The Epidemic

by Suzanne Young

  Some of these people look unwell. They remind me of Roderick at the party, his expression as he walked himself off the balcony. The referee blows the whistle again, and I visibly jump. Aaron puts his hand on my leg to steady me.

  “You all right?” he asks, his eyes trained on the court.

  “I don’t know.”

  The game continues, and Aaron leans forward, his elbows on his knees as he studies Virginia’s behavior. Virginia is diving for volleys she has no chance of reaching. She’s tossing her body around as if she can’t feel it when she hits the floor, her skin squeaking against the polished wood. A patch of blood appears on her knee, another on her elbow. The ref notices and calls time.

  The coach comes onto the court with a white cloth and some bandages. She motions for Virginia to go to the bench, but Virginia shakes her head no. The coach puts her hand on her shoulder, but Virginia shrugs it off and then slaps her coach’s hand away when she reaches for her again.

  “I said I’m fine!” Virginia shouts, her voice echoing throughout the gymnasium. The gym goes quiet, and my stomach knots up with a deep sense of dread. The referee comes to stand next to the coach, and the two women take a step toward Virginia, their hands held up in a nonthreatening manner.

  “We want to treat your cuts,” the coach says, her voice audible in the silence. “I just need you to come to the bench for a minute.” But even I can tell she’s lying. Virginia won’t be going back into the game.

  Virginia laughs wildly, shaking her head, backing away from the approaching women. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Virginia snaps bitterly. “But you don’t really care about that, do you? Just like you didn’t care about Diana or Roderick or Micah.”

  The coach takes a wounded gasp, lowering her hands. “Of course I care,” she says. “I cared about all of them. Care,” she corrects.

  “You want us all well behaved,” she tells her, and looks back at the crowd. Several of the students straighten up, as if she called on them specifically. They’re hanging on her every word, entranced by her. She’s a burning building you can’t look away from.

  Virginia turns back to her coach. “I know you’re working with him,” she says flatly.

  This makes the coach stop in her approach. She fumbles for a response. “You need help, Virginia,” the coach says, not addressing the comment. “Now come off the court. We’ll call your father and have him pick you up.”

  Virginia laughs and walks toward her coach, making the woman puff herself up in case there’s going to be an altercation. Virginia stops just in front of her. The referee watches from a few feet away, ready to break up a fight. The players stand in shock, staring at them.

  Virginia leans in, blinking slowly, erratically, and says, “I remember everything.”

  The coach drops her supplies and grabs Virginia to spin her around. She locks her in a hold to restrain her, as if Virginia was about to attack. Which wasn’t what I saw. Aaron is the first to stand, reading the situation same as me. Half the crowd stands up with us, some covering their mouths. All looking horrified.

  Virginia starts to thrash, telling her coach to let her go. She snarls, wild. Unhinged. In the struggle she splits her lip, and blood sputters out as she shouts and kicks. The referee comes over to help the coach pull her from the court.

  My heart is in my throat. I don’t know what to think, but I’m watching in horror as Virginia Pritchard seems to disintegrate in front of our eyes.

  “You won’t erase me again!” she screams, kicking at the air as she tries to free herself. “I’ll die first. We’ll all die first!”

  I see at least one person nod.

  “Call Dr. Pritchard and tell him to get down here!” the coach yells to the player that Virginia helped on the court. Without a second thought the girl runs toward the bench and grabs her cell phone out of her bag, biting her nail as she watches Virginia get dragged toward the locker room.

  “No!” Virginia yells to her friend. “Don’t call him!” She seems to choke on some of the blood and spits it out on the floor. Tears stream from her eyes. “No, Deidra,” she tells her friend again, her voice shaking. “Please don’t call him.”

  Her friend pauses, but the coach waves for her to continue. Conflicted, the girl turns away from Virginia and begins talking to who I assume is Arthur Pritchard.

  Virginia cries the rest of the way, no longer fighting. Resolved to the unspeakable outcome she’s resigned herself to. I grip Aaron’s arm hard enough to turn my knuckles white. Aaron’s eyes have welled up as he watched. When he turns to me, a tear drips onto his cheek.

