Holding the white foam cup, I walk toward her. My eyes are swollen, and my face streaked with mascara. I don’t care about getting in trouble. Listening to one of her guilt trips is a hundred times worse.
Mom storms past Officer Tanner without giving him so much as a look. Cops only interest her if the alarm system at our house goes off. “What were you thinking, Frankie? You could’ve killed someone—or yourself.”
“I’d never want to hurt anyone else.”
It’s me I don’t care about.
“Even if that’s true, your behavior over the last few months proves you’re out of control.” Her voice rises with every word. “You’ve been on a downhill slide since Noah died, but this”—she gestures to our surroundings—“crosses the line.”
I’ve never seen Mom this angry, and I know she’s holding back. She hates making a scene in public. I stare down at my black Adidas Sambas, the beat-up pair of indoor-soccer shoes I salvaged from the basement. The old Frankie never would’ve been caught dead wearing them outside the gym. But I wear them everywhere.
“Mrs. Devereux?” Officer Tanner uses his cop tone.
Bad move.
“My last name is Rutherford, not Devereux.” Mom closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, regaining her composure and trust-fund-baby charm. “I apologize, Officer…?”
“Tanner,” he finishes for her, even though his name is engraved on the pin above his pocket.
“The last few months have been difficult for all of us. Francesca suffers from PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder,” she explains, as if he isn’t smart enough to recognize the acronym. “It’s certainly no excuse, but she’s never been in any trouble before. If you don’t press charges—”
Officer Tanner holds up his hand. “Let me stop you right there, ma’am. I know this situation is upsetting, and I’d like to extend your husband a professional courtesy. But we’re not talking about a speeding ticket.”
Mom bristles when he refers to Dad as her husband, but she doesn’t correct him. “Francesca attends Woodley Prep, and if the headmaster finds out about this, she’ll be expelled.” Mom lowers her voice. “She’s already been through so much. We still don’t know what she saw that night.”
Everything.
I saw everything.
I try not to think about it, but Mom’s voice fades as other sounds cut in and out.
Don’t panic. Breathe.
Isn’t that what the last shrink told me to do? Or am I supposed to picture my safe place? I can’t remember. A switch flips in my brain, and fragmented memories from the night Noah died hit me in rapid bursts—
Strobe lights flash.
A mass of bodies swells on the dance floor—arms raised. House music blaring and bass pumping.
My head pounds along with it.
Noah told me to wait inside while he got the car. But it’s too loud.
Black velvet curtains part at the main entrance, and cool air hits me.
Dim streetlights glitter against the wet asphalt. I walk around the side of the building to the parking lot. Where did he park? I didn’t pay attention. Noah always remembers.
The Sugar Factory’s pink marquee glows above me.
Noah’s voice, low and muffled. A glimpse of his baby-blue polo shirt. A guy standing in front of him, his face obscured by black shadows—as if it were erased.
But I see Noah clearly, and I can tell he sees me. He shakes his head slowly, the movements almost imperceptible. I recognize that look, and it sends pinpricks up my arms. I’ve seen it after lacrosse games when a player from the opposing team came up to Noah off the field, looking for a fight.
The look means: Don’t come over here, Frankie.…
“Frankie?” Mom’s voice scrambles the images, and Noah’s face disappears.
I open my eyes and blink hard, battling double vision.
“Are you still drunk?” My mother doesn’t recognize when I’m having a flashback, which only proves how wrong things are between us.
“I’m just tired.” And completely screwed up.
The glass door to the precinct swings open, and Dad charges in like he owns the place. From his faded green Indian Motorcycles T-shirt and five-o’clock shadow to his scarred knuckles and crooked nose, he looks more like a middle-aged boxer or construction worker than an undercover cop. I guess that’s the point.
He flashes his Maryland State Police badge at the county cop sitting behind the counter. Did Mom call him? Or one of the officers here?
It doesn’t matter. He knows.
“Why don’t you go sit down while I talk to your parents?” Officer Tanner nods at a row of red seats bolted to the wall. He doesn’t have to tell me twice. He meets Dad in the middle of the hallway. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. I’d like to make this go away, but—”
Dad cuts him off. “You know I don’t walk that line and I would never ask another cop to walk it, either.”
I’ve heard my father talk about the line between right and wrong so many times. It defines every aspect of his life, and tonight I crossed it.
I slouch against the molded plastic seat and count the black rubber marks on the floor. My long hair falls over my shoulder and hides my face. I want to disappear, especially when the precinct door opens again.