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.

“You can’t order me around like a child.”

“I am your father,” he roars, the anger boiling over. “And you are my child. So you’ll do what I tell you.”

“You should’ve spent more time with me if you wanted to pull the dad card,” I fire back.

Dad stares at me, looking defeated. “Dammit, Frankie. I know I haven’t been the best parent, but you can’t just clock out when you work undercover. And you’ve always had your mom.”

“Bullshit. The only person who has Mom is Richard.” I’ve never cussed at my father before—or told him how I felt about anything. But I’m not letting him off easy. Not when he’s tearing my life apart.

Dad leans against the dresser. “I get it. I’m a shitty father, and you want to punish me.”

“Excuse me?”

He sighs. “I spend every day trying to bust guys who steal cars, so you decide to go out with one of them?”

Them.

Dad says it like he’s talking about serial killers or mass murderers. Not a seventeen-year-old former AP student trying to hold together what’s left of his family. Dad must not have any real proof that Marco steals cars, or he would’ve arrested him or thrown the information in my face by now. But he’s already decided Marco is guilty.

“If you want to punish me, I can live with that,” Dad says. “But don’t punish yourself by dating a piece of trash like Marco Leone. Haven’t you hurt yourself enough?”

Knowing how my dad feels about Marco makes me wonder what he really thinks of me.

“You’re right about one thing, Dad. I have hurt myself, and I’ve made plenty of mistakes, like driving drunk—which on your ‘everything is black or white, right or wrong’ scale definitely falls into the black category.”