The Epidemic (12 page)

“There were other people there,” she says. “They won’t need our statement.” Her jaw is set hard, and her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. I can barely catch my breath.

“But I watched him do it,” I tell her. “I didn’t know he was going to jump. I—” My voice cracks.

“Listen to me,” Virginia says, looking over. “You didn’t see anything. We weren’t even there tonight. Do you understand?”

I stare at her, the first tears falling onto my cheeks. “What?” I ask.

Virginia doesn’t falter in her steady gaze. “You have to stay
away from this, Liz. Stay ahead of it. It’s like I told you: Most people aren’t equipped anymore. We’ve been stripped of our coping mechanisms. We’ve been left vulnerable. The reporters will come tomorrow. Don’t read about any of it. Forget Roderick even existed.” But this time there is a flash of pain in her eyes, and she quickly turns back to the road.

She eases to a stop at the next red light, and when she looks at me again, tears have run through her makeup. “Don’t you see?” she says. “It’s hopeless.” Her expression goes slack. The light switches to green and the car moves forward. Virginia’s shoulders are slumped. Her grip on the steering wheel weakens.

I am stunned silent by the way she’s made me feel. Her words have scared me, because I almost believe them. Right now . . . I do feel hopeless. And it’s a dark place to be.

My thoughts turn back to Roderick, retracing my steps at the party to see if there was a point when I could have interacted with him. Stopped him. What if I had just talked to him? Maybe that could have been enough.

I’m nearly swallowed up by survivor’s guilt, and the next time I look outside, I see that we’re pulling up to the Shady Pines Motel. Virginia parks near the office, and when I reach numbly for the door handle, she calls my name.

“Can I ask you a favor?” she says. “If the next time I see you, I don’t remember this . . . remind me, okay?”

I furrow my brow and stare over at her. But it’s like I don’t have the ability to question anymore. To know any more.

Virginia presses her lips into a sad smile. “Please?”

I nod, although I don’t see how she could forget what happened tonight, no matter how deep her denial runs.

I exit the car and start across the lot, letting the rain soak through my clothes. I’m shaking in the cold, and my teeth begin to chatter. I hear Virginia’s car pull away, but I don’t turn around. I’m desperate to get out of my head.

I walk up the exterior stairs of my hotel, each step more exhausting than the last. I’m weak—nearly too weak to make it up to the next landing. If Marie were here, she’d tell me I’m in shock and that I should start with a hot shower. A cup of tea. It would be peppermint, of course, and then I’d tell her everything. All the truth. I’d tell her how much my heart hurts. My soul.

I wrap my arms around my chest when I get to the second-floor landing; my body feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. The image of a dead boy crowds my thoughts. I can’t push him away. All I can see is the splatter of the blood. All I can hear are the cries of his friends.

I pause, putting my hand flat against the exterior wall, choking on my sobs. My mind is like a black spiral pulling me toward darkness, making me obsess about the pain. Dig into it. I want to feel Roderick’s pain. My pain.

“Stop,” I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut. I’m slipping away.

Just make it inside,
I think. I force myself off the wall and take the key card from the back pocket of my jeans, my fingers shaking. I get to my door, and the first time I swipe the card,
there’s only a red square. I sniffle and then take a steadying breath.

You’ll get through this
.
You always get through.

I swipe the card again, and the door lock turns green. I shove the door open, turning my back on my room as I close it and throw the security latch. I lean my forehead against the door, letting the card fall from my hand to the floor with a quiet thump.

The temperature in the room is warm, but my wet clothes keep me chilled. My heart hurts too much.
You could have saved him,
it says. Maybe I could have.

There is a sound behind me, the high-pitched creak of my mattress springs. Fear snaps over my skin like electricity, and I spin around, my breath caught in my throat. I see a figure across the room. I slap my hand along the wall until I find the light switch and flip it on.

Deacon sits on the edge of my bed, his eyes downcast as if he can’t bear to look at me. His brown hair is disheveled, sticking up like he’s been pulling his hand through it. His clothes are wrinkled, and I imagine he spent last night on the streets. But it’s him. He’s here, exactly when I need him most.

