The Epidemic (6 page)

And then . . . A scene plays across my mind, like when you spontaneously remember a dream from the night before. The pain eases slightly, as if the pain has opened the door for a memory to slip out. But it’s a memory I can’t quite place.

I was with Marie in the small waiting room of a doctor’s office, surrounded by hard padded chairs and stark white walls. Marie was seated next to me, casually flipping through a copy of
Psychology Today
. A nurse in pale blue scrubs worked behind a half wall made of glass blocks. I turned and gave Marie such a hateful glare that she must have felt it, because she lowered the magazine.

“We’ll fix it, Quinn,” she told me calmly. “Just like before. He promised it’ll work this time.” With that she turned and went back to her magazine, but I immediately reached out and slapped it from her hand, knocking it to the floor. Marie’s expression hardened, and just then the office door opened. The sound of it made my insides knot, and I slowly turned.

I take in a gasp of cold air, falling back a step on the sidewalk as the memory ends. I spin and look around the street and find the neighborhood still deserted, but my nerves are frayed. Unsettled. The pain in my head is a dull ache, the memory planted but not connected to an event, a clip from a movie I’ve
never seen. Where had Marie taken me and what the hell were we fixing?

I blink my eyes quickly and try to reorient myself, searching my memories to make sense of the images. Nothing fits. Could that possibly have been real? If it was, I don’t think I would have forgotten it. And I would never have glared at Marie like that, slapped a magazine from her hand. Never—she was like a mother to me. At least that was how I saw her.

There’s a tickle on my upper lip, and when I lick it, I taste metal. I quickly run the back of my hand over my mouth and see that it’s covered in bright red blood. My nose is bleeding.

I spit into the grass to get rid of the taste, but the blood continues to run down my throat. I lean forward, pinching my nose closed. I can’t remember the last time I had a nosebleed, but I do remember when Deacon had one while we were sitting outside a pizza place a few months ago. Some self-righteous woman came up to us and yelled at him for tipping his head backward, saying she was sick of everyone always getting it wrong. Deacon didn’t like her tone, so he asked if she was the nosebleed police. And then, just to spite her, he unplugged his nose and let the blood run down his face until she got grossed out and left.

I laugh to myself, blood sputtering between my lips. I spit again but keep my head forward, using the technique that I read about in my first aid class. It feels like I stand there forever, and I worry someone will wander out of their house and find me bleeding on the sidewalk. But eventually the rush slows. I
straighten, then wait a moment, until I’m sure the bleeding has stopped completely, leaving my nostrils stuffy and only a drop of blood on my shirt.

Well, that was a blast,
I think. I’m sure I look like a horror show right now with blood all over my face, so I sneak around the corner of the nearest house and turn on their hose. I rinse off my hand with the ice-cold water and then clean my face until the blood is gone. The faucet squeaks when I close it, and I replace the hose before shaking the water off my hands.

The memory with Marie haunts me, hovering in my consciousness between reality and a dream, and I know I have to talk to her. Fact is, Marie was the one who brought me to my father under Arthur’s direction. She’s also the person who gave me the truth about Quinlan McKee. My father mentioned Marie when we talked last night. Maybe I’m
supposed
to find her.

Across the street a woman walks out of her front door and slams it shut, turning her back on me while she locks it. I take her momentary distraction to quickly move from the side of the house and walk purposefully in the direction of downtown.

The last thing I need is for someone to think I’m casing the neighborhood. If I get picked up for questioning by the cops, they’ll contact my father. No. They’ll contact the grief department. Apparently my father is not and has never been my legal guardian.

I speed up my steps, keeping my head turned away when the neighbor drives past in her minivan. I’m going to continue
on my trip to Roseburg, but I need to find Marie—to find out what my father wanted me to know. There’s only one person left for me to ask for help: Aaron Rios.

Aaron is my best friend. He has always had my back, and as far as I know, he might be the only person who has never betrayed me. But yesterday he was ready to escape from the world of closers with his girlfriend. Then again, he also said he couldn’t tell me about the terms of his release from his contract. So it’s possible he sucks as much as the rest of them. But I’ll have to take a leap of faith here.