  “We have to get out of here,” he whispers. “And we have to leave now.”

  I look across the gymnasium just in time to see the locker door close behind Virginia and the coach. They’re gone.

  “We need to help her,” I tell Aaron. “She’s scared.”

  “I’m scared,” Aaron responds, prying my fingers from his arm. He tilts his head like he can’t understand why I would say such a thing. “We can’t help her now,” he adds. “If what she says is true, if her coach is in on it . . . this is already beyond us. We can’t stay here. We need to call Marie.”

  “No,” I tell him fiercely. “That’s bullshit, Aaron, and you know it. Virginia said she remembered everything, and if that’s the case, we need to find out what that includes. And how exactly she remembered.” But I’m being selfish, because part of me thinks that if Virginia can remember, maybe she can show me how to do the same.

  Around us groups of students flee the gymnasium, while the ref cleans up the blood from the court with a mop; the opposing team is standing around, staring in shock. I see one of the players scratch nervously at her forearm, scratch until a thin red line appears in her skin.

  Reed stops at the end of our row and waves us forward, his eyes already on the exit. Aaron and I make our way toward him, and I hope that at least he is thinking rationally. We can’t just leave Virginia behind.

  When we get into the school hallway, I hear a whistle in the gym signaling the continuation of the game. I don’t imagine the team will do well after Virginia’s outburst. I know I’m not doing well.

  Reed runs his hand roughly through his dark hair. “I feel like I’m in a fucking asylum,” he says, an obvious change in his demeanor since we arrived. “Do you know what those girls said? The ones I was talking to?” he asks. “They wanted to know if I was interested in something called ‘quick death.’ Poison, apparently,” he clarifies. “But they acted like they were selling me weed or something.” He shakes his head, horror in his expression. “I’m glad to back out of my assignment. They need more than closers here,” he says. “We are way out of our depth.”

  “Marie asked us to check on Virginia,” I say, my voice echoing down the corridor. “And now you want to abandon her? Did you see how they were treating her?”

  “Have we considered that maybe Arthur Pritchard has a real strategy to deal with this?” Reed asks. “At least he’s a doctor.”

  “Yeah?” I say. “And did his daughter seem interested in that plan? You saw how she reacted.” I look at Reed and then at Aaron. “Would you call that a normal response to therapy?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call any of this normal,” Reed says darkly. “But I know I feel like shit after seeing that, after being here.” He shivers as if a thought haunts him. “We can’t help these people,” he adds. “Any of them—including Virginia.”

  “He’s right, Quinlan,” Aaron says, surprising me with his firm tone. “We need an actual plan.”

  I shoot him a betrayed look, and he lowers his chin as if I didn’t let him finish.

  “A plan to talk to Virginia,” he continues in a softer voice. “She’s the key to this. Once we know what they’re doing to her, maybe we can relate it back to a trigger. That’s what Marie and Evelyn really need—a problem to treat. So let’s figure out what Virginia knows, make a list of people she’s been in contact with, and hand it over. Then we get the hell out of
here.”

  “Okay, look,” Reed says, stepping closer. “I’ll drop the two of you back at your motel to regroup. I’ll find where they’re taking Virginia and contact you. Until then, stay put.”

  I’m about to tell him he can’t give me orders when I feel Aaron take my elbow. “Come on,” he says. “It’ll give us a chance to loop Deacon in.”

  Deacon is off looking into Arthur’s intentions, but after Virginia’s complete meltdown, I’m even more worried about what can happen to him.

  “Call Deacon and tell him to meet us,” I tell Aaron. “He’ll know what to do.”

  Which is, of course, a lie. None of us know what to do.

  And with one last glance behind us, Aaron, Reed, and I rush for the exit and out into the uncomfortably bright afternoon.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I SIT IN THE BACKSEAT of reed’s car in complete silence, listening as Aaron calls Deacon and tells him to stop what he’s doing and come to the motel. Once he hangs up, he dials Marie and relays the events of the past hour. He mostly listens as Marie gives instructions. At one point he stiffens and says, “Yeah, she’s with me.”