I stumble forward a step, my palm over my heart at the absolute relief. “Deacon,” I breathe out.

He lifts his head, and when he catches sight of my condition, his sorrowful expression falls away, and he jumps to his feet. I walk over and immediately wrap myself around him. My comfort. My tether to reality.

“I could have saved him,” I sob, burying my face in Deacon’s neck, my fingers clutching his shirt. The smell of his skin pulls me back from the darkness. Takes me away from the death.

And I don’t even realize how desperately I need him when he tentatively puts his arms around me, laying his cheek on the top of my head, and whispers, “Quinn, I have to tell you something.”

THE FIRST TIME I REALIZED
I was in love with Deacon was after we’d been dating for three months. The discovery was purely accidental—shocking, really, since I’d never been that close to anyone. But something about us just clicked and locked in place.

Deacon and I had already been working together for a while, so when we started dating, we did so carefully, neither of us going all in from the start. We were closers—we had to be cautious. Our entire livelihood revolved around not getting too attached to the families we helped. That easily bled into our personal lives as well.

But Deacon was everything back then: funny, smart, gorgeous. More than that, he was kind. I hadn’t known another closer who cared as much as he did. As much as I did. His
compassion drew me to him more than anything. His ability to predict what others needed to hear.

We were in my backyard, contemplating the best way to get out of cutting the long-neglected grass, when I play tackled him to the ground, burying us in the knee-high blades. He laughed, and we rolled around until he bested me and got to his knees and straddled me. Once there, he smiled and leaned down to kiss my lips quickly.

He was about to climb off when I grabbed him by the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled him to me. I’m not sure what brought it on, but I had this sudden loneliness that only he seemed to fill. Maybe it was that he accepted me as myself, as a closer.

Deacon read the expression and hummed out his mutual feelings as he lay down next to me, propping himself up on his elbow.

“Love this face,” he said adoringly, tracing his finger over my lips before kissing them.

I closed my eyes as his hand trailed over my jaw, down my neck. It was the heat of the day, the smell of the grass, the feel of his touch—they all conspired to cloud my better judgment.

I love him,
I thought dreamily. The words startled me, and I turned to Deacon, feeling vulnerable and stripped down, like he knew what I was thinking. And maybe he did. Because he stilled, his expression unreadable. And then he leaned over and kissed me fiercely, the kind of kiss that made me moan into his mouth, clutch at his clothes.

To this day Deacon has never said that he loves me. But he shows me sometimes, like now, when he holds me in this dingy motel room and lets me fall completely apart in his arms.

“I have to tell you something,” he whispers against my hair.

And all at once, the safety of his arms feels anything but safe. I stumble back, slapping his hand away when he reaches for me. My vision is blurry with tears, but my grief and horror are set aside for rage.

“Quinn, calm down,” he says.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I snap, pointing at him. “Don’t you dare.”

He lowers his eyes to the floor. I haven’t even started to process tonight, but I’ll have to face my own problems before I can do anything else. And standing in front of me is my biggest problem of all. One that’s been trained in the art of manipulation.

“You have no right to be here,” I say. “How did you even find me?”

“I told you before,” Deacon starts in a low voice. “You take up my whole world, Quinlan. It makes you easy to spot.” He moves to sit in the chair by the window and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “I went by the school,” he continues. “I figured that was where you’d go, and I saw you in the parking lot.”

I curse myself for not being more aware that I was being watched. I shouldn’t have underestimated him.

“And once I knew you were in town,” he says, “I saw that
you looked different, noted the changes, and checked the local motels. This was my fifth stop. The guy at the front desk was more than happy to tell me you were his tenant and that it would be an extra ten dollars a day if I planned on staying here.”

“You broke into my room?” I ask.

“No. I gave him seventy dollars for the week and got my very own key card.” Deacon pulls a card out of his back pocket and sets it next to him on the bed. He offers a smile, something small and private, meant to melt my frosty exterior. Now he’s the one underestimating me.

