“About her . . . ,” Deacon says. “I know you feel loyalty to the Barnes family. And although finding Virginia’s connection to Catalina’s death is important, and you’re a good person for wanting those answers, I don’t think—”
“It’s not just about Catalina,” I interrupt. “I’m going to use Virginia to blackmail her father.” As soon as the words are out, I’m stunned by how callous they sound. The way Deacon rocks back in his seat, I can tell he feels the same way.
He lowers his eyes to his cup, speechless. It occurs to me then that I’m not an entirely good person—maybe I never was. I’ve been playing a part my whole life. Maybe Quinlan was the good one. I don’t know what I am anymore.
“Regardless of your plan,” Deacon says in a quiet voice, “my vote is to leave town. Before someone from the grief department finds you and brings you back to Corvallis.”
“Someone already found me,” I say. Deacon’s head snaps up. “I thought there was a doctor or a therapist on the bus with us. I . . . I thought you were working with her.”
“What?” Deacon says, screwing up his face. “First of all, no. Second, I didn’t notice anyone out of place. Your distrust in me might have been . . . skewing your perception.”
He’s probably right, but he’s not in a position to call me paranoid. “Yes, how crazy for me to be distrustful.” Deacon takes a sharp breath at the dig, but then nods respectfully for me to continue.
“In Eugene,” I tell him, “a closer named August—Roger, actually—attacked me. He drugged my drink, and when that didn’t work, he tried to physically inject me with a sedative and drag me back to the grief department.”
Deacon’s eyes flash rage, but I hold up my hand to tell him that the time for that has passed.
“I can take care of myself, Deacon,” I say. “He ended up passed out in the front seat of his car. But he told me that the grief department considers me in breach of contract. My father said they want to ‘transition’ me. Any idea what either of them is talking about?”
He furrows his brow as if thinking, and then his face clears. “When I met with Arthur eight and a half months ago, he told me your memory had been manipulated. I assumed it was after your mom died.” He winces. “After Quinlan’s mom died. Now I realize it was probably when he brought you in to close for her. But . . . he told me he needed to monitor you to check for a break with reality.
“He called you his case study,” Deacon continues. “He said . . .” He shakes his head like he’s figured it all out. “He said there was an epidemic starting, one he couldn’t stop. And he needed to know if whatever he did to you was a viable treatment. Quinn, that’s the mandatory treatment—memory manipulation. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Sounds like Arthur bet my life on it,” I say, feeling used. Violated. “So he stole my life, my memory. And now he plans to do that to other people. He’s a bastard,” I say.
“He’s a total asshole,” Deacon agrees. “And yet . . .” He pauses, reaching to take my hand. “I still don’t want you to manipulate Virginia for blackmail,” he says gently. “That’s just not you, Quinn. You would never—”
“We don’t know what I would do,” I correct, pulling my hand from his. “I’ve been pretending so long, there is no telling what I’m capable of.”
Deacon swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he sits back in his seat. “I do know you,” he says. “I know who you are.”
“Well, then, you’re the only one,” I say.
I want him to be right. I don’t want to be a stranger, not to him, but mostly not to myself. I don’t know how to reconcile this, though. I’m nobody—I’m a lie. How can I be sure of anything about me?
“Tell me more, then,” Deacon says. “What exactly are you looking for and how do you plan to use it against Arthur?”
He doesn’t agree with me, but he’s willing to fight with me anyway. I can appreciate that, and I hope he sees that this is the only option I have. “Virginia is tied to these deaths somehow, right?” I start. “At least the ones in Lake Oswego—we know that from Catalina’s family, boyfriend, and diary. Arthur sent closers in and tried to cover up the suicide. He talked with the family to cover up his daughter’s involvement. He doesn’t want the grief department to know about her, but why? What has Virginia done that her father wants to hide? Once I know that—”
“You’ll use it as leverage for your identity,” he finishes for me. I nod. “Well,” he says, locking his hands behind his neck like he’s settling in for whatever fucked-up mission we’re about to embark on, “what have you gotten so far?”
