I look up again and check the time. The teacher is five minutes late into a fifty-minute period. No one else seems to care, but I find it strange.
YOU DECIDED TO ACTUALLY GO TO SCHOOL? Deacon writes. SO HOW’S THE FIRST DAY?
WELL, NO VIRGINIA YET. AND I’M THE WEIRD NEW KID.
HA! he writes. THINK ABOUT HOW THEY’D REACT IF THEY KNEW WHO YOU REALLY WERE AND THEN ENJOY BEING THAT WEIRD NEW KID.
GOOD POINT.
The door at the front of the room suddenly opens, and I watch my classmates scramble to put away their phones. The teacher walks in, and I’m surprised by how young he is—early twenties. His hair is disheveled, and his tie isn’t quite knotted correctly. He holds a stack of papers, and, without making eye contact with any of us, he hands some to the first person in each row to pass back.
“Answer these questions,” he says in a low voice. “When you finish, just turn them over on your desks. I’ll collect them after you leave.” He doesn’t notice me at all.
A few students exchange looks, and I read that this is out of the ordinary for Mr. Roth. He sits at his oversize desk and stares at an empty desk near the front. After a moment he puts his head in his hands. I see a boy next to that desk sniffle. A girl wipes her eyes.
I bet Roderick was in this class. That was his seat.
The guy in front of me passes back the paper and, to my relief, asks if I need to borrow a pencil. I thank him when he hands it to me. When I look down at the paper, I’m surprised that it has nothing to do with math.
In the past day have you felt lonely or overwhelmed?
Unease crawls up my arms at the invasiveness of the question. What sort of quiz is this? I turn to look at the other students, each of them also seeming perplexed and uncomfortable. One boy raises his hand, but the teacher ignores him.
“Uh, Mr. Roth,” a girl toward the back calls. When he lifts his head, his eyes are rimmed in red, and he seems to stare right through her. I hear the boy in front of me curse under his breath.
The sound of the fire alarm blasts through the room, and I jump so hard I bang my elbow on the corner of the desk. It’s enough to break the spell in the room, though: Mr. Roth gets up from his seat and tells all of us to head outside.
So much for the normal high school experience. This place is messed up. They have no right to ask those questions. And more importantly, who gets to interpret the answers?
I pass through the doorway where Mr. Roth is standing, lost in his head. His eyes drift to me, but he doesn’t register that I’ve never been his student before. I wonder if all the teachers and staff are like this. I wonder if they’re all feeling completely helpless to stop their students from dying.
I follow the line of people through the hall and out the side door to a large field on the side of the building. I glance around for Virginia but still don’t see her. If it weren’t for her car, I would assume she wasn’t here today.
The shrill ringing of the fire alarm cuts off, leaving its echo hanging momentarily in the wind. The crowd is silent around me, but as I look around, I start to realize why. They’re not confused, worried. They’re shocked. And yet they’ve obviously done this before.
A new siren starts, and I feel a sick twist in my stomach when I see the ambulance pull up. A dark-haired girl standing next to me begins to cry.
“It’s Micah Thompson,” she sobs. “He’s dead.”
I immediately turn back to the building, panic and horror washing over me. Micah Thompson—the guy that Virginia talked to at the party. Her favorite.
I watch the paramedics rush in, the lack of police involvement. The devastated and subdued faces of the teachers. And I realize that Micah committed suicide—right now. Right here. That was the alarm.
CHAPTER FOUR
AS WE WAIT IN THE empty space near the building, a tall black man in a steel gray suit and a lemon yellow tie approaches. He stops in front of the crowd of students and holds up his hands, waving them to get everyone’s attention. By his authoritative stance, I assume he’s the principal.
“Students,” he calls. “Please, quiet down.” When he’s mostly got everyone’s attention, he adjusts his tie; his other hand is balled into a fist at his side. “Due to a medical emergency, classes are dismissed for the day. We ask—”
There is an immediate murmur in the crowd, and the principal holds up his hand once again to silence them, raising his voice. “We ask that you head directly home. Your parents have been notified of the shortened school day and will be expecting you. Now please, gather your belonging and leave campus immediately.” I see him flinch. “And please avoid the English wing for now,” he adds. “For students who need to retrieve their items from those classrooms, the teachers will bring everything to the front office momentarily.”
