The Epidemic (20 page)

But my heart is still racing—the fear so real that I can’t catch my breath. The staggering numbers of the epidemic, the panic that I’d been caught: I’m suddenly and completely overwhelmed.

A shadow passes over my vision. At first I think someone else has entered the room, but then another shadow, and another, begin to cloud my vision. A sharp pain cracks across the side of my head like a baseball bat.

I tip forward, hearing Deacon call my name, feeling the floor rush up to meet me. And before I can hit the tile, a memory slams into my consciousness.

I was at Deacon’s house, curled up on the floor and pressing my forehead to the wood slats, trying to block out the pain of another headache. The doorbell rang, and Deacon jogged past me, his voice frantic as he led my father inside. I forced myself upright just as
Tom
entered the room. Anger raged inside me because I knew he wasn’t my father. I knew why he was there.

“Don’t,” I said, sliding back along the floor until I hit the couch. But my vision was blurry—memories crashing back at once, unraveling me.

Deacon flashed a concerned look in my direction, but then he went on to tell Tom about my nosebleed and headache. I felt betrayed, even though he didn’t know what he was doing.

“Get out, Deacon,” Tom told him calmly, although his eyes were trained on me. “I’ve got it from here. I need to get my daughter home.”

Deacon looked conflicted, and as Tom stepped toward me,
Deacon grabbed his elbow and demanded to know what was going on.

“This is what happens when a closer gets too involved,” Tom told him cuttingly. “I warned you. I warned you both.”

Deacon lowered his arm and turned to me, devastated as he studied me. I understood how I must have looked to him: face soaked with tears, blood from my nose running fresh again. He thought I was having a psychotic break. He thought it was his fault.

“Get out
now
, Deacon,” Tom demanded. “I know what’s best for her.” He leveled his gaze on me, and I clenched my jaw, ready to fight my way out the minute I was strong enough.

Deacon left me in the living room with that liar. And the minute he was gone, Tom McKee pulled out a syringe and stuck it into my arm. The stick hurt, but the burning sting after was even worse. Although I knew Tom wasn’t my father, even though I knew he and Marie had done this to me, the moment of betrayal was enough to break my heart. I gasped in a breath—feeling like a child. Feeling alone and scared.

“Please don’t,” I whispered to him as the world began to tilt. “Not this time.”

Tom furrowed his brow, a moment of sympathy passing over his features. “I don’t have a choice, honey,” he said.

*  *  *

Deacon catches me by the elbow just before I hit the kitchen floor of Virginia Pritchard’s house. I swoon, nearly unconscious. He steadies me, his palm on my cheek as he tries to rouse me; I
come back to myself. I gaze a moment into his soft brown eyes, forgetting where we are. And why we’re here.

But the memory sticks, and I inhale, the same betrayed breath I took that day eight and a half months ago. “I knew,” I whisper to Deacon, my eyes welling up. “I knew he wasn’t my father.”

Deacon’s grip on my arm tightens involuntarily. “What?” he asks.

“That day I came to your house, when you called my father to pick me up. My breakdown,” I say. “It was because I was remembering. I was remembering that I was a closer for his daughter’s life. There must have been more to it, because I was
so
angry. I’m not sure why. He made me forget.”

There’s a clatter of a dish as Virginia backs into the kitchen table, rattling the perfectly placed table settings. She’s wide-eyed as she stares at me. “What did he do?” she asks. “How did he make you forget?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” I say weakly, my head still throbbing just above my ear. At least my vision has cleared and I’m feeling steadier. “But it’s probably the same thing they’ve been doing to make you forget.”

“Do you know what happened to me?” Virginia asks, her voice pleading. “Did you find out what they erased?”

I feel Deacon tense. He knows I didn’t, but in this moment I can’t bring myself to break Virginia’s heart. I can’t deal with the fallout of that, because I just got a piece of my own puzzle. What helps me can help us both, I hope. But I’m not sure she would understand that right now.

“I have a lead,” I tell her. “We’re going to check it out now.”

Deacon turns to me, and I offer an apologetic look. Across from us Virginia smiles, and I feel like garbage for lying to her, pretending it’s about her.

