White lights hang in the oaks that line the road to the main clubhouse. Cruz leans forward and pokes her head between the front seats, transfixed by a scene Lex and I have seen dozens of times.
“Look at that shit,” Cruz says quietly.
Lex glances out the window. “They really are pretty.”
Cruz snorts and falls back against her seat, hugging her waist with her free arm. “It’s a waste of electricity. I would probably pay six months’ worth of electric bills for what it costs to keep those stupid things on tonight.”
Everything in the Heights must look that way to her—wasteful, excessive, proof of how much we take for granted. I’m not that kind of person anymore, but I’m still ashamed. When Lex doesn’t make a sarcastic comment, I wonder if she’s feeling the same way.
She pulls up to the valet, and a guy a little older than us rushes to open Lex’s door. Her floor-length black gown fits her perfectly, and her choppy blond bob looks more elegant than usual with the sides slicked neatly behind her ears.
The valet notices Cruz’s sling and tries to help her out of the car, but she gives him a death glare and he backs off. “I can’t believe I’m wearing this,” she mutters, pulling at the bottom of the silver strapless dress she borrowed from Lex. “I look like a Disney princess.”
“You look amazing. Don’t be a brat.” I shake out the back of the skirt as she follows Lex up the sidewalk. “And stop bunching up the bottom.”
Cruz tugs on the front of the strapless dress. “The girls are gonna fall out.”
Lex rolls her eyes. “Stop messing with your boobs. We’re going in.”
Cruz looks up at the main clubhouse and stops. “Wow.”
“Wow, like they’re wasting electricity?” Lex fidgets with one of her diamond studs.
“No. Just the regular kind.”
I never thought of this place as wow. It always reminded me of a smaller version of the White House. But witnessing Cruz’s reaction makes it feel like more.
The ballroom is already crowded. Enormous crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, scattering rainbows of light across the ivory tablecloths. The circular tables border the dance floor, and men in black tuxes and women wearing floor-length ball gowns weave between them.
Cruz takes a deep breath, her expression guarded. “I don’t know why rich kids hang out in the Downs getting high and partying when they have lives like this.”
“There are lots of nice things in this room,” Lex says. “But there aren’t many nice people here.”
“If you want to leave, I’ll understand,” I say.
I would if I had a choice.
Cruz eyes a waitress in a white tuxedo, offering guests sushi from a silver tray. As the waitress passes, Cruz nabs a California roll and pops it into her mouth. “I’m good. It’s like being at the zoo, and there’s free food.”
“Speaking of people who aren’t very nice,” Lex says to Cruz, “you’re about to meet one of them.”
Lex’s mom walks toward us.
“Hello, darling. You look gorgeous.” She air-kisses Lex’s cheek. “And, Frankie, it’s wonderful to see you here again. Everyone has missed you.”
Yeah. I’m sure. “Thanks, Mrs. Rivera.”
Mrs. Rivera eyes Cruz. “I haven’t met your friend, Lex. Isn’t that your dress?”
Lex nudges Cruz’s back and pushes her forward an inch. “This is Cruz. She’s a friend from school.”
Her mom flashes Cruz a fake campaign smile. “I see. It’s nice to meet you, Cruz.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” Cruz chokes out the words. But her expression says Screw you—something I’ve wanted to say to Lex’s mom, and mine, a hundred times.
“There are several important donors I want you to meet.” Mrs. Rivera loops her arm through Lex’s and leads her away.
Cruz exhales. “What a bitch.”
“Wait until you meet my mother and King Richard.”
She drags her attention away from an ice sculpture of a ballerina in mid-twirl. “If your mom is married to a king, I’m out of here.”
“He just thinks he’s a king.”
“So what kind of charity gets the money from this snob fest?” she asks.
“It’s for scholarships—”
“To college? That’s cool.” A waitress walks by with a tray of crostini, and Cruz takes one.
“Not exactly.” I don’t want to tell her the truth, but she’ll figure it out if she stays at the gala long enough. “The scholarships are for kids to attend the spring and summer programs at the National School of Ballet.”
Cruz drops her crostini on the table next to her. “You’re shitting me. They’re raising money for kids to go to ballet class? Why don’t they give out real scholarships?”
“I don’t know.”
A chorus of giggles erupts near the bar. A group of girls from Woodley loiter at one end, flirting with the bartender and downing champagne whenever they think no one is watching. Katherine Calder—shit poet, student body president, and reigning gossip queen—notices us, and the whispering starts.
