“Back up. Why were you sleeping over? And where did you find his jeans?”

“Hold on.” She turns into Dad’s complex. “Which one is it again? They all look the same at night.”

From the outside, the garden apartments are identical—two-story brown buildings, with balconies that offer sweeping views of the parking lot. “Last building on the right. If he’s home from work, I’m dead.”

I forget about Lex, Abel, and Marco and hold my breath.

Dad’s Chevy Tahoe isn’t in the parking lot. Am I really this lucky?

“He’s still at work.”

Lex doesn’t bother to park. “Go. Before he gets home.”

“We’ll finish talking about Abel later.” I jump out of the Fiat, praying Dad doesn’t show up before I make it inside.

Cujo barks when I open the door and follows me to my room. “You won’t tell him what time I came home, will you, buddy?”

I change into sweats and curl up on my bed so Dad will think I’ve been in here studying. It’s quiet now, and I finally have time to think. I replay the last few hours in my mind, but it feels surreal.

Marco’s swoop-in-and-save-the-girl rescue mission annoyed the hell out of me, but he didn’t have to help us. So why did he do it? His reaction when he saw Sung holding my arm was even stranger.

Was it really about me?

I can’t stop picturing the way Marco stared into my eyes without a hint of self-consciousness.

Fearless and unapologetic.

Who did he see?

The rich girl with a perfect life … or the broken girl who replaced her?

CHAPTER 11

RICH GIRL

When I finally haul myself out of bed in the morning, the apartment smells like burnt toast and cheap instant coffee. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear Dad talking on his cell phone. “We’re not dealing with a couple of kids stealing cars with dent pullers and screwdrivers, Tyson. They’re driving these cars straight into shipping containers.”

Great. Undercover-cop talk at seven o’clock, the only thing worse than Dad’s coffee.

“Already ran him through the system,” Dad says. “He lives with his father, and he has a record.”

Boring.

In the kitchen, Dad stands in front of the toaster oven with his back to me. He finishes the call and drops his cell on the counter. “I wasn’t sure how you like your eggs these days, so I scrambled them,” he says without turning around. Sneaking up on a cop is impossible.

“I don’t eat eggs. Or breakfast.”

“Why not?” He sounds offended, as if he invented the concept of breakfast.

“Why? Is this a quiz?” It feels weird explaining basic stuff about myself to my father. When I only visited for a few days at a time, I never bothered.

“Listen, I know you’ve been through a lot. You experienced the kind of trauma most people only see on TV, and you don’t have any closure. But the police are still investigating Noah’s death. No one is giving up.”

Now he’s a shrink?

I laugh, without caring how bitter it sounds. “The police have no leads. They won’t be able to find Noah’s killer until I remember what he looks like.”

“The guys in homicide are good. They’ll find the bastard.” Dad opens the toaster oven and jabs at a charred slice of bread with his finger. He winces and yanks his hand back.

“You okay?”

“It’s nothing.” He shakes his wrist a few times, then scoops a pile of eggs onto a plate. “The toaster is new. I haven’t figured out the timing yet.” He puts the plate on the counter in front of me.

What part of “I don’t eat breakfast” is he confused about?

I push it aside, and he pours himself a cup of sludge. “So how did things go at the rec center?”

“Fine. I’m working with middle school kids, helping them with their homework and keeping an eye on them. Miss Lorraine, the woman in charge, is hard-core. I’m surprised she didn’t have my mug shot hanging on the wall.”

Dad’s back goes rigid. “That’s not funny, Frankie. You’re in serious trouble. I thought you understood that.”

Is he starting this again?

“I know exactly how much trouble I’m in, but thanks for reminding me. Getting kicked out of school and doing community service every day never would’ve tipped me off.”

“Did anyone there give you a hard time?”

“The kids are thirteen.” I don’t mention the basketball players hanging around out front.

“I meant in general. There’s a lot of crime in the Downs—and the criminals and junkies who go along with it.”

“Not everyone in the Downs is a criminal or a drug addict. Lex’s father grew up there, and now he’s a senator. All it took was hard work and a bigger bank account.” It’s a fact people forget all the time. Nobody around here cares where you came from once you have money.

“Things have changed a lot since then.”

“You’re the one who said Monroe and the rec center are in the nicer parts of the Downs.” I throw his words back at him.

Dad paces. “Nicer than my district—where people get knifed in broad daylight and kids can’t play in the park because the ground is covered with dirty needles and burnt aluminum foil instead of grass.”

“I’m not naive.”

“More kids are getting into serious trouble.” Dad shakes his head, still pacing. “More than I realized. Some of the students at your school already have police records.”

“And some of the kids at Monroe are from the Heights,” I shoot back.

“Not the ones at the rec center.” He bangs his fist against the wall. “That’s the last place I wanted you doing community service.”

Is he serious?

“If it bothered you so much, why didn’t you do something about it? I don’t know … like ask them to move me? You’re a cop. I’m sure you know someone in the probation office.”

“The probation office doesn’t take requests, and I won’t ask anyone for special treatment.”

“Whatever.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head for the front door.

“Just be careful about who you hang out with. That’s all I’m saying. You don’t need any more problems.”