The Epidemic (17 page)

“No,” I say simply.

It only takes a second, but my heart pounds as I watch the reality fall over her.

She gasps in a breath and backs into the wall. “You’re a closer, aren’t you?” she asks. “That’s why you’re here. Did they send you in to close out my life? My father thinks I’m going to die, doesn’t he?”

“No,” I say, holding up my hands up in front of me as I take a step toward her. “The grief department has nothing to do with me being here. Your father didn’t send me. But he
is
why
I’m here. I came looking for you first, but not to close out your life. And honestly, that’s not how closing works.”

“I know how closing fucking works,” she snaps.

“Then you’d know that we never meet our assignments while they’re alive.”

“Maybe your advisor considers me a lost cause.” Her eyes have gone wild, and although I understand why she’s upset, it suddenly occurs to me that Virginia might be dangerous. People do unexpected things when backed into a corner like this.

“No,” I say, trying to reassure her. “I don’t have an advisor. I’m not a closer anymore. I swear it.”

Virginia crosses her arms over her chest, her anger turning to bitterness, as if she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “So you get out of my father’s employment and then come to where he lives? If that’s true, then I wouldn’t say you’re very smart, Liz—or whatever your name is.”

“My name’s Quinn,” I tell her. “And you’re probably right. But your father took something from me, and I can’t move on until I get it back. I don’t know
how
to move on.” She lowers her arms, my confession seeming to ease her fear slightly. Her face pales, and her eyes drift past me to the stairs.

“I want to leave now,” she says in monotone. “I want you to leave. Please go outside. I need to write something first.”

I debate asking her what she’s about to write, but ultimately I figure I’ve wrecked her day enough. Besides, she’s most likely writing the truth about me—that she shouldn’t trust me. The least I can do is give her some privacy.

Feeling ashamed, I start down the stairs, reading the writing as I pass. Nothing new jumps out, just more of the same. I touch Catalina’s handwriting one last time before I get to the bottom. I’m sure Virginia’s father has no idea this place exists. All her inner thoughts are hidden. It seems to me like Virginia is finding a way to beat the system. And that I can admire.

THE MINUTE I’M OUTSIDE, I
see that the fog has burned off, and the first bits of true sunshine in a while beam down on me. I take a second to tilt my face toward the sky, absorbing the warmth on my cheeks. It feels good—pure. It centers me.

I check over my shoulder to make sure Virginia is still inside and then I take out my phone to text Deacon. With my back turned to the lighthouse, I glide my thumbs quickly over the words.

THINGS ARE NOT EXACTLY GOING TO PLAN
, I type.

As if he’s been waiting for me, he responds immediately.
YOU HAD A PLAN?

FAIR POINT
, I write.
WELL, I’M CURRENTLY IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE WITH VIRGINIA. AND THIS SITUATION IS FAR MORE SCREWED UP THAN I THOUGHT. I THINK HER DAD’S BEEN ERASING
HER MEMORY.
I pause.
AND I SHOULD PROBABLY MENTION THAT SHE KNOWS I’M A CLOSER.

The text bubble pops up before I even finish typing.
YOU TOLD HER?!!
Deacon asks.

I DIDN’T WANT TO BE A LIAR.

OUCH,
he writes back. Although I didn’t mean the line to hurt him, I can see why he feels the comment was directed at him. It might be a long time before we can get past that.

I’M NOT SURE WHERE TO GO FROM HERE WITH VIRGINIA,
I tell him, getting back on topic.
IF SHE CAN’T REMEMBER HER ROLE IN CATALINA’S DEATH, THEN I’M NOT SURE I CAN LEVERAGE HER AGAINST HER FATHER. I ALSO DON’T WANT TO MAKE HER WORSE. WHAT SHOULD I DO?

COME HOME.

My lips twitch with a smile. He said “home,” as if that’s a real place. As if he’s my home. But it still isn’t much as far as advice goes.
BE BACK SOON.

I turn off the phone, slip it back into my pocket, and walk to the car. I’ve exposed myself to one of the most dangerous people in town. All Virginia would have to do is mention my name to her father. He could bring the entire grief department down on me. He could hand me over, and then who knows what would happen. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have just kept picking until I found something I could use—but I let my conscience get the better of me. Now I might have lost my only chance at finding my identity.

