The Epidemic

To Brandi

This is for our grandmothers

Josephine Parzych and Mary Cavallaro

MY ENTIRE LIFE IS A
lie. I’m nothing more than a carefully crafted story about a dead girl—a recently discovered truth that’s left me questioning my existence. I was brought in to close out her life, but somehow I forgot mine along the way. I don’t remember my real name or my real family; I truly thought
I
was Quinlan McKee.

But now I’m nobody.

The tires roll over a bump in the road, rattling the windows of the bus, and I sway in my padded seat. The world moves past me in silhouettes against the darkening night. My fingertips tingle and my lips are numb. Cold sweat beads on my skin. I think I’m in shock.

Deacon sits next to me, the music from his earbuds playing loudly enough for me to hear a faint hum. We’re on an
evening bus to Roseburg, Oregon—a poorly planned trip to find my identity. But now I know we’re heading toward an uncertain future. I thought Deacon and I had finally figured each other out, found a way to be together despite all the lies surrounding me. But the last twenty minutes have cured me of such naïve thinking.

I look sideways at Deacon and study his features, seeking out his misdirection. Instead I find the soft brown color of his eyes, which can read my soul, the perfect curve of his lips, and the sharp angles of his jaw—a face that’s so familiar I would know it in the dark. He gives nothing away as he subtly bobs his head to the music, staring straight ahead. Betrayal suddenly hardens in my veins, and I have to turn away from him. All of my relationships have been a lie too.

I face the window, my suspicion going unnoticed. My heart would surely be shattered by this if it hadn’t already been damaged several times today, maybe broken beyond repair. Because after finding out I wasn’t who I thought I was, I trusted Deacon—the only person left to trust. But twenty minutes ago a text popped up on his phone:

HAVE YOU FOUND HER YET?

There are only a handful of people who would have sent that text, none of whom I’d want knowing my location. Every time I try to find a rational explanation for the message, I remind myself that Deacon
did
find me. He tracked me down at the bus station because he knew exactly what I would do. He knows me better than anyone. And that makes me an easy
mark for a closer. Trust and love are our greatest weapons for manipulation.

Deacon and I have both been closers, reading people and their emotions for a living. For years I willingly took on the roles of deceased girls in order to help their families through grief. I was a remedy for broken hearts, a tool for loved ones to use to get closure. But I had no idea that I was a closer for my own life. Quinlan McKee died when she was six. I was brought in by Dr. Arthur Pritchard to play her role. My father . . .

I close my eyes, cursing my sentimentality.
Stop thinking of him like that,
I demand. Tom McKee isn’t my father.

But despite my attempts to compartmentalize the pain, my breath hitches from the loss. He
was
my father, wasn’t he? I can’t deny that. Tom McKee raised me, even if he lied to me the entire time. When I was a little girl, he’d brush my hair and cook my meals. We’d watch movies together and, of course, train to be better within the department. Ultimately, what he needed was for me to help him get over the grief of losing his daughter. He kept me to avoid his own pain. In turn he caused mine. But he was still my dad.

Deacon’s fingers brush over my hand on the bus seat, startling me. I lift my eyes to his, struck down by how my heart swells when he meets my gaze. How my insides burn at the possibility that he’s deceived me more than anybody. And yet I still can’t find that betrayal in his expression.

“You okay?” Deacon asks, taking out one of his earbuds. I wait a beat and then press my lips into a sad smile—half acting,
half pained. Determined to find the crack in his veneer.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just thinking about my dad.”

He winces sympathetically and slides his fingers between mine, squeezing them for comfort. “Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t give him that. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

He’s right, which is ironic considering the mysterious text Deacon received. I look down at our hands, so perfectly matched.
He’s mine,
I think, my chest aching.
Hasn’t he always been mine?

But how many times has Deacon lied to me? How long has he been manipulating me?

Who sent that text?

“Remember the last time we tried to run away?” he asks, leaning his temple against the seat as he gazes lovingly at me. It’s almost enough to distract me completely.

“ ‘Tried’ being the operative word,” I say. “We failed.”

“Hey.” He sniffs a laugh. “We made it as far as your driveway before your dad pulled up and you chickened out. It’s the farthest we ever got.” His eyes soften. “Until now. And we’re all in this time, right?” he asks.

“All in,” I repeat, looking down at our hands again. Deacon’s thumb strokes my wrist, pausing slightly on my pulse point. For a moment I’m lost in his touch, but then I realize he could be monitoring my heartrate—acting as a lie detector.

I haven’t been careful enough. I haven’t been protecting myself, even though my father told me that the grief department would be after me. He said they wouldn’t let me go because they
plan to
transition
me within the department. He didn’t know exactly what they were transitioning me into. Maybe someone at the grief department is behind that text.

“What’s wrong?” Deacon asks, narrowing his eyes slightly. “I mean, beyond the obvious part where your dad is a raging asshole.”

“It’s all just a little much, you know?” I say as naturally as possible. I casually take my hand from Deacon’s and run it through my short hair, bringing it to rest on my lap instead. Deacon follows the movement but doesn’t mention it. “I don’t know what we’ll find when we get to Roseburg,” I add.