  When he hangs up, he turns. “Marie said she’s delaying Tabby and Shep’s placement,” he tells me, “and that we should wait for information on Virginia’s condition before moving forward. You okay with that?”

  “I think I’m outvoted,” I say. “And how are we supposed to talk to Virginia if we’re sitting around in a motel being useless? Telepathy?” Aaron scoffs and gets out of the car.

  “Dial it back, Quinn,” Reed tells me, glancing in the rearview mirror. His skin has paled, and his blue eyes are serious. “I’ll find where they’re taking Virginia,” he says. “But this is obviously a bigger conspiracy than we initially thought. If you’re losing your grip on this, we should—”

  “I’m not losing my fucking grip,” I snap, and then immediately regret my attitude. Shouting isn’t the best way to prove control. “I’m just . . .” I continue in a softer voice: “I’m worried about her.”

  “Then I will do absolutely everything I can to help her,” Reed says kindly. “I promise you, Quinlan.” This particular tone combined with Reed’s good looks is useful for manipulation, I’m sure. The fact that he’s trying to use his closer skills on me should be irritating, but instead it actually offers me a small measure of comfort. And for that I’m grateful.

  “Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot.”

  “Anytime, Quinlan,” Reed murmurs. He tears his gaze away from me, seeming lost, and adds, “Every time.”

  * * *

  Reed swears he’ll be in touch the minute he tracks Virginia’s location, and he leaves. Aaron stands in the parking lot with his fingers locked behind his neck and stares up at the motel. When Reed’s car is gone, Aaron turns a suspicious eye on me.

  “What’s really going on?” he asks. “Because I love you, girl—but I’m not going to blindly follow you into the abyss.”

  “But I’m supposed to trust you with no questions asked?” I shoot back. “Tell me what’s going on with you and Marie.”

  Aaron exhales and turns his back, but he doesn’t walk away. “I don’t trust her anymore,” he says. “We’ve been with her for years, but look what she kept from you—how she lied to you. As soon as you called, saying she disappeared, things started to click into place.”

  “How so?”

  “She had me watching you for a while,” he says, looking back guiltily. “Hell, when you were Catalina, I staked out the house on her command. She had me worried, said you were losing it. And maybe you were.

  “But then I got sent on an assignment, same situation as you. It wasn’t right—timing too coincidental. Both assignments came directly from Arthur, both of us Marie’s closers. I don’t know what it means, but I just got a feeling. I don’t think Marie is fighting against Arthur—I think she’s working with him.”

  I shake my head, seeing the logic in his argument, but not buying it completely. “That’s a pretty big accusation,” I say. “I . . . I don’t believe that. Marie’s scared of Arthur—I can see it, hear it in her voice. She thinks he’s going to erase her memory for breaking her contract. Besides,” I add, “she let you leave and she gave me my closer file. Do you really think she’d double-cross us now?”

  “Did she let me leave or was she trying to get rid of me? Because there’s a difference,” he says.

  “I’m not defending her,” I say, holding up my hands apologetically. “But she did want us to run. She was protecting us.”

  Aaron puts his hands on his hips like he can’t believe I just said that. “So if she’s protecting us, she can lie to us?” he says. “I know you don’t buy that.” He pauses. “Does that apply to your father, too?”

  And, of course, now that he says it . . . I think maybe it does. I asked Deacon how he could love the woman who’d mistreated him so badly, and the only answer was because she was his mother. I get it now.

  “He’s still my father,” I tell Aaron, my voice starting to shake. I’ve been keeping the fear at bay, but the fact is, I have no idea about my father’s condition. I have no idea if he’s okay.

  “Aw, shit,” Aaron says, and steps over to hug me. “I didn’t mean to bring him up. I’m sorry, Quinn.”

  “Will you find him for me?” I ask, my cheek pressed to his chest. “Will you just check if he’s okay?”