“Not much,” I tell him. “And after last night, after Roderick jumped, she should have let her guard down and told me everything, even if I was a mess myself. But instead she told me to forget what I’d seen, to avoid thinking about it. Avoid reading about it. She said the coverage will be relentless.”
Deacon narrows his eyes. “She’s right about the coverage, but why avoid talking about it?” he asks. “Did she give a reason?”
“She said most people weren’t equipped to handle the news. Earlier she mentioned closers, and, big surprise, she’s not a fan. Luckily, I’m operating under my false identity.”
“I still don’t see her connection,” Deacon says. “So she knew the people who died? What is that other than tragic? Any chance she has dirt on her father? Are they close?”
“Uh . . . doubt it,” I say. “She was worried that a waitress was spying for Arthur, so he doesn’t exactly sound like father of the year.”
“I’m so surprised,” Deacon says sarcastically, and I snort a laugh.
“Virginia has some serious dad issues,” I say.
“As bad as you?” Deacon asks, lifting one eyebrow.
“The fact that she’s even in the running tells us a lot.”
Deacon laughs, but then straightens his face. “That’s actually not funny.”
“If we don’t laugh, we’ll cry, right?” I ask.
“I don’t like that those are our only two choices.”
I press my lips into a sad smile, our situation certainly not a good one. I cross my legs at the ankle and lean back on my arms. Talking to Deacon has been good for me—it’s brought things into perspective, refocused me. I don’t forgive him for not telling me about Arthur, but right now we have bigger problems. And for once they’re not about our relationship.
Deacon must notice the change in my attitude, because he watches me, looking thoughtful. He stands from the chair just in front of me, and his knee brushes my outer thigh. The touch is fire, and we stare at each other, my breath held. My skin alive and electric. For a moment I think he’s going lie on top of me, kiss me passionately—part of me even wants him to. I want him back completely. I want me back.
But instead Deacon runs a shaky hand through his hair and backs away before crossing the room to his duffel bag. “We should move,” he says. “This place sucks for security. And I need some supplies. Are you . . . ?” He pauses and looks back over his shoulder at me, the vulnerability passing over his features once again. “Are you coming with me?”
“Yeah,” I say as coolly as possible. I’m apprehensive, I’m not going to let my guard down, but yes . . . I’ll go with him. And when I stand, I see his lips hitch up in a smile, even if he turns away in hopes of hiding it.
But I have Deacon figured out now. And I’ll never let him lie to me again.
CHAPTER THREE
I STAND IN FRONT OF the foggy bathroom mirror on Monday morning and swipe my hand across the glass. I finger-comb the blond extensions before snapping them into my hair, pulling the longer strands over my shoulders. A towel is wrapped tightly across my chest, and I apply my makeup, changing my features only slightly, but enough to match my ID. Elizabeth’s credit card is useless, but the ID will work as long as no one calls to verify it with the Oregon DMV.
Deacon and I used the weekend to find a new motel, a nicer one, forfeiting the weekly payment we already gave Shady Pines. Deacon had emptied h
is bank account before leaving Corvallis, so he paid for the hotel in cash and used a fake ID of his own to register. After that, he went out and bought a piece-of-shit car, reminiscent of my piece-of-shit Honda back in Corvallis, and we tracked down Virginia’s home address. We covertly staked it out, but no one came or went for the entire weekend, not even her father.
Deacon appears in the doorway of the bathroom and leans against the frame. I glance over, and I smile when I get a peek of him shirtless before he pulls on a clean white T-shirt. I turn away before he notices my admiration. We’re back to being partners, friends, for now. I decided that although we love each other openly, I need time. I can’t just pretend the last eight and a half months never happened.
“So what’s the plan?” Deacon asks. “Are we going to school?”
“No, I’m going to school,” I tell him. “You’re going to do Deacon things on your own while I try to catch Virginia before she heads into class. I want to know what happened Friday at the party and what she’s been doing since.” I turn to him, leaning against the sink. “At least, I hope she’s at school.”
