I’ve been in my bedroom since I got back from Marco’s, replaying every detail of the night—especially the part that involved his hands and lips touching me. The apartment door slams. Cujo raises his head, mildly interested.
Dad walks into my room without knocking, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring.
Something is wrong.
He tosses a stack of papers on the bed next to me. Not papers. Photographs.
Glossy black-and-white images of Marco and Deacon—in the parking lot at the rec center, on the steps of an apartment building in the Downs, behind the wheels of their cars on V Street. I fan out the photos.… There must be at least twenty.
One catches my eye. A picture of me folded in Marco’s arms behind the rec center from the day I had the flashback.
“Are you spying on me?” I stand, holding the photo between us.
“Cops aren’t allowed to use department resources to spy on their daughters.”
“Then how do you explain these?” I gesture at the pile.
“They’re surveillance photos from an ongoing investigation. Tyson pulled out the ones you’re in before anyone else saw them.”
An investigation that involves the boy I’m falling for.
A boy Dad won’t want me to see, now that he knows Marco races. I know it’s illegal, but there are worse things.
“When did RATTF start investigating street racers?” Does he know I was racing?
He gives me a strange look. “When they started stealing cars.”
“What?” The world around me stops.
Dad snatches the picture out of my hand. “He’s a car thief. Do you want to explain what the hell you’re doing with him?”
It’s a mistake.
“Marco doesn’t steal cars.”
“A month ago high-end cars started disappearing—the kind you can’t resell on the street. Somebody was brokering stolen cars and selling them overseas. So Tyson and I started watching all the major crews to figure out who was actually stealing the cars. We weren’t looking for a high school kid and a dropout. Not until a witness remembered seeing a kid with scars on his neck hanging around before one of the cars disappeared.”
“That doesn’t mean Marco had anything to do with it.”
He holds up the photo in his hand. “Are you involved with this boy, Frankie?” Dad eyes flicker to the image of Marco holding me, and his jaw twitches. “Is he your boyfriend? I hope you don’t hang all over your friends like this.”
My mind races, and I’m only half listening.
Dad takes my silence as a yes and crushes the photo in his hand, crumpling it into a ball. “Have you been listening to me? We’re building a case against Marco Leone and Deacon Kelley, and whoever the two of them are working for.”
“You’re wrong about Marco.”
“No. You’re wrong about him. Did you know Marco’s father is serving ten years in Jessup for grand theft? He liked to steal cars, too. Maybe they’ll let him share a cell with his son.” Dad turns his back on me and hangs his head, gripping the sides of my dresser.
“You’re judging him because of his father? Marco is a good person. His mom died, and he takes care of his younger sister. If something happens to him, she has nobody.” I’m panicking, but I don’t know what to do. Not with surveillance photos scattered all over my bed and Dad talking about Marco going to prison.
My father raises his head and looks at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. “He should’ve thought about that before he broke the law.”
“Do you have any real proof? Things aren’t always black and white. Sometimes they’re gray.”
He turns and faces me, his eyes full of rage. “Gray is what happens when people aren’t strong enough or honest enough to do the right thing. Gray is the list of bullshit excuses criminals give me when they’re cuffed in the backseat of my car. And you”—he points at me—“have no idea how the world works, or you would realize that hanging out with a bunch of kids at a rec center in the Downs doesn’t mean you understand what it’s like to live there or how dangerous it is for the people who do. Monroe and that rec center might as well be Disneyland, compared to the rougher neighborhoods.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not so sure.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Innocent people in the Downs get hurt every day. They can’t walk to work or take a bus without worrying about getting mugged or worse. Crime is completely out of control, and there aren’t enough of us on the street to make a dent.”
Us.
Dad means cops—the good guys. Which makes Marco one of the bad guys.
I know Dad is wrong about Marco, but I’m supposed to … what? Pretend he’s right? Act like an obedient daughter and do what I’m told?
He grabs the photos off the bed and shakes them in front of me. “These boys are criminals. Is that black and white enough for you?”