The Lovely Reckless(3)

Nobody pisses my mother off more than Dad. At least he gives her another target.

“That’s enough, Elise.” My stepfather shoots her a warning look.

Mom’s heels click against the floor as she scurries over to her place beside King Richard. He rests his hand on the small of her back in case he needs to pull her invisible puppet strings.

Within seconds, they’re arguing. It’s nothing new, and I don’t worry until the shouting dissolves into sharp whispers. Never a good sign.

Snippets of the conversation drift through the hallway, and I strain to listen.

“—ruined her chances of getting into Stanford.” Mom.

“If she keeps this up—” King Richard.

“Ever since Noah died—” Dad.

“It’s a shame she can’t ID her boyfriend’s killer.” Officer Tanner doesn’t bother whispering. “That son of a bitch should be locked up.”

My stomach lurches like someone kicked me.

He’s right, but it’s not a shame.

It’s pathetic.

My mind is damaged—shrink code for too weak to handle what I saw that night. Now I’m a hostage to the flashbacks that hit without warning and the insomnia that keeps me from sleeping more than three hours a night.

Mom and Dad walk toward me shoulder to shoulder. A united front. They divorced when I was three, and they get along about as well as two rabid dogs locked in a closet. If they managed to agree on anything, they must think I’m a few weeks away from hooking on a street corner.

For the first time tonight, I’m scared.

Mom looks at me like I’m a stranger. “I’ve tried to be understanding, Frankie. But you’re out of control. Avoiding your friends, sneaking out of the house, drinking with the lifeguards from the club.” Maybe she has been paying attention between tennis matches.

“That was one night,” I argue. At least that she knows about.

“I hoped you would snap out of this and go back to being the girl you were before.”

Before I watched someone beat my boyfriend to death in a beer-stained parking lot. Before I realized that doing all the right things doesn’t matter. Noah was an honor student, a star athlete with offer letters from three Ivy League universities, and a good person.

And he’s still dead.

“I just want you to feel like yourself again, sweetheart,” Mom says.

She doesn’t realize that girl doesn’t exist anymore.

“Your father and I think it’s time for him to get more involved.”

More involved?

Based on how involved he is now, that’s a pretty low bar. I spend two weekends a month with Dad, if he isn’t too busy working undercover in RATTF—Regional Auto Theft Task Force—a supercop unit. When I do see him, it’s not exactly quality time. I usually end up eating leftover pizza until he gets home from pretending to be a car thief. On his days off, we practice what Dad calls Critical Life Skills—and what I call Ways to Dodge a Serial Killer. Fun stuff … like how to escape from the trunk of a car if it doesn’t have an automatic-release handle inside.

“Maybe your father will be able to help you get back on track,” Mom adds.

Doubtful.

“How is that supposed to work when we barely see each other?” I ask, ignoring my dad, even though he’s standing right next to her.

Dad steps between us. “You’re moving in with me.”





CHAPTER 2

CLEAN SLATE

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see are sunny yellow walls—at least that’s the way they looked to me as a kid. Now they make me feel like I’m trapped inside a stick of butter.

Reality hits me, like it has every morning for the last seven days.

I’m living with Dad.

And this butter stick is my bedroom.

I’ve spent the night here plenty of times, but this is different. I won’t be standing by the window on Sunday afternoon waiting for Mom to pick me up. I’m staying here until at least the end of the school year.

For now, this is home.

I dig through a dresser drawer, searching for an outfit the old Frankie would hate. Frayed white button-down or black tee? Tough call, but I go with the button-down. The loose threads would drive the old Frankie crazy. I pull on a pair of skinny jeans, and my elbow whacks against the dresser.

This room is the size of my walk-in closet at Mom’s house, and it’s decorated like it belongs to a ten-year-old: a dresser and matching nightstand covered with hand-painted flowers and green vines, a twin bed with ruffled sheets—and let’s not forget the yellow walls.

Unfortunately, I have bigger things to worry about today.

In the hall, Cujo, Dad’s huge gray-black-and-white Akita, sits next to my door.

“Hey, buddy.” I scratch the dog’s big, square head, and he follows me. The apartment has a simple and borderline-claustrophobic layout—two bedrooms and bathrooms at one end of a narrow hallway lined with mismatched frames, and a living room–dining room combo and a galley kitchen at the other end.

In the kitchen, Dad surveys rows of cereal boxes in the pantry. There are at least a dozen different kinds.

“You’re not making me a real breakfast?” I ask sarcastically, walking past him on my way to the fridge.

Dad swears under his breath. “Sorry. I’m not used to—”