“So what’s this lead?” she asks. “Maybe I can—” Headlights from the driveway shine in through the window and illuminate the living room.

We all duck down behind the counter, and I hear the garage door opening.

“That’s my dad,” Virginia says, darting to the sliding glass door that leads to the back patio. “Quick,” she tells us, “go around the side of the house. The gate has a padlock, so you’ll have to climb it.”

“Fantastic,” Deacon mutters, one arm around my waist. I find my footing, and then we dart across the room and slip out the door. “I’ll call you later,” Virginia whispers after us. She slams the sliding door shut, and just as we get off the last porch step, the overhead lights in the kitchen flip on.

Deacon and I stop just out of view and see Virginia backed up to the glass, gesturing as she talks. She’s smart enough not to look in our direction, because within moments Arthur appears in front of her.

“Go, go, go,” I whisper, pushing Deacon’s shoulder. We quickly round the house and move past the trash cans to get to the side gate, a thick padlock blocking an easy exit.

Deacon gives me a boost, and I put the heel of my shoe on the top of the gate and then jump for the other side. I land
deftly, with a little rattle in my knees. Deacon hits the ground next to me and reaches out for my hand. He grabs it and pulls me toward our parked car. We disappear in the shadows of the streetlamps before Arthur can come searching for us.

We get in the car, and Deacon quickly turns the ignition and starts down the street, waiting until we’re past Arthur’s house before turning on the headlights. We’re both panting, our adrenaline spiked from the near miss with the doctor. Just around the block, Deacon drifts to the side of the road and parks at the curb between houses.

It’s quiet for a moment, and it gives me a chance to think about what I remembered, think about how betrayed it makes me feel. I knew my memory must have been manipulated, but now . . . now I know it’s so much worse. They didn’t do this for my safety or my benefit. It was for control.

“I’m scared,” Deacon says in a low voice. The honesty of his words speaks for both of us. “In there,” he continues, “I didn’t know what was happening to you. I’m not enough. We need help, Quinn. And we need it badly.”

Although Deacon and I are both good at taking care of ourselves, this is beyond us. At this point I’m not sure how reliable I am. If my memories have been manipulated, I truly don’t know who I can trust. Everyone I’ve ever met might have betrayed me, only I wouldn’t know because that memory could have been stolen.

“I know who to call,” I say, and take out my phone. But my bravado falters as I stare down at the screen. Grief crawls
up my throat and steals my voice, and I fear I may be growing close to another psychotic break. Too much has been happening; maybe I’m not equipped to handle it. Maybe I’ll be the next victim of the epidemic.

“Quinn?” Deacon says, like he’s worried.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I have to drain away my fear if I hope to continue. I have to be a closer—the best closer. I have to learn to be numb.

“I’m okay,” I tell Deacon, opening my eyes. I click through the photos on my phone and zoom in. I switch over to the number pad, feeling desperate, and begin to dial. I put the phone on speaker, my heart beating faster with each ring that echoes through the car.

“Who are you calling?” Deacon asks.

“Marie,” I tell him in monotone. “I think I found her.” His breath catches, and he turns in his seat, watching the phone intently. He doesn’t say a word.

The memory of that day with my father is a pain in my head, and I need to track down the one person who can help fill in the blanks. No matter what, after all we’ve been through, I know I need to talk to her. I might not get another chance.

ONCE UPON A TIME, MARIE
was the person I turned to for advice. Before Deacon or Aaron, there was Marie and my dad. In fact I’d sometimes wish they would get married so she’d move in. But they were only friends, confidants. Conspirators.

There is a loud click.

“Hi, Marie,” I say coldly.

“Now, that didn’t take you very long,” Marie says in her deep, loving way. Despite my preparation, her voice touches me down to my soul. And before I can say a word, tears are streaming down my cheeks. “I know, baby,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

She lets me cry for a moment, and next to me I hear Deacon sniffle. We’re both tough, both hardened by our jobs. But when
it’s
your
parent,
your
loved one—it’s not that simple. We default to loving her. It’s what we know. And it makes every question I have to ask all the more painful. I fight to get back my composure, and I wipe the tears roughly off my cheeks.

