I stayed on the beach after JJ and Otis left, staring out into the ocean. It was mesmerizing. Thick stripes of moonbeams lit the surface of the water, illuminating the silhouette of a cruise ship far in the distance. I pictured my dad standing there, toes in the sand, taking in his favorite sight. He’d never get to feel this again.
But I would.
The thought had come out of nowhere and pounced on me like Rex in the morning. If a little part of Dad lived on in me, then maybe in some weird universe-righting-itself way, maybe he was seeing it, too. Something like hope welled up inside of me.
Later that night, I lay in bed trying to patch together what I’d just learned, and how much of it I believed.
If JJ had told the truth, the shooting had been planned all along—the time Dad left work didn’t factor into it. They were waiting for him.
It never had anything to do with me.
Not guilty. That was my verdict. Maybe someday that would give me peace, but right now, at—I looked at the clock: 11:11 p.m.—the hole in my heart was every bit as big and jagged as the day we lost him.
The rest of it—they hadn’t meant to shoot him, JJ was an innocent passenger with a conveniently vague memory—maybe was true, maybe not. It didn’t matter. In JJ’s world, gangs ruled. They took issue with a cop trying to help their friend’s brother. In their twisted minds, Detective Abernathy had intruded on their turf, messed with one of their own. They couldn’t let it be.
Their solution, to teach the cop and the kid a lesson, was carried out the only way they knew how, violently.
That they were only supposed to blow out my dad’s tires, or smash his windshield, but hit him instead? They didn’t care—worse, they didn’t pay for it. Except for JJ’s admission of being in the car, the police interrogation netted no solid evidence against any of them. No convictions, no indictments, no jail time. The conscienceless miscreants were home free.
Grand slam for them.
Torture for me and my family.
I wanted revenge. We deserved it. The West Palm Beach Police Force had not managed it for us. What were the chances a lone thirteen-year-old could get back at Hector, Chris, and that Tony guy? How could I inflict hurt, humiliation, and the kind of pain they’d caused us?
I wasn’t exactly Wonder Woman, Xena, Nancy Drew, or that girl with the dragon tattoo.
So what should I do with this new info?
Tell someone, sure. But whom?
I suppose I could have told Regan, the first person I saw after meeting JJ. She’d picked me up at the shopping center, but as usual, had been deep in Regan-land, talking all about herself. She’d asked no questions, not even, what movie did you see, or where are your friends? Or why are my shorts soaking wet, or even, why is the dog covered with sand and seaweed that is now all over my backseat? Regan wasn’t interested then and would not appreciate me knocking on her door now.
Next in the on-deck circle: Mom. She’d ask a million questions I didn’t want to answer. She’d take me to the police, but what did I really have to offer? I could now tell them for sure who else was in the car with JJ. But I had no real proof, just the word of an at-risk kid with two strikes against him already. I still didn’t know who had the gun.
Still, the police would listen to me. My dad’s buddies would investigate. They’d drag JJ in, subject him to serious grilling, maybe wrench the rest of the story out of him.
It was a plan, but it didn’t make me feel good.
JJ pretty much said that they had threatened him. If JJ told, the gang would make him pay. I’d be responsible for that.
I laced my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling, watching the blades of the overhead fan go round and round until they blurred together. Maybe there was another way. What would Dad have done?
My dad lived his beliefs. Family first, serving and protecting the community, baseball, and above all, I guess, justice. Sometimes it meant making sure the bad guys got put away. Other times it meant giving deserving people a hand up, a second chance. Probably hundreds of kids in trouble cycled through the precinct. He only worked with those he believed had potential, who truly wanted to improve themselves, get on the right track. And JJ Pico, whatever I felt about him, had been one of those kids.
I rolled over onto my stomach, rested my head on my arms. The obvious answer was for JJ himself to man up. It was his responsibility to go to the police and tell them who shot my dad. Whatever the cost.
The police could find a way to protect him, I reasoned. Put him in Witness Protection or something. Maybe that would be a good thing, a chance at a fresh start for him and his family. Maybe they could take Otis. My vision of a new life for JJ was oddly comforting. If the whole truth could come out, that would be justice for my dad.