“You can’t stay,” I tell him, watching him crumble under my words. He’s not the only closer who knows how to manipulate. I have every reason to think Deacon is playing me, and there is only one misguided-reason—love—to trust him. I think I’ll go the safer route. “I want answers, and then I want you gone.”

“I tracked you down because you left me without a word,” he says, his voice scratchy and raw; it sounds like pure devastation. It’s too real, and I flinch against it. “You destroyed me, Quinn, so don’t stand there as if I’m the one running away this time.”

I’m rattled by the truth in his statement, even if it’s framed in lies. “I left because I needed to think,” I tell him.

“And you can’t think when you’re with me?” he asks, clearly hurt by the statement.

“No,” I say simply, and sink down onto the bed across from him. “I can’t trust you anymore. I saw the text, Deacon. You’ve been working against me.”

He lifts his eyes, and then his lips part, guilt painting every
corner of his expression. Oh, God. It’s true. White-hot anger burns my face, and my attempt at a reasonable interrogation falters. I’m all hurt.

“You fucking asshole,” I say, a cry threatening to break through. “You betrayed me!”

Deacon leans forward suddenly, his hands folded in front of him like he’s begging. “Never,” he says. “I was on that bus with you, Quinn. I was running away too. How could you think—”

I hold up my hand for him stop bullshitting me. “This is all easy to say now.”

“Oh, believe me,” Deacon replies, “I have no expectation that you’ll make this easy. And you shouldn’t. You’re right—I
am
a fucking asshole. But not because of this. That text was from Arthur Pritchard,” he says. “He was worried about you.”

The name is a shock to my system, and panic crawls up my throat. “Even if that was the case, why the hell would Arthur Pritchard contact
you,
of all people?”

Deacon stills, holding my gaze. “Because I work for him,” he says miserably. “And I have been for the past eight months. Eight and a half.”

It’s a slap in the face, one I wasn’t expecting. One that makes the entire room tilt. Eight and a half months ago Deacon and I broke up. It was devastating for me, but our lives since have been almost worse. The back and forth of our relationship, the hot and cold. Deacon was working for the person who stole me from my life.

It feels like every word Deacon has ever spoken to me has
been a lie. He
works
for Arthur Pritchard. My arms fall helplessly to my sides as I stare at him, heartbroken. “What have you done?” I ask, shaking my head slowly from side to side.

“I promise I never did anything—”

“No more promises!” I shout, making him jump. “The truth, Deacon. For once just tell me the truth. What are you doing for Arthur Pritchard?”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he says earnestly. “He told me there was no other choice.”

“Protecting me from what—the grief department?”

“No,” he says. “From yourself. Arthur wanted me to be your handler; he said I was the best person because of our relationship. I was supposed to monitor you for any changes, any breaks with reality—like what happened when you were Catalina Barnes. I was supposed to inform him so he could treat you if necessary.” He straightens to sit back in the chair. “He told me you could die.”

A thought dawns on me, twisting my stomach. “Are you the one who told him I left my assignment and came to you? Is that why he went to the Barneses’ house?” I ask. “Jesus, Deacon—did you call him because you were jealous of Isaac?”

He hitches up his lip in disbelief. “No,” he says. “I mean, yes, I was jealous, but I didn’t call him. He must have been watching the house.” Deacon quickly gets to his feet, staring down at me. “Don’t you understand?” he starts. “This isn’t about jealousy or selfishness—I would have never turned you over to Arthur, not for anything. I sold my soul to the devil to keep him
away
from
you. I didn’t trust anyone else to be your handler. I didn’t want him to find another person. It had to be me.”

It’s a great sentiment, but I’m not so easily convinced. He’s been lying to me—I can’t let myself forget that. “And you weren’t my handler when you came to the bus station to run away with me?” I ask.

“No. After you called from Marie’s and told me she was gone, I knew Arthur and the grief department would come for you. Something had to be wrong for Marie to just disappear. I called Arthur’s office and I told them I was out. Done. It didn’t matter what I’d signed to the contrary.”