I blow out a breath and then toss the ball in the air, swinging with all my might. I miss. My arms continue through the swing, spinning me in my shoes. Ouch. That can’t be good for my shoulder. There’s a snort, and I look over to see my father covering his mouth with his hand. I fight back my own embarrassed smile.
“That looked really stupid, huh?” I ask.
“It was quite possibly the worst swing I’ve ever seen,” he says, trying to stay straight-faced. “You nearly screwed yourself into the dirt.”
I laugh and bend to pick up the ball. I narrow my eyes, looking at the trees, my lips pressed tight together while I concentrate. And then I try it again and barely get a piece of the ball, making it land behind me.
“That was actually negative progress,” I say, glancing sideways at my dad. “Good thing we’re not keeping score.”
“Good thing for you,” he says. He picks up a ball and smacks it beyond the fence with what looks like little effort.
“Show-off,” I mumble, and then try again. He doesn’t offer advice or show me how to choke up on the bat. He’s clear on the difference between me and his daughter, still keeping his distance. But the fact that he’s letting me be here at all is a step forward.
It takes me five tries before I hit the ball in any measurable way.
“There you go,” my father says, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief from his back pocket. Sweat rings his underarms and patterns a V across his chest. We take a few more swings, my arms and back already aching, and I look longingly at the patio set.
“Let’s take a break,” my father says, reaching for my bat. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but I appreciate the gesture and give him the metal bat before following behind him to the table. I sit down first, and he takes a spot across from me, looking over my head at the woods. I’m thirsty, but I don’t want to interrupt our moment by going inside.
Birds are chirping and a slight wind picks up. The sun fades behind a few scattered clouds. My father exhales heavily and meets my eyes from across the table.
“How long have you been doing this for?” he asks. His question startles me, breaks me from my role play.
“Since I was six,” I tell him, still using his daughter’s voice. His eyebrows pull together, whether in sympathy or disbelief, I’m not sure. “I’ve been well trained,” I assure him. “I’m the best.” He smiles softly at this, but sadness overwhelms his expression.
“Have you ever lost anyone?” he asks.
“I lose someone every time I have an assignment,” I say. He shakes his head.
“I mean in the real world. Have you ever lost anyone close to you?”
Tiny pricks of grief that I can’t quite place break over my skin. “Yeah,” I tell him, my face growing hot. “My mother.”
He swallows hard, looking apologetic for bringing it up. He leans forward, his elbows on the table.
“How did you get over it?” he asks. “How did you learn to do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my shoulders hunching. “I don’t remember anything about her.” I look up and meet his eyes. “I’ve forgotten her completely.”
My father’s lips part in surprise, and he watches me for a long moment. “Well, that’s almost worse, isn’t it?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”
He looks back at the trees, but his eyes have glassed over. He feels sorry for me, and all at once I’m the vulnerable one. I lower my head, staring down at my hands on my lap. “I still miss her, though,” I say. “It’s just . . . a gnawing sense of loss. One that isn’t attached to an actual memory. An ache that never goes away.” When my father doesn’t respond, I look up to find him staring at me sadly. I shrug, trying to lighten this heavy moment I’ve brought down around us.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me sincerely. “You don’t deserve that. You’re . . . you’re just a kid.”
“Who deserves pain, then?” I ask. “Not you or your wife. Not Isaac or Angie. No one deserves what’s happened to your family. If I can make that go away . . .” I pause. “It’s worth it.”
My father stills, a million different thoughts playing across his features. “Do you really think you can help?” he asks, sounding hopeful but cautious.
This burly man with the bushy mustache is holding on to the idea of me, his daughter. He doesn’t want to let me go, although everything around him tells him he should. In this moment, I would do anything to bring him peace. I would give up the real me for that.
“Yes,” I say simply. “I can help.”
Tears fill his eyes until they brim over and run down his cheeks. He draws an unsteady breath, and then this formidable man covers his face and sobs at his backyard patio table. My nose burns with the heat of my sympathy tears. My father’s shoulders shake with his cries; a broken sound like a wounded animal escapes from behind his hands. A broken man.
