The Gullwing is facing the wrong direction on the street.

Clutching the steering wheel with both hands, I struggle to catch my breath.

I’m not dead.

Deacon’s head leans against his chest. He isn’t moving.

Get out. Fast. Call 911.

My ribs and right shoulder ache, and pain shoots up my neck when I lean over to grope for my purse. My hand catches the strap and I drag the bag into my lap. Dumping out the contents, I feel around for my phone while I try to figure out how to open the door at the same time.

Come on. Where’s the handle?

A rush of dizziness hits.

What if I pass out?

I run my hand across the door panel until I find the handle and yank hard. The door opens and I manage to get my legs out of the car.

Leather squeaks and I see a flash in my peripheral vision.

“Where do you think you’re going, bitch?” Deacon grabs for me. His nails rake across my skin. My hand closes around something in my lap, one of the items from my purse. I throw my body forward and hit the ground hard. I tighten my grip on the metal cylinder in my hand.

Get up!

I scramble across the asphalt, pushing myself upright as I gain momentum.

Cars slow on the opposite side of the road, and I run toward them.

Is Deacon still behind me?

I look back.

Deacon’s ice-blue eyes lock on mine from only a few feet away. The Deacon Kelley with rage and hate in his eyes. The Deacon Kelley who murdered Noah the parking lot of the Sugar Factory.

This time his rage is focused on me. Deacon swings his arms over his head, and that’s when I see the metal and realize what he’s holding.

A tire iron.

“You little bitch! I’m going to bury you in that car!”

My heartbeat pounds in my ears.

The sound of Deacon’s boots hitting the pavement gets louder.

He’s going to kill me, too.

I have to get away from him.

Sirens pierce the silence. Red and blue flashing lights turn at the end of the street behind me.

Fingers dig into my wrist and I wheel around, holding the pink cylinder. I aim it at Deacon and press down. A stream of pepper gel shoots out.

“Shit!” He drops the tire iron and tries to shield his eyes, but they are already swelling shut.

The flashing lights grow brighter and brighter as a police car pulls up beside me. A door slams, and a cop with a handlebar mustache rushes toward me.

“Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head,” a younger-looking cop calls out.

I start to get down when the cop with the handlebar mustache takes me by the arms. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” I stammer.

I need Dad.

“Why don’t you give me that?” He takes the pepper gel out of my hand. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“We hit the barrels.” I point behind me. “He attacked me.”

“An ambulance is on its way.”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“Is that your car?” Handlebar Mustache asks. “Were you driving?”

“No … and yes.”

“It’s not your car?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I need to call my father.”

“We’re going to take a ride,” I hear the other cop say to Deacon.

Translation: You’re under arrest.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”

“Fuck you,” Deacon snarls.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” The cop opens the back door of the squad car and shoves Deacon inside.

Handlebar Mustache leads me to a second squad car and opens the back door. I sit down with my legs hanging outside the car and my red satin prom dress puffed up around me.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Handlebar Mustache bends down to my level.

The other cop walks over, and Deacon leers at me from the backseat of the other squad car. “I ran the plates. The car is registered to a William Lords the Third. We’re trying to track him down now.”

“He’s at the country club. The car is stolen.”

“How do you know that?” the younger cop asks.

“I stole it.” I look at them. “My name is Frankie Devereux, and my dad’s name is James Devereux. He’s a state trooper. Badge number 14755.”

“Shit,” the older cop says under his breath. “I don’t need a badge number to recognize that name.” He turns to his partner. “Do you know Jimmy Devereux? He’s a state trooper on RATTF.”

“Not personally, but I hear he’s a tough son of a bitch.”

“He is.” Handlebar Mustache points at me. “And that’s his daughter.”

It only takes the officers two calls to get my father on the phone. The paramedics arrive and check me out while Handlebar Mustache talks to Dad. “Yeah. She seems okay. We’ll bring her in.”

I hold out my hand. “I want to talk to him.”

The cop gives me his phone. “Dad?”

“Are you all right?” He sounds rattled.

“Yeah.”

“What the hell happened? Why were you in a stolen car with Deacon Kelley? One of the officers said you told him that you stole it.”

“I did. I’ll explain when I see you, Dad. But for once, I need you to trust me.”

He’s silent for too long.

I imagine the best version of this moment. Dad taking me at my word, because he knows I’m not capable of stealing a car.

But my father doesn’t know me.

“You just told me that you stole a car, Frankie. Why should I trust you?”

“Because I’m telling the truth. Because I’m your daughter, and I deserve the benefit of the doubt.” I take a deep breath and speak the words that I’ve longed to say for months. “And because I know who killed Noah.”

CHAPTER 41

THE RIGHT REASON

Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for the right reason.

The trick is knowing when the reason is right.

It’s a lot like the bite point. You know it when you feel it.

At the barracks, I watch every door, hoping Dad will come out of one of them. An officer leads me to the door of an interrogation room. I lean against the wall while he unlocks it. Another door opens at the end of the hallway.