The world is dazed, and the scene outside the school is somber as people make their way to the parking lot or start walking home. There are murmurs of details of Micah’s death, but they vary wildly, and I know I’ll have to wait for the real story. I’m just sorry that it happened. I’ll need to find Virginia and make sure she’s okay.
As I walk, I’m grateful that the news trucks are temporarily gone. I imagine that a producer, upon hearing the news, will curse for missing out on this story. Bloodthirsty media.
I take out my phone, ready to text Deacon, and nearly bump into two girls who are hugging and crying. I apologize, but they don’t seem to notice through their haze of grief. I sidestep them, and as I cross onto the blacktop, the stillness of one person among all the moving parts catches my attention.
My heart seizes, and I do what I can not to react, but he must read my pause. The guy leaning against the hood of his red sports car like a goddamn GQ model meets my eyes and then turns away as if I don’t interest him. But a small smile tugs at his lips.
I recognize him, of course—he looks exactly the same. Reed Castle, a good-looking closer who’s good at his job, too. A closer who I know. But more importantly, a closer who knows me. He used to be one of Marie’s.
After what happened with Roger back in Eugene, I can’t be sure of Reed’s motives: if he’s here on a normal assignment or if he’s here to pick me up for the grief department. But now that I know the options, I’m not about to be scared away.
I straighten my back, trying to look unrattled, and head in his direction. I’m not granted his attention again until I stop next to him, resting my hip against his car. Reed looks over at me, and his striking blue eyes catch the sunlight, making him squint. He’s classically handsome with black hair and an ultrasharp jaw. He’s always been just a little too perfect.
“Quinlan McKee,” he says, drawing out my name, “you’re more beautiful than ever.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps straining his sleeves, and smiles as he looks over.
“What are you doing here, Reed?” I ask pleasantly, although I’m sure he can hear the hostility underneath it.
He snorts a laugh. “Uh . . . not going to school,” he says, nodding toward the building in amusement. “What the hell are you up to? And don’t tell me it’s calculus.”
“This isn’t a good time for jokes,” I say.
“I gathered that,” he responds seriously. “But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. This place is falling apart. That why you’re here?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter why I’m here,” I say. “I don’t work for the grief department anymore.” This seems to surprise him, and he turns toward the school to hide his expression. “But you,” I continue now that I know I have the upper hand, “you work for Christopher, right?”
“Dr. Levi,” he corrects, as if I’m being rude. “Yep. Ever since I moved to Tillamook. I’m here to check on a girl.” He turns back to me, and I hitch up an eyebrow. “A client, of course,” he clarifies. “Keep your scandalous thoughts to yourself, McKee. I’m researching.”
“This might sound weird,” I say, appreciating a moment of honest conversation, the kind I can have only with another close
r, “but I randomly thought of you the other day.”
“Weird that it was random,” he says.
I laugh. “Sorry you’re not always on my mind, Reed. I’ve been kind of busy.”
He nods, watching a group of students round the building. “I think we’ve all been busy,” he says, his eyes searching for someone in the crowd. I realize that I should be doing the same. I push off his car.
“How long are you in town for?” I ask him.
“Few days,” he says. “You?”
I smile my answer, making him chuckle and turn away. He knows I’m not going to tell him my plans. Even if I had an assignment, closers are usually private, even secretive. It’s how we maintain our sense of self. There’s a twist in my stomach. Even when we’re not sure who that really is anymore.
“See you around,” I tell him.
“Probably,” Reed says. He must know that I’m involved in something bigger than a typical school day. I’m the best closer the grief department has ever had—it’s not like I can just start a normal life, not without some fallout. But he hides his suspicion well.
