The Remedy (37 page)

“What?” I ask. “How is that—”

“You’re a ward of the state,” he says. “You all are.”

I don’t have a family,
I think.
I don’t belong to anybody.
Maybe in some way I knew this. It could be why I’ve felt so lost, so alone. “And what the hell does the department plan to ‘transition’ me into?” I demand.

My father shakes his head. “That I don’t know. But I’ve tried to protect you, institute rules when I thought they would keep you safe. The department will keep pushing you as a closer. Find ways to make you agree. Marie was angry with me for letting you sign the latest contract, and when she found that you’re expected to sign the next one, she begged me to stop them. But I don’t have that power.”

“Who does?”

“Arthur Pritchard, maybe. But he’s just one man. In the end, we’re at the mercy of a board of directors. A corporation.”

“Then what do you suggest?” I ask, even though he’s the last person I should be taking advice from. Guess it’s old habit.

“You should run,” he says. “Take whatever I have. It’s not much, but I can’t get your contract money, not without setting off red flags. I’m sorry I failed you.”

I can leave it all behind, leave the department, my father . . . if I can still call him that. I’m a danger to everyone around me—a bargaining chip the department could use against them. I’ll have to leave everything behind. Even Deacon. Especially Deacon.

Scared, paranoid, I stand, grabbing my bag and pulling it over my shoulder. My father quickly takes out his wallet and hands it to me. “There’s isn’t much,” he says. “The credit cards will give you a head start, though. Take out a cash advance, the pin number is our address. I won’t report them stolen, but when you don’t show up at Marie’s for debriefing, then—”

“Marie’s gone,” I tell him. “Aaron, too.”

He rocks back, absorbing this information. “Oh. That’s good, I suppose.”

His most trusted confidant left him without a word. If there’s anyone who knows what it feels like to be alone, he’s sitting right in front of me. I take his wallet and stuff it into my bag. Before he got here, I dreamed of telling him to rot in hell. Telling him I don’t need anything from him—he’s done enough. But I can’t erase the time I’ve spent here, the love I have for him. Even if I hate him right now.

And the truth is I’m terrified of being on my own. I know how to assimilate, how to blend in. But I’m not going to live some quiet life in the country. I’m going to find Virginia Pritchard. And after I talk to her,
if
 I can talk to her, I’m going straight to her father for answers. But I can’t do any of that without money.

I readjust my bag and glance around the living room, the one that’s looked exactly the same my entire life, to always remind me. Remind me that I’m real. But even that was a forgery. It’s the most devastating feeling in the world. Knowing that I don’t exist. I died when I was six years old.

My heart is heavy as I walk to the front door, my boots cracking the glass on the floor. Just as I reach out for the door handle, I hear my father’s voice.

“You were always my daughter,” he says. “I know you’re hurt right now; you have every right to be. But I do love you. I swear to you I do.”

I flinch with grief, but force my face straight and turn to look back at him, watch as he bites hard on his lip to hold in his cry. The man I’ve known only as my father. How many times has he wanted to tell me the truth? To tell me about his real daughter?

And I realize that if I wanted to, I could give my father closure. He’s never had to accept the loss of Quinlan McKee until right now. I can make it easier, tell him it’ll be okay. Tell him I forgive him. A good person would forgive him.

I’m not that good.

“You’re not my father,” I say instead, bitter. Hurt. He dissolves, but before I have to listen to his cries, I walk out the front door into the cool night. I pull out the keys to my car, knowing I’ll leave it at the bus station. I don’t want to be tracked. I’ll find Virginia. Last Aaron heard, she was in Roseburg. So I guess that’s where I’ll start.

I shiver once in the cold and then tighten my coat around me. I look back at my house and worry briefly how my father will get along without me. But then I remind myself about what he’s done and harden my heart against him. Promising to never let him in again. Refuse to give him any more power over me.

I head toward my car, my expression stoic. I know now why I always felt so alone. It’s because I always was.

I’VE TAKEN FIVE HUNDRED OFF
each of my father’s credit cards. I bought a bus ticket to Roseburg, and at a pay phone I called Deacon—leaving him a message when he didn’t answer. I didn’t tell him where I was, but I did tell him the truth. I’m not Quinlan McKee; I’m her closer.

