The memory with Marie haunts me, hovering in my consciousness between reality and a dream, and I know I have to talk to her. Fact is, Marie was the one who brought me to my father under Arthur’s direction. She’s also the person who gave me the truth about Quinlan McKee. My father mentioned Marie when we talked last night. Maybe I’m supposed to find her.
Across the street a woman walks out of her front door and slams it shut, turning her back on me while she locks it. I take her momentary distraction to quickly move from the side of the house and walk purposefully in the direction of downtown.
The last thing I need is for someone to think I’m casing the neighborhood. If I get picked up for questioning by the cops, they’ll contact my father. No. They’ll contact the grief department. Apparently my father is not and has never been my legal guardian.
I speed up my steps, keeping my head turned away when the neighbor drives past in her minivan. I’m going to continue on my trip to Roseburg, but I need to find Marie—to find out what my father wanted me to know. There’s only one person left for me to ask for help: Aaron Rios.
Aaron is my best friend. He has always had my back, and as far as I know, he might be the only person who has never betrayed me. But yesterday he was ready to escape from the world of closers with his girlfriend. Then again, he also said he couldn’t tell me about the terms of his release from his contract. So it’s possible he sucks as much as the rest of them. But I’ll have to take a leap of faith here.
If there’s anyone who can track Marie, it’ll be him. I need a phone.
* * *
There’s a café on the corner a few blocks down, but I’m reluctant to enter when I see it’s not busy. It won’t be easy to navigate undetected when I can’t disappear into the background. I keep walking. My fingers are going numb from the cold air on wet skin, and the headache still pulses at my temples.
I notice a couple approaching, cups clutched in their hands. I lower my head, shielding my eyes, even though I nod at their hello. I head in the direction they came from and find a coffee shop hidden among the houses. It’s a small wood-shingled building with metal chairs and small tables out front. They’re all filled, and I see from outside the glass door that the inside is crowded. Perfect.
Even through my plugged nose, the smell of hazelnut flavoring and coffee beans is thick, comforting, and warm. I stand in line. The guy in front is wearing a light spring jacket, his hands tucked inside his pockets. I scan him, but when I don’t see an obvious sign of a phone, I lose interest and look around the room. I notice a guy on his computer, his phone perched close to the edge of the table, books spread on the other side as he types quickly. He looks frazzled, distracted. Perfect.
I discreetly keep my eye on him as I get through the line and order a vanilla latte. The cup is gloriously warm on my chilled fingers, and I hover a moment near the stir sticks and survey the area. No one has noticed me. I adjust my hood at my neck to cover my jawline, and I lower the brim of the baseball hat. I wait until I see another person walking down the aisle about to pass the guy’s table. I start in that direction, my full backpack over my shoulders.
I time it perfectly. The girl walking down the aisle says “excuse me” and I have to brush along the table to avoid her, our presence crowding the area. The guy continues typing, but leans away from us as his shoulder touches my hip. I murmur an apology just as my fingers close around his phone. It’s in my pocket and I’m out the door before he even finishes typing his sentence.
Once outside, I head for a park I noticed earlier. I pull off my baseball hat, reminded of how crisp the morning air is. I fold my hat and tuck it into my coat pocket and shake out my hair. I find a bench that’s partially obscured from view under a crooked tree, the leaves bending toward the ground. I sit down and take out the phone to examine it.
It doesn’t have a pass code, which surprises me. As a closer, to study the private lives of my assignments, I’ve had to break dozens of cell-phone codes—some easier than others. Considering this guy has wallpaper of a dog wearing sunglasses, I assume he’s sweet and trusting. I mean . . . he obviously loves his dog. And now I feel even worse for stealing it. I hope he has insurance.
Aaron won’t have his phone anymore, because he was leaving town and didn’t want to be tracked. But since he left before I found out the truth about the lies my father and Marie have been feeding me, he has no idea how dangerous things are. He wouldn’t have been as careful as he should have. Neither would Myra.