Virginia appears in the doorway of the lighthouse and
closes the door behind her. She sets the padlock back on and then walks in my direction. She’s clearing tears from her eyes, and I feel terrible for putting her in this state. She would have been better off if I hadn’t shown up at all today.

Virginia unlocks the car doors and we both climb in, silent. She turns on the engine and looks over her shoulder before backing up and making a wide U-turn. Her jaw is clenched, and she acts like I’m not in the car. When we’re back on the freeway, I look sideways at her.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” she replies, “but you’ll understand if I decide not to speak to you anymore. I’d rather not give you easy access to my life.”

“Virginia,” I say, frustrated with our misunderstanding. “I’m not here to close for you.”

“Maybe you should be,” she says quietly.

My lips part in alarm, and I fear that she’s finally breaking. And if she is—it’s my fault. “If you need help, I can—”

“What I need,” she interrupts, “is for everyone to
stop
helping me. I want to deal with my life. I want to live my life. But I’m losing control over it. I’m losing pieces of it, and I want them back. I want to be whole.”

And then, suddenly, I have my first real plan. A way for both of us to get what we want. A way to do it without hurting Virginia any more than I have to. I watch the side of her face, hope building in my chest. “What if I can help you find out what happened?” I ask.

Virginia turns to me, her eyes wide but untrusting. “How?” she asks.

“I think your father really is behind your memory loss,” I tell her. “If we can figure out why, then maybe we can find out what he’s taken. My partners and I are great at finding information, and we’ll—”

“Partners,”
she repeats, and then turns away, disgusted. I’m quick to try to reel her back in.

“None of us are closers anymore,” I say, “and we don’t plan to stay here. It’s just . . . I need something first.”

Virginia sniffs her discontent. “Of course you do. What is it? What do you want in return?”

“Once we figure out what he’s done to you . . . you have to let me use it. I need it as leverage to convince him to give back what he’s stolen from me.”

Virginia looks over. “What does he have?”

“My identity.”

Virginia turns abruptly back to the road, the lines on her forehead deepening as she seems to think it over. “So you don’t remember either?” she asks. “And it was him?
He
erased you?”

“I don’t know what was done, but yes, he admitted to manipulating my memory. I don’t remember who I am . . . who I
was
. He placed me in a home when I was a child, and I was raised there under a different identity. I only found out the truth last week. That’s part of why I ran away from the grief department. I can’t trust them, Virginia. The grief department,
your father,
my
father—they all conspired to hide the truth from me. I want to know who I am.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, probably absorbing the fact that her father might be more of a monster than she thought. “How do you suggest we find that information?” she asks, her voice low.

“You mentioned earlier that after Mitchel disappeared, you searched your father’s files and found a closer attached to his case. I need access to those files. All of his files.” She looks at me like she thinks I’m crazy, but I keep talking.

“Get us a way in and we’ll find your memories—the real ones,” I say. “I just need a pass code, a key to an office—anything can help. We can take it from there.”

Her expression has softened, and as she turns away, I think that maybe she doesn’t believe that we can help her.

“Please,” I beg, my voice hitching with desperation. “Please help me get my life back.”

And it could be out of the kindness of her heart, or it could be the fact that our shared amnesia seems to comfort her, but Virginia takes one of her hands off the steering wheel and reaches to grip my fingers. She holds my hand like that, and for a moment there’s a surge in my heart. A bond. She doesn’t speak a word.

When she unclasps my hand again, staring straight ahead, I think we’ve agreed upon an unspoken mission to help each other. The loneliness in my soul abates slightly—the promise of our friendship a bit of hope in our otherwise dire situation.

*  *  *

After picking up Deacon’s car at the school, I go back to the hotel room, Virginia’s number programmed into my phone. I open the door and find Deacon sitting at the table, a bunch of papers scattered in front of him and his phone pressed to his ear. Just the sight of him relaxes me, covers up the fear I came in with. Deacon holds up his finger to let me know he’ll be another second; his eyes study me before he turns back to his papers.