It hurt to recite it, even in a condensed version. But in a way, I’m glad Deacon didn’t answer. I might not have told him if he did. Unable to speak the horrible words. Unable to say good-bye to him.

The bus rolls up—a picture of the Oregon Zoo painted on its side—and I wince as the brakes squeal and hiss in front of the station. People around me on the benches get up and clamor for a spot in line, but I hang back, afraid of the next step.

“So you’re going to leave it all behind?” a voice asks. I smile, turning slowly. Deacon stands away from the crowd, his face blotchy red like his emotions have gotten the best of him. My stomach does a little somersault, and I try to hide just how thrilled I am to see him. I try—but I’ve never been able to keep secrets from him.

“That was the plan,” I say. He hikes his duffel bag onto his shoulder, and I glance at it before looking at him questioningly. He shrugs.

“I figured,” he says. “The bus station was a lucky guess.”

“And what does that mean for you? What’s your plan, Deacon?” I ask, moving over on the bench so he can sit next to me. At first he studies me with his careful gaze—assessing me like an advisor. He darts a look at the bracelet Isaac gave me, the delicate silver snug against my skin, and then Deacon meets my eyes with an expression that’s completely open.

“To be with you,” he says in a low voice.

No matter what Deacon and I have been through, it always seems to come back to this. The fact that we just can’t stay away from each other. I consider all of the baggage Deacon will have to deal with. How the department will come after him now. Use him as leverage against me.

“I’m not good for you,” I tell him.

Deacon doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t care.”

“You’re not good for me,” I say instead.

“I know,” he responds. “But I could be.”

I close my eyes, the words hurting me with their possibilities. But I don’t think he truly understands my situation. “We don’t make sense anymore, Deacon,” I say, looking up at him again. “I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not even Quinlan McKee.”

“I heard your message,” he says. “But that doesn’t matter to me. Because wherever we are, whoever we are—we always make sense. I think we’re the only things that make total fucking sense. We belong together.” He says it like it’s a fact, an unchangeable part of this world. And even if I didn’t agree, it wouldn’t change how he felt.

What Deacon doesn’t realize, or maybe he does, is that those words are the ones I’ve wanted to hear. Ever since I was a child, I’ve wanted to belong to somebody. I could always take care of myself; that wasn’t the problem. But to have a real family, people invested in your outcome, well, that’s something completely different. I wanted to be loved. I accepted my father’s lies because I wanted it so much. I don’t know what happened to me before I was left at the McKee house. But I’ll find out. I have to.

“I don’t even really exist,” I murmur, the familiar hurt crawling up my throat. I look at Deacon. “I don’t even know my real name.”

Deacon lowers his bag and sits on the bench, his shoulder against mine as he stares toward the bus. “You exist,” he says in a low voice. “Quinlan, you take up my whole world. I assure you, you exist.”

My heart hurts, a deep ache that’s been caused by loss and lies. And although I’m brave, I’m not sure I’m brave enough to walk away from this. I love Deacon too much. “We’re both coldhearted closers,” I whisper. “How do we keep from hurting each other again?”

“We try really hard.”

He turns to me, all of his beautiful parts combining in my favorite way. He’s both friend and more. I think there’s no way I can lose myself again so long as Deacon’s with me. He’s my touchstone. My tether.

“I love you,” I say, not caring if he ever says it back.

Deacon lips pull into a slow smile. “Can I kiss your face now?” he asks.

I laugh, and my heart is full, my loneliness abating. “Yeah,” I say. “You definitely should.” He sighs, relieved, and leans in to press his mouth to mine. Kisses me sweetly. Lovingly.

The driver steps off the bus and makes the last call for passengers. Deacon and I pull apart slightly, but my fingers clutch his shirt to keep him close. “You sure you want to come with me?” I ask Deacon, motioning to the bus. I’m scared of his answer. I’m asking him to leave it all behind too—his entire life. His future. But without a moment of thought, Deacon kisses me again, this time more fiercely, passionately.

