The Epidemic (13 page)

Arthur Pritchard is not the kind of man you make deals with,
my father told me last night. It’s entirely possible that Deacon is in more danger than I am right now. And if that’s true . . . it’s because of me. “What have you gotten yourself into?” I ask him.

“A contract,” he says, sitting next to me on the bed. His weight shifts the mattress and tips me closer to him. “It states that if I expose my purpose, they can take me into custody,” Deacon says. “Indefinite therapy. I’d be committed, and I’m not sure what would happen after that.”

My resolve to be angry with him weakens. We’re closers. We’re not your typical patients, and we don’t receive your typical care—therapy for us is a looming threat, a well-known treatment that worms its way into our heads, disrupts us, changes us. We avoid it at all costs. So Arthur’s threat of indefinite therapy could very well kill who Deacon is. That certainly would be definite.

I look sideways at Deacon and find him watching the floor. He’s defeated, desperate. He’ll leave if I ask again, and that question ignites a battle between my head and my heart. “Tell me one thing,” I say, drawing his gaze. “Did you know about Quinlan McKee? Did you know I was a closer for her life?”

“No, of course not,” he says. “I wouldn’t have kept that from you.”

“You kept this from me.”

“
This
is different,” he says. “And I’m telling you now. Yes, I’m your handler; I’ve monitored your behavior. But I didn’t tell Arthur Pritchard a damn thing other than to say you were fine, even when I suspected that you weren’t. I always had your back. Always.”

“Is that why you broke up with me?” I ask.

“Yes. I wanted you to be able to move on—to try for a normal life.” Deacon runs his palm over his face. “I wanted you to escape all of this—especially me. I tried to stay away. I failed, but I tried really fucking hard. And that’s why I’m an asshole.”

As far as handlers go, Deacon was a terrible choice for Arthur to make. Sure, he had access to me, access he tried to limit when he could, but the truth is obvious now. And I think I’ve always known it. I think it’s why I love him so madly.

Deacon’s loyalty lies with me. It always will. Not even Arthur Pritchard could break it.

I’m not going to make him leave. Deacon’s a good closer, but he’s not as good as me. We know each other too well, and I can see that he’s not playing me; I don’t think he can. Instead
he’s baring his soul, leaving himself vulnerable. It’s what I’ve always wanted, but now . . . I don’t know that it’s enough. And it might never be enough. Not when neither of us can seem to tell the truth.

But right now I need him more than I need to punish him.

“Something happened,” I say, feeling the grief scratching its way to the surface now that my anger has (partially) subsided. “Something horrible.”

Deacon must sense the flood of emotion coming, because he moves to kneel in front of me on the threadbare, burgundy carpet. “What is it?” he asks, his voice the perfect pitch of calm and tender. He’s such a closer.

“It was a pile of clothes,” I say out loud, breaking my own heart. Because, of course, they weren’t just clothes. They were part of a life. And now they’re death and blood and gore. I imagine Roderick’s body on the sidewalk, broken. Chills stretch over my skin and I start to shiver. A headache starts, and all I want is to slip away and get some distance so I don’t die too.

I start to cry. I can barely see Deacon through my blurry vision, and he reaches to brush his palms over my cheeks to clear the tears. “I’m going to get you some water, okay?” he says softly.

He doesn’t leave until I nod, and rather than turn on the faucet, he pulls a water bottle from the duffel bag he has stashed in the corner of the room. He brings it back to the bed and sits next to me, his thigh touching mine.

I take the bottle from his hand and sip, but my throat feels
thick from crying, and I choke. I drag my hand across my mouth to wipe away the water. I need to calm myself—Marie would have told me as much—but I can’t seem to. My eyes have gone dry, painful and sore from crying. Deacon doesn’t ask me to talk or explain. He’s always known when not to.

I set the water bottle on the table next to the lamp and curl up on the bed, shoes and all. I sporadically twitch, like a full-body hiccup, and I feel half out of my mind. Deacon goes to the other bed and pulls off the comforter. He drags it to lay over me rather than asking me to get under the covers. He tucks the blanket all around me, and I look up at him. It buries me to see how much love is there, how much guilt.