“Don’t do that, Marie,” I say. “Don’t pretend to care now. I want answers. And I want all of them.”

“You’re letting your anger cloud your judgment, and I’ve trained you better than that,” she says. “We can lie
and
still care about someone—those things are not mutually exclusive. You should know that by now.”

Her words are sobering and not entirely untrue. I straighten in the seat and look over at Deacon, who’s hanging his head as he listens to her on speakerphone. I want to rage at Marie, scream and cry. But that would be childish and weak. I need to be strong.

“You’ve lied to me all these years,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady. “How could you? What kind of person are you?”

“Whatever kind of person I am,” she says, “it doesn’t change who you are.”

“And who am I?” My heart speeds up at the question.

“I don’t know—at least, I don’t know where he found you.”

The “he” being Arthur Pritchard. I’m devastated—maybe part of me thought it would be an easy answer. That hope vanishes with Marie’s plain words.

“Fine,” I say. “Then how about we start from the beginning? Quinlan McKee died, and you went to Arthur. What did he tell you? Why did he help you, because I’m sure it wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart?”

“You have to understand that we were all grief-stricken,” Marie says. “After your father’s daughter died, our lives were ruined. I loved Quinlan like she was my own.”

There’s an irrational moment of jealousy, the idea of Marie loving the other Quinlan more than me. But I bury that, knowing I can’t be jealous of a dead girl.

“I didn’t have any children, and your father . . .” Marie pauses. “Quinlan’s father was a close friend. I was part of the family. And then that little girl and her mother were gone, and we were stripped down and broken. So I went to Arthur Pritchard and begged for his help. He had lost his wife not long before, so I thought he would understand. Make an exception.”

I grip the phone harder in my hand. “What kind of exception?”

“I didn’t want a temporary closer. I wanted my Quinlan back,” she says, her voice cracking. “I wanted my baby girl.”

“You planned it?” I ask. “All along you
planned
to keep me? I thought that was Arthur. I thought he was the evil one. But I guess it was you.”

Marie sniffles hard but doesn’t deny anything. At least she’s giving me that bit of honesty. Deacon reaches to put his hand over mine on the seat. My fist unclenches, and I rest my other hand with the phone on my lap.

“We tried two other girls first,” she says, her voice growing hard. “But at the time there were no young closers—it was an ethical question of whether to put a child through that.”

I scoff at the sentiment, because that is exactly what she and my father put me through, ethics be damned.

“So the girls were older, nearly ten. They cried after just a few hours in my care—they couldn’t detach. I asked Arthur if there was a solution to that.”

My stomach turns; the clinical way she’s describing how they essentially kidnapped me is too much. “Where did he find me?” I ask.

“I told you I don’t know where you came from,” she says. “What I can tell you is that you were already a ward of the state, but Arthur had custody of you.”

I flinch and turn to Deacon, his face registering shock. I look down at the phone. “What does that mean?” I ask. “Why would he have custody?”

“He said he’d been working with you personally,” Marie responds. “And that you were the hope for future closers—a perfected version. He told me he’d bring you by, and for me to have Tom ready to meet you. He said he would prepare everything.”

My mind spins, and I try to figure out what this means. Did I live with him and his family? Did he keep me in some lab and experiment on me? Maybe I really was like Frankenstein’s creature.

“Did he know my parents?” I ask.

Marie exhales deeply. “I truly do not know,” she says. “I should have asked more questions—I’m sorry for that,” she says. “But I was heartbroken. I was sick with my grief. I would
have done anything to make it better. And then, after we took you in, the grief department, under the direction of Arthur, made us sign an agreement to never search out your history. An agreement that would destroy us if we broke it.”

“But you did break it,” I say.

“Yes. I left you that file, disrupted their plan. And that’s why the department is looking for me now—I assume that’s how you found me?” she asks.

“You’re in Arthur’s files,” I tell her.

She sniffs a laugh. “I’m sure I don’t want to know how exactly you got into those. But I’m glad you did. The grief department will find me shortly,” she says. “I’ve messed up too many times. Now that I’m in breach of contract, they plan to erase me. They won’t kill me, Quinlan—they’ll just take my life.”