When we stand up a moment later, he takes my hand as we walk to board the bus. He gives me a look that says,
This is not friend hand-holding,
and I laugh. We make our way down the aisle, and the air is stuffy and tinged with the smell of sweat, but we find two seats together in the middle of the bus. I push in toward the window and drop my bag on the floor. Deacon does the same and then unzips his bag to pull out a package of Twizzlers (for me) and earbuds (for him). The windows rattle as the bus pulls away from the station.

We’ll have to find a new home, but I don’t even know what that means anymore. For the past eleven years I’ve been an experiment, a homegrown remedy created by my father and Arthur Pritchard. I want to know who I was, where he found me. But first I’ll have to find Virginia Pritchard and discover her role in all of this. And then I’m going after her father.

As if sensing my swirling thoughts, Deacon takes my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine again. Warmth floods me, and I give his hand a reassuring squeeze. Then I open the package of Twizzlers and pass him one.

He takes it, smiling softly. He rests back in the seat and slips the earbuds into his ears, turns up the music. Roseburg is about two hours away, and Deacon and I settle into a comfortable silence, tired and hazy—worn down by our emotions.

I can hear the hum of Deacon’s music while he stares out the windows across the aisle. There is a quiet buzz, and I glance down to his open bag at our feet. His phone, casually tossed on top of his clothes, is lit up with a message. I’m about to tell him, but I catch the words on his screen. Words that prickle their way over my skin until they stop my heart dead in my chest.

I shift my eyes to Deacon, but he hasn’t noticed. He’s as serene and beautiful as ever. He’s perfect—like always.

By the time I glance back at the phone, the message has faded to a black screen. But I know what I read. A question from a number I don’t recognize. A thought that will haunt me because now I really don’t know who to trust.

HAVE YOU FOUND HER YET?

I swallow hard and turn to face the smudged bus window at my side. My heart kicks alive again, pounding against my ribs as the enormity of my situation closes in. I haven’t escaped the grief department, escaped my life as the remedy for a sick world. I’m here with Deacon, but now I have to wonder:

Who else is looking for me?

ARTHUR PRITCHARD PAUSES AT THE
end of the table, undoing his jacket button before sitting in the hard metal chair across from Deacon. “Mr. Hatcher,” he says in greeting. Deacon stares blankly at him, unimpressed with his appearance. “I’m here to talk to you about Quinlan McKee,” Arthur continues smoothly. His tone unnerves Deacon, and the closer shrugs like he has no idea who the doctor is referring to.

“I understand you’re close,” Arthur says.

“Depends. What do you want?”

The doctor leans his elbows on the table, a movement meant to signify a bond forming between the two men. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Arthur says good-naturedly. “I’ll get to the point,” he says. “There’s something special about her.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Deacon says.

Arthur Pritchard laughs softly. “Beyond the obvious, Mr. Hatcher. You see, Quinlan is a special case for us. We’ve taken extra care with her, trained her differently. I need eyes on her to make sure she’s progressing. To find out if there have been any . . . setbacks in her behavior.”

Deacon’s purposefully empty expression starts to falter, patches of red brightening on his cheeks. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “Trained differently? How?”

Arthur holds up his hand as if urging patience. “It’s very complicated.”

“Well, I’m very smart.”

Arthur nods. “Yes, you are. You’ve tested through the roof in intelligence. Shame you dropped out of high school.”

“Not really,” Deacon says. “After I’m done with this contract I’ll be set. At least for a while.”

“Would you like to be set for life?”

Deacon’s expression darkens. “Why am I here, Pritchard? What do you want from me, and what does it have to do with Quinn?”

“I want you to monitor her, note her behavior, and report back to me. Quinlan McKee has undergone an untested behavior modification: memory manipulation.”

Deacon jumps up so fast, his chair clatters to the floor behind him. Arthur rises slowly, his eyes carefully trained on Deacon in case he decides to attack him.

“What have you done?” Deacon demands.

“We’ve fixed her,” Arthur says. “I’ve fixed her. All I need now is for someone to keep tabs on her. I’m sure you’ve noticed that her attachments are growing, both to you and to her assignments. But her condition is precarious, and overstimulation or a traumatic event could cause a break with reality. A meltdown, if you will. You would see to it that this doesn’t happen. I have no time to test another subject. Quinlan
is
my case study. I need to know everything about her.”