Aaron always joked that once he was done with his contract, he and Myra were going to run off together to a cabin in North Dakota. They might be halfway there by now. Which is why I assume this will not be well received.
The headache that hasn’t left starts to tick up in pain level, and I quickly type in Myra’s phone number. A perk of always having to use other people’s phones, I guess. I have to actually memorize numbers. Before I finish dialing, I look around the park. There’s a man asleep with a newspaper over his shoulder on another bench. A couple walks hand in hand near the roses in the garden area. The woman laughs, and I find myself mimicking her smile.
I stop—alarmed at how easy the habit has become for me. Instead I look down at the phone number and imagine Aaron and Myra sitting by the fire in a cabin. Aaron braids Myra’s hair while she talks about how bored she is living in the woods. They’re happy, though—free to live their own lives.
I shouldn’t ruin that. I should let them get away.
But I’m too selfish, so I hit send and sit back on the bench, watching the fountain across the park. At first the line just rings, and I worry she’s left it behind after all, but then there is a click, and Myra’s voice rings through clear and aggressive as ever.
“Yeah, who’s this?” she says.
A flood of emotions fills my chest, and I steady myself. “I need his help,” I say quietly. There’s a pause, and then Myra mumbles for me to hold on. I wait, wishing she’d stayed on the line a little longer. Reminded me of what it was like before I knew the truth about myself. But she’s getting Aaron, because ultimately she knows how to help me.
“Are you okay?” is the first thing Aaron asks. He sounds distracted, like he’s driving, but his voice is urgent.
“I need to find Marie,” I say. “She’s disappeared.”
“I can’t believe you tracked me down for this, Quinn. If Marie disappeared, none of us will find her. I told Deacon the same thing last night.”
“You spoke to Deacon?” I ask, cold pinpricks running down my arms.
“Wait,” Aaron says. “Aren’t you together?”
“No,” I tell him, and look around, as if Deacon has been just out of sight the entire time. But the park is unchanged. Aaron curses.
“What’s going on?” he asks. “First Deacon calls looking for Marie. Now you? I told you I was out, Quinn. What the hell happened at Marie’s apartment yesterday?”
“She wasn’t there,” I tell him. “But she left me a file.” Tears sting my eyes.
“A file? Your closer file?”
“No.” I shake my head. “My life file. Quinlan McKee was an assignment. I was her closer.”
He’s quiet for a moment and then, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The real Quinlan McKee died when she was six,” I say. “Marie and Arthur Pritchard found me and brought me in. Trained me as a closer for Quinn’s life. But the assignment didn’t end there. They let me stay. They let Quinlan’s dad keep me. My entire life is a lie, Aaron. I’m not even real.”
“So . . . Tom’s not your father,” he asks.
“Nope.”
He’s quiet for a long while, and I imagine him sharing a stunned look with Myra from across the seats. “Hold up,” Aaron tells me. “Let me pull over.”
I wait a minute, and then I can hear Myra’s voice in the background asking if I’m all right. It makes me feel good that she asked. But I can’t help wondering if she would have been friends with me—the real me—if I
hadn’t been a closer. I have to question all my relationships now.
“You there?” Aaron asks. When I tell him that I am, he exhales heavily. “Damn, girl,” he says, like he can’t quite believe what I just told him. “I mean, I’ve always hated Tom, couldn’t understand how you turned out so nice with an asshole like that for a father. Now we know, I guess.”
“I guess,” I repeat.
“Shit, though,” Aaron adds. “Marie, too? They both lied to you?”
“Yeah.”
I know the idea of Marie betraying us hurts him just as much as it hurts me. We trusted her with our lives. We were trained to. “So how you holding up?” Aaron asks, quieter. Changed by what I’ve told him.
“I’ve certainly been better,” I say.
“Understandable. What’s this mean to Deacon?” Aaron asks. “What are his thoughts on this mess? I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”
“He—” I stop, look around the park again. I suddenly feel as if I’ve been noticed, feel the tickle of someone’s gaze on the back of my neck, prickling my skin. I get up from the bench and dart my gaze around, looking for the difference in the setting.