“I’m sorry, Quinn,” he whispers.

I know he is. He’s sorry for now and for all the things he hasn’t told me yet. He’s sorry for my pain. But tonight I just want it all to go away. I don’t want to be alone. Not after everything I’ve seen.

I reach for Deacon’s hand and pull him toward me. He comes to lie beside me, the heat of his body close to mine although he doesn’t touch me. I hear him exhale heavily.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, sounding a million miles away.

He’s the only comfort I have left as I start to drift asleep. And as my eyes close, I murmur back, “I always miss you, Deacon.”

BRIGHT SUNLIGHT ROUSES ME FROM
my sleep, and my eyelids flutter open. I put up my palm to block the light streaming in the window, and I slowly sit up. My head is stuffy, and my face feels swollen from crying. I’m exhausted and drained.

But at least I’m alive.

I turn and see Deacon sitting at the small table, a drink carrier in front of him with a tall coffee cup, another cup near his left hand. His head is down as he sketches on the back of a receipt, a picture I can’t see from here. He picks up his drink and takes a sip. He notices me then, and sets down his pen and motions toward the other cup.

“It’s hot chocolate,” he says. “I can go get you something else if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, trying to put together everything we talked about last night. Slowly things come back to me. I peel off the comforter and swing my legs so that my feet touch the floor. I stare down at my socks. I don’t remember removing my shoes.

I get up and cross to where Deacon is sitting. He watches me carefully, waiting to see if I’ve forgiven him. If I’ll let him back into my life. I pause at the end of the table and reach out to take the hot chocolate.

My heart aches a little when I see the picture he’s been drawing. It’s still just a sketch, but I can tell already that it’s me and him, side by side. Only we’re rigid and empty. It’s the loneliest picture I’ve ever seen.

I take a sip, chocolate-flavored sugar coating my tongue.

Deacon’s chin has the shadow of a beard, and his eyes are red and weary. The anticipation of my answer must kill him, because he leans to rest his forehead against my hip and closes his eyes, apologetic and broken.

I can’t help it—I thread my fingers through his soft hair like I’ve done a million times before. Run them down his neck. I feel his warm breath through my clothes, his hand on the back of my calf. When he looks up at me, he doesn’t smile.

“I love you,” he whispers as if he’s been trying to say it his whole life.

My entire world stops spinning; I’m completely stunned by his confession. I honestly never thought he would say the words.

“I’ve loved you since the first day I showed up at your house and gave you a hard time,” he continues. “I loved you when I broke up with you because I was too scared to love you anymore. I wanted you to find better than me. I wanted you to have everything.” His throat clicks when he swallows, as if he’s overcome. “I love you so much that it might just kill me, Quinn,” he murmurs. “But I’ll go ahead and keep on loving you until it does, because I don’t know any other way to be alive.”

I gave up hoping Deacon would ever say the words, but now that he has, I don’t know what to do with them. So I give him the only response I’m able to.

“I love you too,” I say quietly. “But that doesn’t change a thing.”

I turn away and sit on the bed across from him. Deacon may not have gotten the answer he wanted, but he does look relieved to have admitted his feelings. And he knows I’m right about it not changing our situation. At least we’re finally being honest with each other—not exactly a strong point in our relationship.

Although I’m sure Deacon’s still waiting for me to decide his fate one way or another, I’m not prepared to make that decision just yet. But I need his help on something bigger than both of us.

“There’s something else we have to talk about,” I say.

Deacon picks up his cup to take a sip of his drink, more at ease than he’d been earlier. More focused now that the
biggest burdens are off his conscience. “Is this about last night?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I couldn’t talk about it then; it was too near my heart. But now my emotions are at bay, pushed aside as if I’m closing. “There was a party,” I tell Deacon. “And I went there with Virginia Pritchard. There was this guy . . . he killed himself. At his own party in front of everyone.”

Deacon pauses midsip and turns to me. “You saw him?” he asks, pulling his eyebrows together in concern.

“I witnessed the whole thing,” I say, sickness bubbling up in my stomach. I begin to wring my hands in front of me and slowly recount every horrifying detail for Deacon, every second of thought. He doesn’t say a word, but it doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking. He’s always thinking.