I stand up, trying to push away my own feelings so I can focus on what to say. Instead I find myself rounding the table and standing by my father’s side. I put my hand on his shoulder, and all at once he turns and wraps his arms around me, his face at my hip as he holds me tight and cries.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I say quietly, putting my palm protectively on the back of his head. “I’m here now.”
“I miss you,” he breathes out. “I miss you so much, Catalina. Don’t ever leave me. Don’t ever.”
Warm tears roll down my face as I stare into the trees, brushing my father’s thinning hair. Absorbing his grief as my own. “I’m here now,” I say again, until his pain fills me up.
CHAPTER TWO
THE HOUSE IS QUIET WHEN I return inside, my father opting to hit a few more baseballs before dinner. I give him his space. We had a moment, a small breakthrough. Pushing him now could make him distrust me again. I grab a soda and wander to my room, glancing around the unfamiliar space before dropping down at my desk. I roll my shoulder once to stretch it out, wondering how much pain I’ll be in later.
I check my phone again, surprised I still haven’t heard from Aaron. He’s usually really quick on the research end, but maybe he’s having trouble finding anything on a “Virginia.” Now that I think about it, it’s possible she’s a complete figment I made up to spend more time with Isaac. I groan. “Which doesn’t make sense,” I scold myself, taking a swig of my Coke. My parents love Isaac—I don’t think they would have minded us spending time together.
With a deep sigh, I set my phone aside on the desk and open up my computer. I click on the search and type in “Virginia” to see if I have any documents with her name in it. All that come up are a few history-class papers. Not the right Virginia. Next I check e-mails and again type in her name. Not one mention. Not from me or her or any of my friends. It’s like she doesn’t exist.
“Probably why Aaron’s not calling me back,” I murmur to myself.
Next I try all the different social media sites, and when I find nothing again, I start studying my pictures. I pause on a picture of me and Isaac—happy and beaming. It was from last year, at the lake. Isaac’s family has a house near Crater Lake, and we’d head there a couple of times during the summer to go boating, swim, sit around the fire pit and talk all night. Isaac’s mom got the house in her divorce settlement, and she would let Isaac go whenever he wanted. She didn’t really consider that he’d bring me every time. She might have changed her mind about letting him go.
There’s a flashing message on the bottom of my screen, signaling a new e-mail. I click on it and pull up my account, initially surprised to see it’s part of an e-mail chain. Someone must have forgotten to delete my account from their address book.
WAREHOUSE—TONIGHT AT 11!
I furrow my brow, trying to recall if I’ve read anything about a warehouse, but nothing comes to mind. I search for an earlier mention in my messages, and find an initial e-mail from Conner Fairhaven from last month.
WHERE WERE YOU TODAY? YOUR MAN TOLD ME YOU’RE BOTH IN. WAREHOUSE ON MAY 18TH! BOUNCER SAYS WE
’RE GOLDEN.
Conner didn’t mention Isaac by name, which is why this didn’t pull up in my earlier searches. I click back to the original group e-mail and find Isaac and Angie among the recipients.
The page shifts as a new e-mail comes in, and my heart seizes when I see it’s from Angie. She tells them she’ll be there tonight. Immediately a slew of apologies soon follow, condolences on my death. Tension tightens my shoulders, and I hate how everyone is patronizing her. I wonder how often Angie has to hear about my death—as if it’s the only thing people can talk to her about anymore.
There is a ding, the sound of my instant messaging, and I quickly pull up the screen. I’m stunned to see my sister’s name and image. Her lips are puckered, her red hair in stylish low pigtails. A picture taken in a happier time, I’m sure. I’m scared of what she has to say, and I quickly try to flip into therapy mode before reading the message.
I CAN SEE YOU’RE ONLINE, she writes. There’s a yellow circle above my name, signifying that I’m here. I should have switched it to invisible.
