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.”
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