Without thinking it through, I grabbed my cell phone and scrolled to the Canine Connections contact list LuLu had provided. I sent JJ a text. Do the right thing. You know what I mean.
I stared at the screen even though I knew JJ wasn’t about to text back. He was probably asleep, believing his conscience clear. Rex, curled up at my feet, lazily rolled over onto his back and assumed a favorite position: front paws up and bent in begging position, eyes closed, head lolled to one side, tongue hanging out.
He looked so innocent, so vulnerable. Affectionately, I stretched my foot out and ran my toes over his exposed belly, the only soft part of the pup’s prickly pelt.
Rex. Still a mystery.
“What are you?” I whispered. This time I got a honking snore for an answer.
Did my dad snore? I caught myself wondering. Did my mom tease him about it? Why did it matter?
Because snoring would not be the only parallel between a mangy mutt who’d begged to be adopted and the parent who’d meant everything to me. The parent who’d never again smile that smile and tell me to “Say good night, Gracie.”
The outsize digitized numbers on the alarm clock read 2:17 a.m. I was too wired to sleep. I couldn’t even think straight. I pictured my brain splintering into a million little shards shooting like asteroids into the ether. Maybe that’s why I allowed the most insane thoughts loose.
Dad was a detective. Rex often acted like one. He’d shown me Sheena in the act of stealing. He was the one who overheard Lissa’s plans to break into a house. And yeah, it turned out that Jasmine had, in fact, been cheating. Just like Rex said.
Then there was JJ Pico.
Dad had placed him in Canine Connections. Separately, he’d told Regan about the organization, suggesting she train a service dog. I don’t think he’d have been surprised that Regan got me to do it for her.
Which put me on a collision course with JJ Pico.
For extra insurance that JJ and I would continue to cross paths, the dog led me straight to his door.
I don’t believe in reincarnation. I don’t believe in being able to channel a dead person’s spirit. I think psychics, tarot card “interpreters,” palm readers, or anyone who claims they can contact the dead are a total scam.
Magical thinking. It was something my mom had told me from her bereavement book The Year of Magical Thinking, about a woman coping with the sudden death of her husband. Magical thinking was something people, not necessarily nutcases, sometimes ended up doing when they lost someone. This woman—not crazy—refused to throw away her dead husband’s shoes because a part of her, for a short period of time, thought maybe he’d come back.
I rolled out of bed and Googled “magical thinking.” An instant-info overload of articles, references, medical and scientific definitions came up, most of it way over my head.
This much made sense: Magical thinking refers to irrational beliefs. When people believe they have the power to cast spells, or bestow luck or curses on others, that’s one kind of magical thinking. Another kind is way more common and recognizable. Like if you sit in a certain seat in class, you’ll do better. If you don’t stare at the phone, it’ll ring. If you turn your baseball cap backward, you’ll affect the outcome of the game. Everyday stuff like that is considered magical thinking, too.
There was an article describing the magical thinking my mom’s book was about. It said some people in mourning believe things can continue the way they were, and the loved one is still there in some form. Maybe that explained my hearing Rex talk, the conversations I knew I had with him.
Maybe I was a magical thinker, not a mental girl.
I peered at my snoozing pooch. He looked laughable, ridiculous, with his paws bent in the air, tongue still hanging out, drooling and snoring.
Do I really think this is Dad, come back to me in the form of a mangy mutt?
Does that count as magical thinking or just plain insanity?
The rest of the article said magical thinking was a coping mechanism, that it was okay, it didn’t mean you’d gone over the edge—as long as it didn’t last for such a long time that you never moved forward. Which is exactly what Regan accused me of, and my mom worried about. Me being stuck in mourning, not moving on.
I pictured the beach tonight. How when I saw the moonlight reflected on the ocean, instantly I’d thought about Dad. It was like I could feel what he felt, hear him saying, “There’s just something mystical about that sight, Gracie.” It didn’t hurt to feel that way. It was kind of okay. Was that moving forward? Was that what Rex had been sent to do? Sent by whom?
Was Rex here to let me know that Dad was not really gone?
A strange sense of calm settled over me, feathery light and safe as a mother’s, or father’s, hug.