I sit back in the chair and wring my hands, my heart thumping. Angie isn’t a client, but I know our mother misses her. Maybe if my sister could get involved somehow, spend time with our parents, make them see that life will go on, even without me, it could help.
This is a terrible idea, I shouldn’t reach out, but she’s already part of this. I’M HERE TO HELP, I type, deciding to follow my gut. YOUR SUPPORT COULD ONLY ASSIST IN YOUR PARENTS’ RECOVERY PROCESS.
DROP DEAD.
She signs off, and I’m left with a sting as if she slapped me. I look around my room, humbled, but then my temper flares. Angie doesn’t mean it, but there comes a point when you have to stop making excuses for people. The fact is, Angie isn’t just lashing out at me; she’s being cruel to our parents. I know my mother has been trying to call her, but she won’t answer. Angie isn’t part of this assignment, and I think that was a mistake. She may have accepted her loss, but to what end? She’s closed off and angry. If she doesn’t get some kind of help, this could lead to destructive and dangerous behavior. I’ve seen it. And our parents need her. I have to make her understand that.
I glance at the computer screen, noticing the original e-mail again. A crazy and completely deranged idea pops into my head. I have to see her, and both she and Isaac will be at that place tonight. Maybe I could be there too. I’d keep my distance, but I could observe them with their friends, use that to figure out how to get inside their heads. It’s not lost on me that my sister was right: Closers do manipulate people. Going to the Warehouse would be totally wrong.
Which is why I can’t tell Aaron. Even if he doesn’t report me, who’s to say it won’t come out when Marie debriefs us later? I can’t trust him with this—even if he’s my partner. I bite my lip, reading over the e-mail again, nervousness bubbling up. Can I really spy on my sister, involve her in this assignment, without Marie’s permission?
I run my fingers through my short hair, and take out my phone. I NEED YOU TONIGHT, I text. My phone rings immediately.
“Well, this escalated quickly,” Deacon says, sounding amused. I laugh, comforted by his voice. Normally I wouldn’t talk to him while I’m on assignment—it certainly pulls me out of my role—but he’s the perfect person to ask for help. Since we’re no longer partners, Deacon won’t be subjected to an interview after this assignment. There’s no reason for Marie to find out we interacted at all. And if anyone knows how to manipulate a situation, it’s certainly my ex-boyfriend.
“There’s a meet-up at place called the Warehouse,” I tell him. “Know it?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “It’s a bar in Portland. Why?”
I pull up my knees and hug them to my chest. “Don’t judge me,” I start, making him chuckle. “But this assignment has gotten complicated. I need your help figuring some things out.” Deacon’s good at digging, seeing the small details others miss. We’ve collaborated before, especially when we worked together. He was always able to help.
“Of course,” he says. “But I have to point out that you’re asking me to drive up to Lake Oswego to take you to some sketchy dive bar in the city. What’s going on?”
“Hey, I thought you weren’t going to judge!”
“Didn’t agree to that,” he says quickly. “But let’s just call this curiosity if it makes you feel better. Why do you want to go there?”
I sigh, knowing there’s no way to dodge his question again. “I’m going to observe a nonclient. Which is why this is off the record.”
The line is silent for a moment, and I don’t provide more details. If Deacon wants to know the rest, he’ll have to come here. When the quiet goes on too long, I groan. “Deacon, are you in or not? I can just call Aaron.”
“No you can’t,” he says. “Aaron’s out of town. Besides, he’s already got me researching something, so he’s a little tied up. And Jesus, Quinn. When have I ever told you no?”
“Wait.” I drop my feet to the floor. “What do you mean Aaron’s out of town? Since when?”
Deacon blows out a breath. “Don’t know. Since you left, I guess. He told me yesterday morning he’d be out of touch for a while. Didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Seriously?” I sit back against the chair, a bit stunned. Aaron didn’t tell me he was going anywhere. Why wouldn’t he have mentioned that? What if I need him? “Does Marie know?” I ask Deacon.
“Not sure.”
