The Lovely Reckless(55)
“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?”
“Actually, it’s not.” I retrieve the photo Dad wadded up of Marco hugging me and unfold it. “These boys don’t have anyone to take care of them. They’re just trying to survive. And I’m not ‘hanging all over’ Marco in this picture. He’s helping me through one of my flashbacks, a really bad one.”
I pluck another photo out of Dad’s hand. “I don’t really know Deacon. But I do know that he crawled through a shattered windshield to pull Marco’s sister out of a car wreck. He even has the scars to prove it. That sounds pretty black and white to me.”
“Do you know what else your friend Deacon Kelley has to go along with those scars? A record. His most recent arrest was for robbing a 7-Eleven.”
Shit.
So much for my brilliant argument. “I just told you that I hardly know Deacon, and Marco is nothing like him.”
“But he’s friends with Kelley, isn’t he? ‘As close as brothers,’ some of their old teachers said. Honest kids don’t hang out with convicted felons. What does that tell you about Marco?”
Nothing. But it tells my father everything. “It tells me Deacon saved his sister’s life,” I say, but I know it’s useless.
Dad lives by a code. It’s the foundation of everything he believes, the way he has survived working on the streets for the last eighteen years. Asking him to believe it’s possible for somebody to hang out with a criminal without being one themselves is asking him to take a sledgehammer to that foundation.
He points at me. “You are not seeing Marco Leone again. Are we clear?”
Something inside me snaps.
I’m falling for Marco … maybe I’ve already fallen. I can’t pretend he doesn’t matter anymore.
I only have two choices now—deny the way I feel or admit it.
Run away again or fight.
The old Frankie wasn’t a fighter, but I’m not that girl anymore.
Marco matters to me.
We matter.
I won’t let my dad take him away from me. I’ve already lost too much. I’m done losing.