I say good-bye and leave, seeing Virginia’s car still parked in the same spot. I head in that direction to wait, hoping she’ll be here soon. As I pause near the driver’s door, I take out my phone and text Deacon.
I RAN INTO A CLOSER AT SCHOOL JUST NOW, I write.
WHO? he asks.
REED CASTLE.
YOU OKAY?
YEAH, I write. HE SAID HE’S RESEARCHING AN ASSIGNMENT. INTERESTING TIMING.
TRUE. WE’LL KEEP AN EYE ON HIM. SO . . . HOW HANDSOME DID HE LOOK?
I laugh. VERY.
FIGURES. ARE YOU ON YOUR WAY BACK?
THERE’S MORE, I type, gnawing on my lip. THEY CANCELED THE REST OF THE SCHOOL DAY.
WHY?
THEY SAID IT WAS A MEDICAL EMERGENCY, BUT PEOPLE AROUND ME SAID IT WAS THIS GUY MICAH, I tell him. HE’S ONE OF VIRGINIA’S FRIENDS. I THINK IT WAS A SUICIDE.
WHERE’S VIRGINIA NOW? Deacon asks.
My heart stops dead in my chest. What if it wasn’t just Micah? What if . . . ? Oh, God. Virginia might have needed help, and just like with Roderick at the party, I could have let her walk right past me.
I lower the phone, about to run back into the building to find out if it’s true. But just as I look up, I see Virginia walking in my direction. My entire body sighs with relief.
FOUND HER, I type quickly, and then slide my phone into my back pocket and rush ahead.
“Hey,” I call, slightly out of breath. “Are you okay? I heard it was Micah?”
She slows her steps and stares at me for a moment, her eyes slightly narrowed as if she’s trying to place me. Her hair is perfectly straightened; her clothes look new and stiff. And there isn’t even a flicker of recognition in her expression.
“Micah?” she asks, as if she’s never heard the name before. She holds out her key ring and unlocks her door. “And who are you again?” she adds. I’m at once offended and concerned.
“I’m Liz,” I tell her, pointing to myself awkwardly. “We . . . met Friday. We had dinner and went to a party together.”
She turns suddenly, nearly dropping the books in her hands. “We were there?” she asks. “The party on the news?”
Now it’s my turn to look perplexed. “Yes,” I say. Then I think of the ride home and how she told me to remind her if she forgot about the night. How could she forget?
“Virginia, what’s going on?” I ask. “You told me you might not remember, but . . . wait, do you remember?”
Two news vans turn onto the street, pull into the school lot, and park near us. Quickly, several reporters and people with cameras jump out and begin to set up their equipment.
Virginia opens her car door. “Get in,” she tells me, and drops down on the seat and slams her door shut. She starts the engine, and I jog around the car, hoping she won’t leave without me. I’m completely taken aback by her behavior, and I don’t want her off on her own.
I climb in the passenger side, and without a word Virginia drives away from the school, speeding through a yellow light as we head west. I think about texting Deacon to let him know what’s happening, but after the way Virginia thought the waitress was spying on her, I don’t want to feed into her paranoia.
I look sideways at her and see how she’s paled, even beneath the perfect veneer of her hair and clothes. She’s falling apart, no matter how well she tries to hide it.
“You really don’t remember Friday night?” I ask as gently as I can.
Virginia shakes her head but keeps her eyes trained on the road. “What exactly did I tell you about my memory?” she asks.
“Nothing. You just told me to remind you if you forgot.”
Virginia presses her lips together, and I worry that she’s about to cry. But instead she glances over at me. “Will you tell me?” she asks. “Tell me everything about that night. That day. I’ve never even seen you before, Liz. Never heard of any Micah. So start with one of those.”
“Why can’t you remember?” I ask, a sudden thought occurring to me.
“I don’t know.”
Seems Virginia and I have some things in common: memory loss and her father. I doubt it’s a coincidence.
Virginia takes the exit onto the freeway, and I see by the signs that she’s heading toward the coast. “Where are we going?” I ask, a little frightened, although not exactly of her.