  “Yeah,” Aaron says. “I have a few contacts in Corvallis. I’ll get in touch with them.” He pulls back and stares down at me. “I’m sorry about what I said,” he adds. “I know Marie loves us. I just want to be careful. And now that I’ve said my piece, why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you and Virginia Pritchard.”

  I sniffle and a take a step back. Aaron knows I’m a good person, but not that good.

  “I need to find out how she remembered her past,” I tell him. “That means she knows everything that her father’s done. She knows the methods and reasons. And she might know how to trigger my memory. If she can, then I won’t need Arthur Pritchard to find out my identity. I’ll get it my damn self.”

  “So you want her help?” he asks.

  “Yes. And I want to help her, too. If she already has her memories back, the only thing I can offer is freedom from her father. So if Marie can’t get him shut down, I think we should help Virginia run away.”

  Aaron’s lips form a perfect O, and he forces a laugh. “That’s enough conspiracy talk for today, Quinlan,” he says, reaching to take my arm. “Let’s save this conversation for when your boyfriend gets back.”

  We walk up the outdoor steps of the motel toward my room. “He’ll agree with me,” I say, looking sideways. I smile when Aaron meets my eyes.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Aaron says. “He’s a crazy fucker too.”

  We both laugh, but when we get to the motel room door, we exchange a look that brings the lightness of the moment crashing down around us. We’ll have to try harder, do everything we can when all around us darkness is pushing in. So we force bigger smiles and go inside the motel room.

  Deacon jumps up from where he was sitting on the bed, surprising us. I didn’t know he was already back.

  “What took you so long?” he asks, obviously worried. The news of Virginia getting dragged off the volleyball court must have been disconcerting, even though he wasn’t there. Aaron and I are immediately grounded again in the horror of our situation.

  “Sorry, man,” Aaron tells Deacon in a low voice. He goes to sit in the hard chair next to the window. “Where were you when I called?”

  Deacon shifts his eyes to mine, checking to make sure I’m okay since I’m not the one who answered. “I was at Arthur’s medical office,” he says to Aaron, although he’s still watching me. “His car wasn’t in the lot, though. I’m thinking about breaking in.”

  “Of course you are,” Aaron says with a heavy sigh.

  Deacon ignores him and crosses the room to pause in front of me. “Are you really okay?” h
e asks quietly.

  I lean in to him. All at once I feel vulnerable again. “You should have seen her,” I tell him, the image of Virginia fighting and bleeding and helpless burned into my memory. “It was awful.”

  He tightens his arms around me, whispering how sorry he is that he wasn’t there. For a second I let myself pretend that if he had been, he would have run onto the court, grabbed Virginia’s hand, and taken off with her. He would have saved her. That wouldn’t have happened. But I need to think it could have. The chance that we’re not all completely helpless in this comforts me.

  There’s a buzz, and Aaron takes his phone from his pocket to check the caller ID. “It’s Myra,” he says. “I gotta take it.” He points the phone toward the door. “I’ll be in my room. Let me know when Reed gets in touch.”

  I nod, and after Aaron leaves, Deacon checks me over, seeming uncertain. “You look miserable,” he says. “What can I do?”

  “You can stop treating me like I’m made of glass,” I say. “I won’t smash into a million pieces.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t even want you to get a hairline crack, so let’s take a minute to think.”

  He’s right. If we let ourselves dwell on the terrible, it can become us. We know that from being closers. Right now we just have to fake it as long as we can.

  “You hungry?” he asks. “I picked up lunch.”

  “Sure,” I say. “I am kind of—”

  Deacon motions to the bed across the room, and I see a mountain of vending-machine snacks. I laugh, and when I look back at him, he grins.

  “What?” he asks. “I’m a stress eater.”

  * * *

  Deacon has fully stocked us with salt-and-vinegar chips, Red Vines, Dr Pepper, and Hostess cakes. We’re adulting pretty hard as he spreads it out like a picnic on the extra bed. I sit cross-legged in front of him, our phones set out where we can see them, and I tear open the Red Vines.

  “Appetizer?” I ask, holding out the package. Deacon shakes his head and reaches for the Ho Hos.