“I’m just worried about you going alone,” Deacon says.
“I’ll be fine.”
Deacon comes into the bathroom to stand behind me, and we meet each other’s eyes in the mirror. I’m acutely aware of how naked I am under my towel. Deacon doesn’t touch me, even though I’m sure we both want him to.
After an agonizing moment he moves next to me and leans against the sink, facing forward. From separate beds Deacon and I have talked about everything over the last two days. I told him about the nosebleed and the memory with Marie. We added it to the long list of things we’ll have to ask Marie about.
Deacon and Aaron have been talking, and Aaron is thrilled that we’re together again, although we’ve kept him out of the details. He still hasn’t turned up anything on Marie’s whereabouts, which is concerning. At this point, all any of us want is to get answers, get my identity, and get the hell out.
“I know we’ve promised before,” Deacon says, looking over at me, “but once this is over, we really are running away. We’ll go someplace where we can be ourselves all of the time. No more pretending.”
“Pretending is the only thing I know,” I say, feeling a little sorry for myself. Deacon’s bottom lip juts out in concern, but I wave it off. “I want to believe it,” I say, “I want to think we can get away from this, but even if we do, I have no idea how to be myself. What if I hate who I’m supposed to be?” I ask. “What if I find my parents and they’re terrible people?”
Deacon straightens, surprised. “Your parents . . . I hadn’t even thought about that.”
“Even ghosts have parents,” I say. “And I’ve been Quinlan’s ghost for too long. To be honest, the only possible memory I have is of a woman in a hospital bed. I think . . . I think she died.” Although I don’t know her, the loss stings a bit. “What if she’s alive and looking for me, too? And then there’s my father—my real one. Maybe he’s not a total asshole.”
Deacon’s eyes soften. “That would be a nice change for you,” he says, and smiles sympathetically. I don’t go on, making up stories of my dream parents. I’m not that optimistic; I’m too much of a realist.
“You know I love you, right?” Deacon says. “Because I can keep saying it if you need me to.”
“Yeah, keep telling me,” I say, my cheeks warming. “I figure you owe me a few.”
“I love you, Quinlan,” he says again. “I love you.” He pauses dramatically and tilts his head. “Or is it Liz?”
I laugh. “Yes, we should switch to Liz for now.”
He crinkles his nose and then moves to stand in front of me, looking me over. “Why Liz? Why not Beth?”
“I don’t know. I like Liz.”
“I think I like Beth better.”
“Uh, does it matter considering my name isn’t even Elizabeth?” I say, gripping my towel and then pushing him aside to walk back out into the room. I grab the clothes I laid out on the bed earlier, but I look at Deacon as he comes out of the bathroom. “At least, I don’t think my real name is Elizabeth.”
Deacon flops down on the bed, arms spread out at his sides as he stares up at the ceiling. I get dressed, and when I’m done, I sit on the opposite bed to put on my shoes.
“Well, if it turns out you’re really an Elizabeth,” Deacon says, “I’m calling you Beth.”
I crack up and grab the towel from the floor and toss it at him. Deacon swats it away before it can hit him.
“I’ve got to go before school starts,” I say, grabbing one of the phones from the pair Deacon and I got this weekend. I slip Liz’s ID into the back pocket of my shorts.
“I’ll be waiting,” Deacon calls as he watches me walk out.
* * *
The sky is covered in heavy gray clouds as I drive Deacon’s car to school, missing the bulk of morning traffic. When I arrive, I park in the back of the lot, closest to the exit. I do it for convenience when leaving, not because I have to. There is an unusual amount of empty spaces. I wonder if this weekend’s suicide kept some of the students home.
News trucks line the front entrance of the building, giant antennas perched on top of the vans. A man in a suit keeps leaning forward with a mic as students rush past him into the school. None of them stop to talk to him, and he looks frustrated, although he smiles when he turns to the camera.