“Out of town,” she says. “It’s about an hour away, if you don’t mind.” She turns to me, seeming concerned that I don’t have the time. But she doesn’t know that she’s the reason I’m here.
“I don’t mind,” I say.
“Great,” she says, and turns back to the road, speeding up. “Now,” she says. “When did we meet?”
CHAPTER FIVE
I TELL VIRGINIA ABOUT FINDING her at her volleyball scrimmage, reusing the line about being a new student. I’m careful with the details, making them seem less important than they are. My existence in her life should be a red flag, a random stranger showing up and inserting herself in her social circle. But Virginia only seems interested in hearing about the party. She grows quiet when I mention Micah again. She has no recollection of him at all—like he never existed. It’s a shocking thing to witness.
When I finish telling Virginia about Roderick’s death and the way we ran out of there, she’s stoic, looking unmoved—much like she was after the suicide.
“And that’s what happened,” I say, studying her for a crack in her character.
“Thank you,” she tells me, watching the road. “This isn’t the first time, you know. I’m just lucky you were there. Other people have stopped filling in the blanks for me.”
“How often does this happen?” I ask.
“Lately?” She looks over. “I think it’s been every other week. My father’s a doctor, and he says these are memory blackouts, but nothing to worry about. He claims they’re stress-related. But if it were something to worry about, I doubt he’d tell me. He deals in denial.”
“What do you mean?”
“Closers,” she says with contempt. “Ever hear of them?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “They’re my father’s creation. People trained to absorb grief—perpetrate denial. It’s predatory and disgusting, even if it started with good intentions.”
I want to jump to defend myself, tell her about all the people I’ve helped, but I can’t compromise myself. She obviously doesn’t remember that she already mentioned her father to me.
“That denial is killing us,” she continues. “But my father thinks otherwise. He’s not listening to me.” She rubs her face roughly, seeming frustrated. “I keep forgetting things—important things. And I think my father is somehow behind it.
Arthur Pritchard made me forget my past, but could he really have induced her memory loss too? Would he do that to his own child?
“What makes you think it’s your father?” I ask, prying deeper into Virginia’s life.
“Lied how?”
“He’s taken some of my pictures, switched others around,” she says. “I have one photo of my mother, and it’s cropped from a larger photo. He says no, but I’m smarter than he thinks. I’m going to beat whatever system he’s put in place. I’m going to beat him.”
And I know now that I have my opportunity. I don’t need to betray Virginia’s trust to blackmail her father if she’ll help me willingly. I open my mouth to ask if she has anything I can use against her father, when Virginia takes her hand off the wheel and points.
“There it is,” she says, nodding ahead. She eases her car to the side of the road in front of a DEAD END sign, and it takes me a moment to find any reason why we’re stopped in what looks like the middle of nowhere.
I squint; the weather is foggy out here, this close to the ocean. I notice a small lighthouse. It’s not facing the water, though, only a marshlike strip of land.
“Come on,” Virginia says, opening her door. “I have to show you something.”
I reluctantly climb out of the car, take a look around, and get my bearings. The air is thick, a mixture of salt and seaweed smell. I step over rocks into tan sand, spits of grass popping up throughout.
I follow Virginia and come to stand next to her where she’s paused outside the lighthouse. The white paint on the exterior of the building has chipped away, leaving the gray metal to rust in the salty sea air. It’s nothing they’d use for tours, but it is a lighthouse. A small, decaying one.
“We call this the End of the World,” Virginia says. “A bunch of us used to come here to hang out. Now it’s just me. The place was abandoned years ago after a jetty was put up to create the bay. No one even knows it’s here anymore. It’s not on any maps.”
“What happened to the people you’d come here with?” I ask.
“They died.”
I widen my eyes, alarmed, even frightened. Virginia walks ahead and climbs the steep steps to the front door. I touch my phone in my pocket for reassurance. I should tell Deacon where I am in case this place is cursed or dangerous. But again I wait, unwilling to break Virginia’s trust when I feel like I’m close to getting her help.
The Epidemic Page 12