Broken Beautiful Hearts(117)

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—”

“It was a joke.” I scan the shelves stocked with Dad’s staples: Diet Pepsi (Coke isn’t sweet enough), whole milk (for his cereal), white bread and American cheese slices (in case he gets sick of cereal and switches to grilled cheese), and a gallon of 2 percent milk (store brand).

“I bought extra Diet Pepsi and the milk you like,” he offers.

“I drink Diet Coke.” And I stopped drinking 2 percent milk when I was ten, a fact I don’t bother mentioning anymore.

My father memorizes dozens of car makes, models, and license plates so he can bust car thieves and the chop shops that sell stolen parts, but he can’t remember what kind of milk I drink? Skim. I should make him a list of my food preferences and stop torturing us both.

“I’ve got cereal.” He shakes a box of Froot Loops.

“No, thanks.” I close the refrigerator empty-handed.

Cujo’s ears perk up and he bounds for the front door.

“Did you hear something, partner?” Dad asks.

The dog barks, and a split second later, the doorbell rings.

“It’s probably Lex.” I give Cujo a quick scratch behind the ears and start unlocking the deadbolt.

“Frankie!” Dad shouts as if I’m a child about to run out into traffic.

I turn around, searching for a sign of danger. Nothing looks out of place. “What’s wrong?”

Dad points at the front door with a fierce look in his eyes. “Never open a door without checking to see who is on the other side.”

It’s official. My father has crossed over from paranoid to crazy. “That’s the reason you yelled at me like I was about to set off a bomb?”

“Depending on who is on the other side, you could’ve been.”

I gesture at Cujo sitting next to me calmly, with his head cocked to the side. “Cujo isn’t growling. He always growls if there’s a stranger at the door.” A retired K-9 handler trained Cujo as a protection dog. He’s the definition of an intruder’s worst nightmare.

“You can’t let anything lull you into a false sense of security. Letting your guard down one time is all it takes.”

Does he think he’s telling me something I don’t know? I stifle a bitter laugh.