The Epidemic

by Suzanne Young

  “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.

  CHAPTER TEN

  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.”

  Deacon clenches his fists, and I can relate to the fierce protectiveness that comes over us. Marie, despite everything, is still ours. And we protect our own.

  “Can’t you talk to my father?” I ask her. “Maybe he can help. Or Arthur—”

  “The board of directors doesn’t want any loose ends at this point,” she says. “We’re all in danger now. Every closer, every advisor. If we’re not part of their big picture, we’re part of the problem. They want to move forward with some grand plan that Arthur has begun. He’s going to use handlers, and if he can’t transition you into one, then he will strip you of your identity.”

  Deacon looks guilt-stricken, and I have to turn away from him, “handler” still a bit of a stinging burn on my heart.

  “Again,” I say to Marie. “You mean he’ll strip away my identity again. But the thing is, I’m starting to remember.” I confide in Marie the way I used to. Perhaps it’s habit or even training, but God, it feels good to tell her. “I’ve been having flashes,” I continue. “Headaches and nosebleeds. My memory is coming back, and not from when I was six. It wasn’t just once, was it, Marie? Exactly how many times did you let Arthur Pritchard erase my memory?”

  She’s quiet for a painfully long moment. “Five,” she says. “Five more after the time we made you Quinlan.”

  It’s a punch to my chest, and I cover my mouth with my hand. It feels like my greatest fear realized: None of me is real. I am absolutely nobody, rewritten so many times that I’ve never lived at all.

  When Marie continues, she employs comforting techniques: calculated pauses in her sentences, a softer but authoritative tone. I don’t reject her manipulation. Just like my former clients, I recognize that I need it. It’s too difficult to have this conversation without it.

  “Arthur repeatedly warned us,” she says, “that resurfaced memories could cause a meltdown. He said it would leave you with permanent damage. But the memories kept coming back, and your father and I started to figure out that it was the assignments—emotional stress did the triggering. We tried to ease up on you—I even stopped drugging your tea. But then your last assignment came up, and Arthur strong-armed us into sending you too soon. I don’t know why. My guess is because of your success rate. And now here you are, on the verge of remembering again.”

  “How much did I remember?” I ask her. “Did I remember my real parents?”

  “What exactly you remembered, we’re not sure. You didn’t trust us enough to tell us.”

  “Then how did he make me forget?” I ask, desperation creeping into my voice.

  “I don’t know how Arthur did it,” she says. “We took you to him like we were advised, and when you came back, you were better, as if the preceding days had never happened. Tom and I thought we were doing the right thing, keeping you safe. Keeping you our Quinlan.”

  “I was never your Quinlan,” I say sharply. “And, as if I needed further proof of Arthur Pritchard’s depravity, it turns out I’m not the only person he’s done this to.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks. “Who else?”

  “His daughter, Virginia,” I tell her. “Bits and pieces of her memory have been wiped out. It’s driving her insane. What kind of man does that to his child?”

  “The same kind of man who makes us sign agreements to have our memories erased if we go against him,” she snaps. She seems alarmed, her composure faltering. “I’m sorry, Quinn,” she continues. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you, and your father has too. It wasn’t until recently that I realized it wasn’t keeping you safe anymore. And when I knew that . . . I let you go. I gave up my life for you.”

  Although she can wield these words as emotional blackmail, it doesn’t lessen the guilt I feel over her predicament.

  “What now?” I ask her. “Arthur’s found you. And he might have gotten to my father, too. Have you talked to him?”

  Marie is quiet, and I picture her looking around the surely cluttered room of wherever she’s staying, making certain that she’s alone. “No,” she says. “I’m sorry. I haven’t heard from Tom. But if they’ve gotten to him . . .” She
doesn’t finish the thought.

  I fight back my panic. I can’t even call him, can’t even find out for myself. “If they’re just rounding us up,” I ask her, “what do we do?”

  “You can always run,” she says.

  Deacon looks over at me, and I know if he could, he would convince me of the same.

  “And let Arthur get away with it?” I ask Marie. “Get away with manipulating me and his daughter? Let him keep my life from me? No, I won’t do that. I want the truth. Besides, what about the other closers? Are you just going to leave them behind?”

  Marie quiets, and when she talks again, her tone is filled with sorrow. “I’ve spent my life helping families,” she says. “Protecting my closers—or at least trying to. But I let my self-interest ruin everything. The department is now corrupt and my kids are in danger.

  “You see, Quinn,” she continues, “it doesn’t matter who you come from, not in this life. It matters who you become. And I think I’ve betrayed you, all of you, enough. That’s not the kind of person I want to be. I’m going to set things right—as right as I can.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “We’ll get your identity, but first we need to warn the other closers about the department. Give them the same choice: to run or to help. But we have to do so without arousing the suspicion of the people who have already been transitioned—we won’t know what side anyone is on. Once we have a group that we can trust, we’ll figure out what to do next. Ultimately . . . we have to stop Arthur Pritchard. And hopefully that will be enough to take down the grief department too.”

  Her impassioned speech wakes up my courage. Although I want to know who I am; although I want to give Virginia back her memories, right now my loyalty lies with the other closers first. I have a chance to protect them, to have their backs.

  “I’m in,” I say. I turn to Deacon, waiting to see if he’s with me on this. It takes him a moment, but then he lifts one corner of his mouth and shrugs as if saying, We’ve done stupider things, so why not?

  “Now,” Marie says firmly. “I assume you’re with Deacon?”