“Let me guess. Those are your friends.” Cruz gives them the once-over. Even in a borrowed Cinderella dress and her sling, she still looks intimidating.
“That would be a no.”
Cruz scrunches up her nose and rubs her forehead. “Remind me why we came to this party again?”
“Facing my demons seemed like a good idea.”
She tips her chin toward the bar. “Then you’re in luck. The demons are coming over here.”
Katherine leads the charge, fluttering her fingertips at me. “Frankie. I can’t believe you’re here. We’ve all been worried about you.” Caroline, Hope, and Avery chatter away next to her, ignoring Cruz, who looks like she wishes she could strangle them.
“It’s sooo good to see you.” Katherine smiles, her professionally whitened teeth blinding me.
The old Frankie would be polite. But she’s long gone. “Wish I could say the same, Katherine.”
Caroline, Hope, and Avery stop talking. Cruz looks at me, and breaks into a slow smile.
Katherine’s cheeks flush and she crosses her arms. “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny.”
I put one hand on my hip and tilt my head. “Then I’m lucky it wasn’t a joke.”
Cruz covers her mouth and laughs.
Katherine presses her lips together in a tight line. “If this is about the poem…” She lowers her voice. “Someone had to step up and pay a tribute to Noah. You obviously weren’t going to do it.”
Cruz gathers up her dress, but I hold up my hand, sending her a silent message: I’ve got this. I take a step closer to Katherine. “Noah couldn’t stand you, Katherine. He was tired of catching you in the locker room hooking up with his teammates.”
Caroline and Hope gasp, and Avery’s eyes widen.
The color drains from Katherine’s face, but I’m not finished. “And if you’re planning to major in creative writing next year, you might want to rethink it. Because your poem sucked.”
“You classless bitch,” she hisses. “I bet you fit right in at Monroe.”
Cruz stops smiling and turns on Katherine. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I—I didn’t mean you…” Katherine stammers.
Caroline, Hope, and Avery back away so fast they almost trip over one another. So much for loyalty.
I shoulder my way in front of Cruz and face Katherine. “If your definition of classy is being an epic bitch and hooking up with random guys in the boys’ locker room, I’ll pass.” Katherine’s chin trembles, and I wave at her. “See you around. It was fun catching up.”
As we walk away, Cruz flashes me a conspiratorial smile. “Careful. If you keep scaring stuck-up rich girls, people will think you’re from the Downs.”
“Would that be so bad?”
&
nbsp; She shrugs. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
My cell vibrates and I slip it out of my clutch. “Sorry. I have to take this.”
It’s 10:21—thirty-nine minutes until my debut as a car thief. The call shows up as an unknown number. Deacon.
“Hello?”
“Are you at the country club?” he asks. The sound of his voice makes my skin crawl.
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you back at eleven. Be ready. This isn’t a practice run.” He hangs up without waiting for a response. He doesn’t need one. We both know he has me backed into a corner.
For now.
“Frankie?”
I turn around slowly, dreading the conversation ahead of me.
Mom looks gorgeous in a black strapless Valentino gown. Her hair is arranged in an artfully messy bun that makes her appear even younger.
“Hi, Mom.”
Cruz inches behind her and mouths the word Mom? She points to the nearest empty table and tiptoes toward it.
“It’s so wonderful to see you, sweetheart.” She takes a slow and careful inventory of my ensemble. The red “mall prom dress,” as she called it the first time she saw it, is an affront to my mother’s impeccable taste and completely inappropriate for the occasion. “You look…” She searches for the right word: tacky, vulgar, unsophisticated, tasteless. Which one will she choose?
Mom traps me in a hug. Not the kind that accompanies her air kisses, but an actual, wrinkle-your-dress hug. “You look beautiful.”
When Mom releases me, I’m speechless. My mother doesn’t offer compliments. She provides constructive criticism. She doesn’t like this dress or the color red. And she doesn’t hug.
“How many glasses of champagne have you had, Mom?”
She fidgets with her diamond necklace. “I suppose I deserved that.”
Who kidnapped my mother?
“No, seriously? How many?”
“One.” She sighs and opens her YSL clutch. “I brought you something. I wanted to give it to you in person.” She hands me a folded sheet of heavy card stock.
I unfold it and immediately recognize the Stanford University seal. I hold the letter out to her without reading it. “I’m not interested.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be so quick to judge.”