When I finish, I look up and find him watching me intently. He licks his bottom lip before he talks, his words measured.

“What you saw last night,” he starts, “it’s not the first time. I did a little research on the school when I saw you there yesterday. There have been over a dozen articles just this week.” He pauses at the weight of his next words. “The students there are killing themselves, Quinlan. And nobody can figure out why.”

Deacon and I hold each other’s gaze, each of us assessing the situation in our own way. Getting a grip before making a plan. This is how we manage our assignments, too. This is the Deacon I know more than any other. This one I can trust.

“How bad is it?” I ask. “I only know what Virginia has told me, and I worry that her perspective is skewed.”

“They’re calling the deaths part of a suicide epidemic,” Deacon says. “The last article I read was from the Oregon Health Authority. Several officials are demanding mandatory therapy for everyone in Douglas County who’s under eighteen.”

“Mandatory?” I repeat. The word “mandatory” is a scary one. A controlling one. “How could they enforce something like that?”

“There’s a meeting next week at city hall. That’s probably what they intend to discuss.”

I look around the room, thinking over this development. “So . . . they’re going to round up everyone under eighteen. Virginia said they had been bringing in grief counselors. Do you think it’s more of that? I mean, what sort of therapy are we talking about here?”

“I have no idea,” Deacon says. “Chances are it’ll be much more invasive than anything we’ve seen before, though, especially since it comes with a mandate.”

I consider that statement. “But will it help?” I ask, even though I realize how double-edged the question is. “Because I saw Roderick die, and I have to tell you, Deacon . . . I’m not sure what can be worse.”

“It can always be worse,” he murmurs. “He might have triggered more.”

And the truth is, I think Deacon’s right—his actions have triggered something. I felt it, and I’m trained to control emotions.
To temper them. I may not have loved being a closer all the time, but I can see the benefits. It certainly hurts less this way. But what about Roderick’s friends at the party? How will they process what happened to him?

“Virginia,” I say, mostly to myself. She handled the devastation like a pro, like someone who’s been through it a million times. There’s no way it hasn’t affected her, though.

“About her . . . ,” Deacon says. “I know you feel loyalty to the Barnes family. And although finding Virginia’s connection to Catalina’s death is important, and you’re a good person for wanting those answers, I don’t think—”

“It’s not just about Catalina,” I interrupt. “I’m going to use Virginia to blackmail her father.” As soon as the words are out, I’m stunned by how callous they sound. The way Deacon rocks back in his seat, I can tell he feels the same way.

He lowers his eyes to his cup, speechless. It occurs to me then that I’m not an entirely good person—maybe I never was. I’ve been playing a part my whole life. Maybe Quinlan was the good one. I don’t know what I am anymore.

“Regardless of your plan,” Deacon says in a quiet voice, “my vote is to leave town. Before someone from the grief department finds you and brings you back to Corvallis.”

“Someone already found me,” I say. Deacon’s head snaps up. “I thought there was a doctor or a therapist on the bus with us. I . . . I thought you were working with her.”

“What?” Deacon says, screwing up his face. “First of all, no. Second, I didn’t notice anyone out of place. Your distrust
in me might have been . . . skewing your perception.”

He’s probably right, but he’s not in a position to call me paranoid. “Yes, how crazy for me to be distrustful.” Deacon takes a sharp breath at the dig, but then nods respectfully for me to continue.

“In Eugene,” I tell him, “a closer named August—Roger, actually—attacked me. He drugged my drink, and when that didn’t work, he tried to physically inject me with a sedative and drag me back to the grief department.”

Deacon’s eyes flash rage, but I hold up my hand to tell him that the time for that has passed.

“I can take care of myself, Deacon,” I say. “He ended up passed out in the front seat of his car. But he told me that the grief department considers me in breach of contract. My father said they want to ‘transition’ me. Any idea what either of them is talking about?”

He furrows his brow as if thinking, and then his face clears. “When I met with Arthur eight and a half months ago, he told me your memory had been manipulated. I assumed it was after your mom died.” He winces. “After Quinlan’s mom died. Now I realize it was probably when he brought you in to close for her. But . . . he told me he needed to monitor you to check for a break with reality.