What does he want them to say? Why is he even here? It seems tasteless, trying to cash in on a tragedy. Then again, that’s what some people think closers do. I don’t believe that—I never have. I wanted to help people. And I think . . . I did. I gave them closure. So, yeah, I’m better than an opportunistic newscaster.
I scan the lot for Virginia’s car, and when I finally find it, I’m disappointed to see that it’s empty. She must already be inside. I check the time on my phone, and realize school starts in just a few minutes.
I glance back at the large building, considering my options. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that part of me wants to know what it’s like to be within those walls, to be one of them. A few students walk in the back door, and just as the bell rings, I know I have a decision to make. I can leave and come back at the end of the day or . . . I can go to school. Attend classes and track Virginia down, maybe get a peek at the rest of the student body. My fake ID is good enough to pass for, and I’ve filled out my share of paperwork. I’ll even mention Virginia to see if I can get into her PE class or something. I’ll be persuasive. I’ll be . . . totally stupid and irresponsible.
And yet I smile to myself, wishing I’d bought supplies—backpack, folders, and pencils. Hell, I would have even gotten a highlighter. My stomach churns with a nervous excitement, and I start toward the back entrance of the building.
I’m going to school.
* * *
With only a few weeks left in the school year, I get a shortened version of the usual paperwork. I’ve helped my dad fill in this type of information before for his closers. Since they were wards of the state, he’d help them with the details. I even filled out Deacon’s school paperwork when he first came to Corvallis.
The office will send a fax request for my—or rather, Liz’s—grades from South Eugene High School. Of course, I have no idea where Liz went to school, but it doesn’t matter. Neither her grades nor her vaccination records will ever arrive.
The office staff look dazed as they hand me a schedule, as if still reeling from the death of yet another student. On the desk the phone rings, but no one picks it up. It’s probably a reporter.
I feel sorry for the secretary as she wipes at her watery eyes and slides a schedule in my direction. She looks helpless in her sorrow; the pain is written all over her expression.
When I’m done, she sends me along to second period. I’ll be gone before they find out my name isn’t Elizabeth Major.
I’m early when I arrive at room 117, so I wait outside the door for the first-period class to end. Once the bel
l rings and the students filter out, I slip inside the room and look around.
The desks are arranged in five even rows—perfect for math, I guess. I know enough social etiquette to not just sit down in someone else’s seat. The teacher hasn’t arrived, so I stand awkwardly at the back, fading successfully against the posters so as to not be noticed. My closer skills would have definitely come in handy in high school. I still can’t believe I’m here.
For a moment I imagine I could have always had this if Arthur Pritchard hadn’t stolen me away. I’d be your typical student, complaining about homework . . . or whatever it is students do. But then I remind myself that I don’t know the details of my before life—I may not be stolen at all.
I look up and accidentally lock eyes with a tall, long-haired boy. I’m quick to dart my gaze away, but not soon enough. He sits down and leans toward another guy. Both look at me. I lift my eyes to the ceiling and twitch my mouth to the side as I wait impatiently.
The bell rings, and the teacher still isn’t in class. But with half of the room now checking me out, I decide to move forward and slip into one of the empty seats nearest the back. I’m starting to regret thinking school was a good idea.
But at least now that I’m seated, the other students must feel more comfortable, because most go back to chatting among themselves. The boy in front of me turns around and smiles, wide-mouthed. His hair falls over his left eyes in a goofy yet endearing way.
“Mr. Roth’s been late a lot lately,” he says. “But he eventually makes it.”
I nod and smile as if this is a conversation I’ve had before. He turns back around, and I take the time to look around the room, analyze the students who are in here.
I notice a girl on her phone, texting. At that moment another girl pulls her phone out of her backpack. And they’re not the only ones. I assumed phones weren’t allowed, but I guess it doesn’t count if the teacher isn’t here yet.
I take out my phone and text Deacon. IS IT NORMAL FOR THE TEACHER TO BE LATE TO CLASS? I ask.
UH . . . NOT USUALLY. NO.
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