At least he won’t be here all night spying on me. I crumple the message and toss it in the trash.

After an hour of bad TV, my cell phone rings.

“Frankie? It’s Cruz,” she says before I say hello. “Are you there? Frankie?”

“Did she pick up?” Ava asks in the background.

“What’s wrong?” I hear it in her voice. Something bad happened.

“Marco was arrested.”

The world stops, and there’s nothing but panic and a loud echoing sound, like a big seashell is pressed against my ear. But instead of ocean waves, wind rips through my head. It’s like I’m in a flashback with no images. Picturing Marco in jail … I can’t do it. Or I won’t let myself.

“Frankie?”

“I’m here.” The words sound far away. “Did he get caught racing?”

She’s silent for a second at the other end of the line. “Marco told me that you know about his … situation. He wasn’t racing. The cops busted him in a stolen car.”

He stole another car.

What did I expect? Marco never told me he’d stop.

But I hoped he would.

Why? Because he loves me? Or because I told him I loved him tonight? Love doesn’t pay the bills.

Cruz starts talking again. “Marco couldn’t say much. But it sounded like someone set him up. The cops were waiting. State troopers. They busted him right after he got in the car.”

“Who could’ve set him up?” I ask.

“Maybe someone overheard a conversation. I’m on my way to the police station now.”

The cops won’t let her see Marco. Only a lawyer or a legal guardian will get past Dad and Tyson—and I know they’re involved. They call the shots in RATTF, which means my father arrested the guy I love, or he knew about it.

“Come get me.” I grab my backpack and head for the front door.

“Text me your address. But you shouldn’t go down there, Frankie. There’s nothing you can do.”

If only that were true.

* * *

Ava parks next to a fleet of Crown Vics and SUVs at the state police barracks. Cruz bites her nails as she eyes the uniformed state troopers walking in and out. I’m not ready to tell Cruz that my dad is one of them, especially not with her sister sitting next to her. If she comes inside, it won’t take her long to figure it out.

“Maybe I should go in alone.” It takes every ounce of strength to keep my tone casual. The thought of Marco in handcuffs or inside a cell tears me up.

Cruz gives me a strange look. “Why?”

Here goes. Either she’ll buy it or she won’t. “Marco is a minor. The only people who can see him are his lawyers or legal guardians. It’s in every cop movie.”

She rubs her eyes. “You’re right.”

“Then why would you go in?” Ava asks. Smart girl.

“We’re closer to the Heights than the Downs. Maybe they’ll give a nice rich girl from the Heights some information.”

Cruz shrugs. “It’s worth a try.” It kills me how easily she accepts the idea that they might treat me differently. I get out of the car and walk toward the barracks—that’s what the state police call their precincts.

Dad can walk into any one of them and use the facilities, but the undercover task forces don’t have regular offices in police buildings. They rent commercial office space above law firms and interior-design studios.

This is one of the older barracks, tan brick with a brown shingled roof. It looks like it belongs in a documentary from the nineties. The Maryland state flag flying out front is the only thing that isn’t outdated.

Dad won’t be happy if I walk in there, but I’m doing it for Marco.

I push through the door and walk straight to the counter. An officer wearing a brown-and-tan uniform eyes me suspiciously. “Can I help you, young lady?”

“Yes, sir. I think my dad is here. Jimmy Devereux? He’s with the Regional Auto Theft Task Force.” I say each word with confidence, as if I drop by to visit my dad all the time.

The trooper peers over the counter. “You’re Jimmy’s daughter? Frances, right?”

“Frankie.”

“I was close. Jimmy talks about you whenever he comes in.” He smiles. I’m a cop’s daughter, which makes me one of their own. He points at the door to my left. “Come on back, and I’ll see if I can track him down.”

He reaches for the phone receiver in front of him.

“I wanted to surprise him,” I say quickly.

“All right.”

He buzzes the door open for me. On the other side, desks are arranged in rows.

The officer who buzzed me in talks to a few cops in street clothes wearing shoulder holsters over their T-shirts.

“Your dad is sitting in on an interrogation,” he says when he comes back. “When he takes a break, we’ll call him out.”

“Thanks.”

“You can wait over there.” He points at a bank of white plastic chairs that look like the red ones in the lobby where I sat on the night of my DUI.

The room smells like old sneakers and hamburgers.

A cop barrels his way through, followed by another officer and a pissed-off guy in handcuffs. The guy jerks against the cop’s hold, and I shrink back.

“Get your hands off me, or I’ll sue your asses for police brutality.” The guy’s nose bleeds onto his lips, and he spits on the floor. “I know my rights. You can’t bust into somebody’s house.”

Watching the guy walk away in cuffs makes me think of Marco. Is he handcuffed right now? I spot my father across the room. He rushes toward me, his expression shifting from concerned to suspicious.

“How did you know I was here?” He already knows the answer, and his expression darkens. “You came because of him.” I’m betraying my dad—that’s the message.

I push myself out of the sticky plastic seat, knees shaking. “Dad—”

“Not here.” He clenches his jaw and takes my elbow, leading me toward the offices in the back. I smile at the cops who say hi as we pass. I’m not trying to humiliate my father. I’m trying to save the boy I love.

Dad opens one of the doors and pushes me inside. Tyson stands by an open window holding a cigarette and a portable travel fan. “Hey, Frankie.”

“I told you to stop smoking in here.” Dad points at the cigarette.