If there’s anyone who can track Marie, it’ll be him. I need a phone.

*  *  *

There’s a café on the corner a few blocks down, but I’m reluctant to enter when I see it’s not busy. It won’t be easy to navigate undetected when I can’t disappear into the background. I keep walking. My fingers are going numb from the cold air on wet skin, and the headache still pulses at my temples.

I notice a couple approaching, cups clutched in their hands. I lower my head, shielding my eyes, even though I nod at their hello. I head in the direction they came from and find a coffee shop hidden among the houses. It’s a small wood-shingled building with metal chairs and small tables out front. They’re all filled, and I see from outside the glass door that the inside is crowded. Perfect.

Even through my plugged nose, the smell of hazelnut flavoring and coffee beans is thick, comforting, and warm. I stand
in line. The guy in front is wearing a light spring jacket, his hands tucked inside his pockets. I scan him, but when I don’t see an obvious sign of a phone, I lose interest and look around the room. I notice a guy on his computer, his phone perched close to the edge of the table, books spread on the other side as he types quickly. He looks frazzled, distracted. Perfect.

I discreetly keep my eye on him as I get through the line and order a vanilla latte. The cup is gloriously warm on my chilled fingers, and I hover a moment near the stir sticks and survey the area. No one has noticed me. I adjust my hood at my neck to cover my jawline, and I lower the brim of the baseball hat. I wait until I see another person walking down the aisle about to pass the guy’s table. I start in that direction, my full backpack over my shoulders.

I time it perfectly. The girl walking down the aisle says “excuse me” and I have to brush along the table to avoid her, our presence crowding the area. The guy continues typing, but leans away from us as his shoulder touches my hip. I murmur an apology just as my fingers close around his phone. It’s in my pocket and I’m out the door before he even finishes typing his sentence.

Once outside, I head for a park I noticed earlier. I pull off my baseball hat, reminded of how crisp the morning air is. I fold my hat and tuck it into my coat pocket and shake out my hair. I find a bench that’s partially obscured from view under a crooked tree, the leaves bending toward the ground. I sit down and take out the phone to examine it.

It doesn’t have a pass code, which surprises me. As a closer, to study the private lives of my assignments, I’ve had to break dozens of cell-phone codes—some easier than others. Considering this guy has wallpaper of a dog wearing sunglasses, I assume he’s sweet and trusting. I mean . . . he obviously loves his dog. And now I feel even worse for stealing it. I hope he has insurance.

Aaron won’t have his phone anymore, because he was leaving town and didn’t want to be tracked. But since he left before I found out the truth about the lies my father and Marie have been feeding me, he has no idea how dangerous things are. He wouldn’t have been as careful as he should have. Neither would Myra.

Aaron always joked that once he was done with his contract, he and Myra were going to run off together to a cabin in North Dakota. They might be halfway there by now. Which is why I assume this will not be well received.

The headache that hasn’t left starts to tick up in pain level, and I quickly type in Myra’s phone number. A perk of always having to use other people’s phones, I guess. I have to actually memorize numbers. Before I finish dialing, I look around the park. There’s a man asleep with a newspaper over his shoulder on another bench. A couple walks hand in hand near the roses in the garden area. The woman laughs, and I find myself mimicking her smile.

I stop—alarmed at how easy the habit has become for me. Instead I look down at the phone number and imagine Aaron and Myra sitting by the fire in a cabin. Aaron braids Myra’s
hair while she talks about how bored she is living in the woods. They’re happy, though—free to live their own lives.

I shouldn’t ruin that. I should let them get away.

But I’m too selfish, so I hit send and sit back on the bench, watching the fountain across the park. At first the line just rings, and I worry she’s left it behind after all, but then there is a click, and Myra’s voice rings through clear and aggressive as ever.

“Yeah, who’s this?” she says.

A flood of emotions fills my chest, and I steady myself. “I need his help,” I say quietly. There’s a pause, and then Myra mumbles for me to hold on. I wait, wishing she’d stayed on the line a little longer. Reminded me of what it was like before I knew the truth about myself. But she’s getting Aaron, because ultimately she knows how to help me.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing Aaron asks. He sounds distracted, like he’s driving, but his voice is urgent.