Dr. Arthur Pritchard is in Roseburg, along with his daughter, Virginia. Although I agreed to check on Virginia’s well-being after the suicide of my last assignment, Arthur’s the one I’m after. My father said that Arthur might be able to get the grief department off my back, but more than that, Arthur knows my real identity; he might be the only person who does.

Until then I have to avoid getting picked up by the grief department—I don’t know what they’re capable of. Clearly, they’re not just a treatment program; they’re involved in cover-ups and lies. My father is afraid of them. Marie, my advisor, skipped town before they could find her. I don’t even know what I’m up against, and that makes them scarier than anything.

And I’m stuck on a bus with the person I love, the person who is possibly working against me. Am I being paranoid? Am I not paranoid enough? If the situation were different, I could
act like all is well with Deacon and wait for reinforcements—another counselor to take my place because I’m compromised. But, of course, there’s no one coming to help me. I’m all alone. I’ve always been alone. And so I have to run until I’m certain where Deacon’s loyalties lie.

Deacon slips his earbud back in his right ear, exhaling heavily like he’s exhausted. “The first thing we should do when we get to Roseburg,” he says, “is grab dinner. We’re both a little high-strung right now.” He turns up the corner of his mouth when he looks over at me.

“Agreed,” I say, playing along. A passing sign outside the window announcing the Eugene bus station catches my attention, and I think I’ve figured a way off this bus. “One change,” I say to Deacon, holding up my finger like this is important. “We should eat in Eugene. I can’t make it to Roseburg—I’m starving.”

Deacon furrows his brow and leans forward to look out the window, checking our location. “You sure?” he asks, turning to me. “We don’t have much time at this stop.”

“I’m hungry.” I smile winningly, as if trying to convince him.

Deacon darts his eyes quickly toward the back of the bus, and I feel my stomach sink. He’s searching for someone. He has backup. Then again, maybe I’m jumping to all the wrong conclusions. Only problem is that I don’t have the time to figure out which it is.

“Okay, sure,” Deacon says, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, we can grab something quick. Anything for you.”

He says it like he means it, and it’s the cruelest thing he
could have done. I press my lips into a smile and turn away. My heart aches like I’ve been punched in the chest, each breath cracking my ribs, pressing on my soul.

He doesn’t love you,
I tell myself.
That’s why he’s never said it. That’s why he never will.

Whether or not the statement is true, I repeat it until I start to build a wall between us. I continue to push until my feelings are locked away behind the bricks. Like this is just another assignment. I imagine that Deacon is a client and that our time is up. I need to slip away as if I’ve never been here—take no mementos, no baggage. I’ll leave it all here on this bus. I’ll leave him.

The brakes hiss, and gravity pulls us forward in our seats as we come to a stop in front of a small but crowded building. The overhead lights on the bus flick on, and the people around us immediately start to angle for a position in line—as if the bus would leave without letting them off first.

“We’ve got to be back on here in fifteen minutes,” Deacon says. He grabs his bag from under the seat and sets it between us. He zips it closed without ever checking his phone. He doesn’t know he got a message. But more importantly, he doesn’t know that I’ve already seen it.

I pull my backpack straps onto my shoulders, and as we wait for a break in aisle traffic, I subtly glance toward the back of the bus. A woman four rows behind us sticks out—an anomaly in the crowd. I don’t recognize her, but the rigidity of her posture and her stoic expression remind me of a doctor. And
when her dark eyes flash momentarily to mine before darting away, I know immediately that she’s from the grief department. I know that she’s here for me.

I spin around, a lump forming in my throat. I could cry right now if I let myself, break down completely. I could cling to Deacon and beg for his help—
would he help me?
I could return to my father’s house and go on with the lie, live as Quinlan McKee and work for the grief department. It would be easier, in a way. Because right now I’m so scared that I don’t know if I can get off this bus. I don’t know if I can do this alone.

But when there is no other choice . . . you find a way. By the time Deacon steps out into the aisle, making room for me to walk ahead of him, I’m ready to nod politely and put one foot in front of the other.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice says. I freeze, afraid to turn around. The tone is husky and deep, and I imagine it’s the woman I noticed a moment ago. “Excuse me, sir,” she says, and I hear another passenger tell her to go ahead. She’s getting off the bus too.

I inch closer to the businessman in front of me, wishing I could squeeze by him and just run. Instead I’m trapped in the line with everyone else, all of us pressed together and waiting. My fear continues to ratchet up as I hear the woman getting closer. Deacon’s hand moves to rest on my hip, guiding me forward.

Panic is running rampant as I try to piece my situation into something that makes sense, but there are too many broken
edges. I don’t have enough time to make a clean getaway. I don’t know if there is enough time to disappear.

“Excuse me, son,” the woman’s voice says, and she’s so close that I swear she’s talking to Deacon. Her tone has warmed, but Deacon’s hand is still firmly placed on my hip.