“Yes, I’m still here,” he says into the phone. “That would be amazing, Martha. I really appreciate your help.” He chuckles, and I recognize the charming and oh-so-fake tone. Rather than annoy me, it makes me miss our easy banter. It makes me miss us. “Well, that’s kind of you to say,” Deacon tells the woman. “I think you have a nice voice too.”

I lift my eyebrow, letting him know he’s laying it on a little thicker than necessary, but he just winks at me. I play along and blow him a quick kiss, and without missing a beat, Deacon snatches it out of the air and pretends to eat it. I laugh but then cover my mouth when he frowns at me, turning away with the phone still at his ear.

“All right, Martha,” he says. “You have a—oh . . . sure. I’m free. I’ll stop in. See you then.” He hangs up and then exhales heavily and looks over at me.

“Did you just make a date?” I ask.

“It’s only lunch,” he says, and then shakes his head like he can’t believe I thought he’d actually go.

“I’m just saying it’s not the most ethical way to get information.”

“Oh, yes.” He rolls his eyes. “Our ethics.” Deacon sets his phone on the bed and comes to a stop in front of me. “I’ve had a terrible day,” he says, and when I reach to touch his arm out of concern, he tries to smile. “I didn’t even get to finish my hot chocolate.”

But he can’t keep the mixture of fear and relief out of his expression, and his smile breaks. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry,” he whispers, dropping all pretenses. “Are you okay?”

I nod, and Deacon immediately pulls me into a hug, wrapping me up. I close my eyes, my cheek against his chest. I wanted to forget the darkness of the day, but I realize I can’t. It’s always with me, screaming to be let out.

“The incident at the school has been all over the news,” Deacon says, his breath warm in my hair. “That kid Micah . . . he was in tenth grade. He’s dead.”

I’m glad I didn’t witness his death, and just as soon as I think that, I’m attacked by guilt for being grateful. It’s selfish. I really am a coldhearted closer.

Deacon runs the back of his hand over my hair and then straightens, gazing down at me. “How did it end up with Virginia?” he asks. “How fucked are we?”

I step out of his arms, immediately missing the heat, and go to sit on the edge of the mattress. “I told her everything,” I say.

Deacon stares at me. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Everything everything?”

“I told her I was a closer and that her father brought me to
the grief department and helped fake my life for the past eleven years. I asked for her help in return for us helping her.”

Deacon tilts his head. “Wow—so yeah. All the everythings. Now, what did you promise her exactly?”

“She’s having blackouts. Big pieces of her memory have been wiped out. So I promised that we’d find out what her father has done and retrieve her memories for her.”

“Wait, what?” Deacon asks. “How are we supposed to do that? You think Arthur is just going to tell us? You can’t promise someone a thing like that.”

“I had no choice. She was ready to cut off ties with me. But she has a clear way into her father’s files; she’s gotten into them before. She agreed to try to get us that access.”

Deacon folds his hands and locks them behind his neck as he looks at the ceiling, thinking it over.

“But there’s more,” I tell him. At this, Deacon meets my eyes, concern painting his features. “She’s not well, Deacon. Whatever her father is doing, it’s breaking her. And it scares me.”

Deacon drops his arms to his sides and comes to sit next to me on the bed. “Tell me about her memory loss,” he says. “Any specifics you can think of?”

“The missing pieces seem to be tied to the times around traumatic events. Deaths. She didn’t remember the party on Friday, didn’t remember Micah—maybe because he was at the party too? I’m not sure. And she doesn’t remember Catalina at all. She keeps notes of her memories so that she can revisit them, but she can’t recall them on her own.”

“Quinn,” he says. “That reminds me of . . .” He pauses, furrowing his brow.

“Of what?” I ask.

“Well . . . of you.”

“I guess, but it’s hard to compare. I was only a kid, so Arthur couldn’t have erased all that much.”

“No, not that,” Deacon says. I can see that he’s putting something together in his head, figuring out a puzzle. His seriousness makes my heart beat faster with anxiety.

“Are you talking about my last assignment?” I’m embarrassed by how I completely lost touch with reality when I was Catalina. I couldn’t remember which identity was mine. I believed I was Catalina Barnes, and then I believed I was all of them—all the girls that I’d portrayed. It terrifies me that I got to that point, and I’m ashamed that I wasn’t stronger.