“I need to find Marie,” I say. “She’s disappeared.”

“I can’t believe you tracked me down for this, Quinn. If Marie disappeared, none of us will find her. I told Deacon the same thing last night.”

“You spoke to Deacon?” I ask, cold pinpricks running down my arms.

“Wait,” Aaron says. “Aren’t you together?”

“No,” I tell him, and look around, as if Deacon has been just out of sight the entire time. But the park is unchanged. Aaron curses.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “First Deacon calls looking for
Marie. Now you? I told you I was out, Quinn. What the hell happened at Marie’s apartment yesterday?”

“She wasn’t there,” I tell him. “But she left me a file.” Tears sting my eyes.

“A file? Your closer file?”

“No.” I shake my head. “My
life
file. Quinlan McKee was an assignment. I was her closer.”

He’s quiet for a moment and then, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The real Quinlan McKee died when she was six,” I say. “Marie and Arthur Pritchard found me and brought me in. Trained me as a closer for Quinn’s life. But the assignment didn’t end there. They let me stay. They let Quinlan’s dad
keep
me. My entire life is a lie, Aaron. I’m not even real.”

“So . . . Tom’s not your father,” he asks.

“Nope.”

He’s quiet for a long while, and I imagine him sharing a stunned look with Myra from across the seats. “Hold up,” Aaron tells me. “Let me pull over.”

I wait a minute, and then I can hear Myra’s voice in the background asking if I’m all right. It makes me feel good that she asked. But I can’t help wondering if she would have been friends with me—the real me—if I hadn’t been a closer. I have to question all my relationships now.

“You there?” Aaron asks. When I tell him that I am, he exhales heavily. “Damn, girl,” he says, like he can’t quite believe what I just told him. “I mean, I’ve always hated Tom, couldn’t
understand how you turned out so nice with an asshole like that for a father. Now we know, I guess.”

“I guess,” I repeat.

“Shit, though,” Aaron adds. “Marie, too? They both lied to you?”

“Yeah.”

I know the idea of Marie betraying us hurts him just as much as it hurts me. We trusted her with our lives. We were trained to. “So how you holding up?” Aaron asks, quieter. Changed by what I’ve told him.

“I’ve certainly been better,” I say.

“Understandable. What’s this mean to Deacon?” Aaron asks. “What are his thoughts on this mess? I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”

“He—” I stop, look around the park again. I suddenly feel as if I’ve been noticed, feel the tickle of someone’s gaze on the back of my neck, prickling my skin. I get up from the bench and dart my gaze around, looking for the difference in the setting.

“I hope you’re not giving him shit,” Aaron says, misreading the concern in my voice. “He said he was leaving town with you and asked for Marie’s contact information. I told him I didn’t have it. He promised me the two of you were good again.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, “you should know by now that when someone promises something, it just means they’re trying extra hard at lying. Find Marie,” I tell him. “And tell her to meet me in Roseburg. I’ll text a new number when I get there. But,
Aaron, you can’t tell Deacon you heard from me if he calls back. Not this time. Keep this one secret for me.”

Aaron scoffs. “You should know by now that when someone asks you to keep a secret, it just means they’re about to do something really fucking stupid.”

I smile, missing our friendship. All the days of driving around with him, listening to stories and joking about everything. Our lives were never easy as closers, but we had our moments. “Tell Myra I’m sorry for calling,” I say. “And tell her I miss her mean ass.”

Aaron laughs. “I will. Be in touch soon.”

I click off the phone and slip it into my pocket. I’ll ditch it soon, but first I have some arrangements to make. I get up and start down the block. The feeling of being watched has faded, and although I’m still slightly unsettled by it, hearing Aaron’s voice has given me back some of my confidence. Reminded me of who I am.

I’m a good closer. I can become anyone. And if I want to travel undetected, I’ll need to become someone else.

THE MORNING FOG IS BURNING
off, and I want to get to Roseburg before school lets out. I run my hand through my hair, reminded that I cut it short just a week ago. I wanted to look more like Catalina. Now I’ll need another look.