This is crazy. Aaron has never abandoned me on assignment, not even when he was deep in his own role-play. I think a minute, running over my conversation with my father. This assignment was an emergency, a last-minute case that Arthur Pritchard sanctioned. What if they asked the same of Aaron?
“Do you think this has anything to do with Arthur Pritchard?” I ask Deacon.
“Naw,” he responds. “Aaron’s probably just taking a breather with Myra. Don’t worry, Quinn. I’ve got your back. What do you need from me, other than a ride?” he adds.
I’m not comfortable with the idea of Aaron being MIA, but I notice the time on my computer and force myself to focus on my assignment again. “Will you come with me tonight?” I ask.
“Sounds super-not-fun, but yes.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling. “I’ll text you my address. Meet me here at about eleven? I’ll have to sneak out.”
“Wow, you’re full of bad ideas,” he says. When I tsk, he apologizes. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
“Actually . . . ,” I add. “Can you check into someone for me? I asked Aaron, but obviously he hasn’t responded.”
“Who?”
“A girl named Virginia. My mother says I hang out with her, but I can’t turn anything up. I’m not entirely sure she’s real.”
“No last name?” he asks, his interest piqued by a true mystery.
“Nope. Only said I sometimes meet her on Saturdays. Let me know if you find anything.”
“Absolutely. Okay, I’m going to get pretty,” Deacon says. “Meet you outside your window at eleven.”
I smile. “Just like old times.”
“Right?” he says. “We always were good partners.”
“We were terrible partners,” I tell him. That’s not true, but I like to torture him every so often with my denial.
“Liar,” he returns immediately. “We were good partners in every way possible.” A sense of warmth rushes over me, settling in so that my face grows hot. Deacon’s not just talking about being closers. And it’s not even about our relationship. It’s the simple fact that Deacon and I are completely and helplessly intertwined in each other’s lives. Even though he pushes me away sometimes, he pulls me in twice as hard.
“See you later,” I say, not willing to prolong the flirtation. He takes the hint and we say good-bye. I text him my address and the passwords to my accounts so he can research Virginia. Afterward, I set my phone facedown on the desk. My heart is still beating quickly, and I turn to gaze out the window. Watch the trees sway in the breeze as
I get lost in a memory.
* * *
It was a week after I first met Deacon at my kitchen table that he pulled up in my father’s shiny black Cadillac, easing to the curb a few feet in front of me. He’d only gotten his permit the day I left for my assignment, but already my father was handing over the keys. I planned to reiterate the driving laws to him when I got home. Here was Deacon, perfectly on time, which annoyed me because I hadn’t quite lost the mind-set of Annabeth Trayner yet. I could have used an extra moment or two.
I tossed my bag onto the backseat and climbed in the passenger side before yanking off my wig. Although Deacon had called earlier that day to set up the extraction from my assignment, I’d hoped Marie would be the one to pick me up. I felt a little betrayed.
I grabbed my seat belt, and as I clicked it, I glanced over to find Deacon studying me, drinking me in like he’d never seen me before. When his eyes leveled on mine, there was a flutter in my chest—a feeling of being completely known, seen, memorized. Of being totally exposed.
“I brought you a candy bar,” he said simply. I stared at him, slightly confused when his mouth twitched with a smile. He nodded down at the center console to a Snickers bar, crooked and slightly melted.
“I don’t eat peanuts,” I told him.
“Noted.” He shifted the car into gear, and pulled out into the street. Despite his calm exterior, I could tell by the way he constantly checked his mirrors that he was nervous driving. I liked that quick peek into his personality, his temperament. I continued watching him, waiting for him to ask me about the assignment, but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. My father thought Deacon would be a great partner, but so far he’d done nothing to assess my state of mind. That was neglectful.
“Aren’t you going to ask me any questions?” I finally blurted out.
“Like what? I already offered you a candy bar.” He looked over and smiled. “But you don’t like peanuts.”
“True,” I said. “But I’m talking about the assignment. The family.”
The Remedy Page 11