“I hope you’re not giving him shit,” Aaron says, misreading the concern in my voice. “He said he was leaving town with you and asked for Marie’s contact information. I told him I didn’t have it. He promised me the two of you were good again.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, “you should know by now that when someone promises something, it just means they’re trying extra hard at lying. Find Marie,” I tell him. “And tell her to meet me in Roseburg. I’ll text a new number when I get there. But, Aaron, you can’t tell Deacon you heard from me if he calls back. Not this time. Keep this one secret for me.”
Aaron scoffs. “You should know by now that when someone asks you to keep a secret, it just means they’re about to do something really fucking stupid.”
I smile, missing our friendship. All the days of driving around with him, listening to stories and joking about everything. Our lives were never easy as closers, but we had our moments. “Tell Myra I’m sorry for calling,” I say. “And tell her I miss her mean ass.”
Aaron laughs. “I will. Be in touch soon.”
I click off the phone and slip it into my pocket. I’ll ditch it soon, but first I have some arrangements to make. I get up and start down the block. The feeling of being watched has faded, and although I’m still slightly unsettled by it, hearing Aaron’s voice has given me back some of my confidence. Reminded me of who I am.
I’m a good closer. I can become anyone. And if I want to travel undetected, I’ll need to become someone else.
CHAPTER SIX
THE MORNING FOG IS BURNING off, and I want to get to Roseburg before school lets out. I run my hand through my hair, reminded that I cut it short just a week ago. I wanted to look more like Catalina. Now I’ll need another look.
I head toward an outdoor mall, and although most of the stores are still closed, there’s a small food court in a center building where several groups of people are hanging around the coffee station. I spot a blond, plain-faced girl with a giant bag over her shoulder, which I assume, judging by the size, is carrying all the essentials of her wardrobe. She looks college-age, maybe grabbing her coffee before class.
I watch her a moment as she talks on the phone, laughing at something, crinkling her nose a moment later. I make sure no one is watching, and then I mimic her. The left side of her lip goes crooked when she talks, like it’s hitched up on a tooth. It’s cute. I imagine it’s a quirk her friends like about her.
She flips her hair over her shoulder and sets her bag on the counter. There are other people around her, but not too close. She’s talking on her phone, essentially shutting down possible conversations with others. Her hair’s longer than mine, so I’ll need extensions. Other than that, she will be easy to copy.
I check around one last time and then start in her direction, taking a spot next to her at the counter, pretending to wait for a coffee. She glances over at me, uninterested, and turns away.
“Then he’s an idiot,” she says into the phone. “Tell him . . .”
I tune her out and use my peripheral vision to make sure no one is looking at me. I lean forward and slide my hand into her bag. For a moment I panic, thinking it’s too stuffed with random objects, but my hand touches what feels like a wallet, and I take it out. It’s small, black leather, and I close my hand around it. I slip it into my pocket, swing around, and start walking away, all in a smooth movement.
When I get to the other side of the coffee kiosk, I open the wallet and remove her driver’s license and a credit card. I won’t have much time to use it before she cancels it, so I’ll have to make arrangements quickly. When I have what I need, I set the wallet on the counter near the register while the barista is taking an order.
“Someone forgot this,” I mumble, not making eye contact. The barista thanks me, and I quickly escape into the main hallways. It’s a pain in the ass losing your wallet, and the girl will think she just forgot it at the register when she starts looking for it. Still . . . I feel awful for taking it. If I weren’t desperate, I wouldn’t even dream of it. Then again, the real me might be a complete kleptomaniac—who knows? I could be anything.
The thought hardens my purpose, and once I’m out of view of the kiosk, I look down at the ID I took. The girl’s name is Elizabeth Major, and she’s eighteen. It’s perfect, really. Well suited for my purposes. I examine her picture and touch my own hair, missing the length I once had. Back when I knew who I was.
I slip the ID and the credit card into my pocket. I use the phone to look up the closest beauty supply store and fine one nearby that’s open. It’s time for a makeover.
* * *
It was just over a year ago that I was sitting in Deacon’s bedroom, watching him pose in front of the mirror after his own makeover. He’d shaved his brown hair and dyed it blond. He wore black-rimmed glasses, and he turned his head from side to side, changing his facial expressions. He was going on assignment the next day: Kyle Kelsey, a sixteen-year-old in Springfield who had been killed in a farming accident. Deacon had already nailed down the voice thanks to Kyle’s extensive video journaling, but he hadn’t figured out his smile yet.
“You look hot in glasses,” I called to him. I sat cross-legged on his bed while he stood in front of the mirror that was balanced on his dresser, examining himself.
“Hot, you say?” Deacon looked over, posing again just for me. I was definitely a fan.
I sat up on my knees and motioned for him to come over. He moved like he was about to, but then stopped and held up his hand. “You are an amazing distraction, Quinlan,” he told me. “But I have to figure this guy out.” He turned away and studied his reflection once again. “And the second I do, I’m going to tear off my clothes and let you ravish me.”
I laughed and fell back against his pillows, smiling madly as I watched him. I didn’t want to admit that I was consumed with all things Deacon, but it seemed okay because, although he never outright told me, I knew he felt the same.
“I swear,” I said, looking up at his ceiling, “I think my father schedules our assignments in a way to keep us apart.”
“What are you talking about?” Deacon asked. “We’re still partners—we talk during the assignments.”
“True,” I admit. “But not as ourselves.” I look over. “I’ll be talking to a version of Kyle Kelsey this weekend.”
Deacon let out a deep sigh and finally turned to me. He reached up to touch the corner of his glasses. “On or off?” he asked.
“Off.”
He took off the glasses, and his shirt, and came over to the bed to lie down on his stomach. I immediately turned, and I ran my fingernails down his back as he rested his chin on his folded forearms, seeming lost in thought.
“Then let’s stop,” he said quietly. “How long can we really stand this anyway?”
I leaned in and kissed his shoulder
before resting my cheek there and closing my eyes.
“We’ll quit after this one,” he said.
“You say that every time,” I told him. “But we never do. It’s a lot easier to say when your father isn’t your boss.”
Deacon shifted in the bed and moved over. We lay on our sides, facing each other. His soft brown eyes met my gaze. “Your dad may not be related to me, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have the same control. Nothing’s easy for a closer,” he told me. “Nothing easy but us. This.” Deacon leaned in and kissed me.
But Deacon was wrong about us. Eventually we became difficult and complicated. He failed me when I needed him, abandoned me more than once. And worst of all, I’m not sure why. Why he would conspire against me. If I get more answers, maybe that one will finally become clear.
As I poke through the different hair extensions in the back aisle of the supply store, looking for the one closest to my color, all I can think about is Deacon. And how much I hate him because of how much I love him.
And when I have to sniffle back my emotions, I brush aside thoughts of him, too. I grab the blond extensions and head to the makeup section. I end up spending another forty dollars in cash on makeup and brushes because Elizabeth Major’s face has subtle differences I’ll have to create. And although I can’t mimic her turned tooth, I can copy the way she compensates for it.
I leave the store and head to the nearest gas station and ask to use the bathroom. Once inside the small, dingy space, I take out the license and prop it up on the backsplash of the sink. I examine the picture. Our eye color is more or less the same, so that’s a plus. I didn’t buy any contacts.
I open the concealer and cover my freckles first. Once I’m a blank canvas, I begin to change the shape of my features with the stroke of a brush: widen my lips, play down my cheekbones.
I finish the makeup and then take the extensions out of the bag and comb through them with my fingers. I reach under my hair and snap them in, immediately hating how they feel. At least the ones Marie uses are expensive—better quality. I comb the extensions out and change my hair part to match Elizabeth’s.
The Epidemic Page 5
