“When you came out that one night,” he says, glancing toward the trees, “I was still angry. But when I saw you, really looked at you, I realized you were just a kid. And I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why your parents would let you do this job. If you were mine, I never would have. After that, I wanted to protect you. I wanted to be your father.”
“I liked being your daughter,” I say, tears flooding my eyes. “I really did.”
Mr. Barnes sniffles, and lowers his head. He brings his fist to his lips, holding back his cry. “Yeah,” he says in a choked voice. “I really liked it too.”
We both sit and cry for a bit, a sad little moment that is just as much a good-bye for me as it is for him. I don’t want to leave, I realize. I wanted this so much. I think it might be all I’ve ever wanted. Someone to love me. Someone to look out for me. And this time, I found it. And it was almost real.
CHAPTER NINE
THE PATIO DOORS OPEN, AND I quickly wipe my face and turn, finding Mrs. Barnes looking out at us. She walks over, her face tearstained. She sits on the arm of her husband’s chair, putting her hand supportively on his shoulder.
They’re a picture, sitting like that—holding each other up. I realize then that they’ll be okay. Neither one will let the other fall. “You have a wonderful family,” I tell them sincerely. “I wish I could change things for you, take away what happened. I really do.”
“I know you do, honey,” Mrs. Barnes says. “And maybe you needed someone too. I hope . . . we hope”—she smiles at her husband—“when this is all over, you’ll still come see us once in a while. Would you consider that?”
I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I’d really like that.”
“Good,” she says, clearing the emotion from her voice as if it’s settled. “Now, I was thinking you should go see Isaac today. His mother called me last night, very worried. His friends contacted her, expressing worry about your . . . relationship. I was hoping you could . . .” She shrugs slowly, waiting for me to supply the answer.
“I planned to talk to him,” I assure her. “Things got out of hand, but I’m going to set things right.”
“I’m glad,” she says. “He’s a good boy, but he has a lot of guilt. What happened to Catalina, it wasn’t his fault. He needs to know that.”
“It wasn’t your fault either,” I say quickly. Catalina’s decision to end her life had nothing to do with them. They’re not to blame. Mrs. Barnes nods silently, and I see a small bit of acceptance, just enough to break the spell of complicated grief. That guilt of not having stopped Catalina’s death will never go away, but we all have guilt. It just can’t be all that we have.
I stand up, glancing around the yard once more, knowing that my time in this house is almost over. In fact, I could probably leave now if they wanted me to. I turn to Mrs. Barnes. “About the party . . . ,” I start, but she holds up her hand.
“It’s a celebration,” she interrupts. “A celebration of Catalina’s life. We’ve invited her friends and extended family. It was time.”
There’s a moment of sadness when I realize I won’t be part of the celebration, but ultimately I know that my attendance would make people uncomfortable. I’m a closer, after all. I nod, and start toward the house, unsure of what that means for this assignment. Is it officially over?
“Hey,” Mr. Barnes calls. I turn to look back at him. “You really can stay as long as you want,” he says. I thank him, considering at least spending one more night here.
“Oh,” his wife adds, holding up her finger. “Can we . . . Can you not mention this to your supervisors?” she asks, looking slightly worried. “We signed that agreement, and—”
“My lips are sealed.” I pretend to lock my lips, and she laughs. My gaze flows over to Mr. Barnes. He stands, and I wait as he makes his way toward me. I’m already crying when he gathers me into a big bear hug.
“Just in case we don’t see you again,” he murmurs, “you take care of yourself. We’ll be here if you need anything. Understand?” I nod against his big shoulder, clutching on to his shirt. “You’re not alone.”
I pull back with an embarrassed laugh, sort of humiliated that these people seem to be more helpful than me. His eyes are sympathetic as he looks down at me.
“What’s your name?” he asks, as if he’s been wondering for a while.
For a moment, I’m speechless. I’ve never been asked by an assignment before. They never wanted to know who I really was. “Quinlan,” I say, breaking another of Marie’s rules. It feels good being able to speak it out loud to him. He smiles.
“That’s a pretty name,” he says.
I can tell by the fading sun that it’s starting to get late in the afternoon, and I need to find Isaac and talk to him. I tell the Barnes family good-bye again, tell them I might see them later tonight. They say they hope so.
I grab my backpack on the way out and borrow the Jetta for another trip. I have to talk to Isaac.
* * *
When I get outside, I pull a hoodie from my backpack and slip my arms in, knowing the day will only get colder as the sun goes down. I’m in the middle of zipping it up as I round my car near a large set of overgrown bushes.
There’s a flurry of movement and someone grabs me from behind, one hand over my mouth, the other around my waist. I’m struck down with fear, and I try to shout for help. I kick back my foot as hard as I can, connecting with a leg and sending my attacker to the ground. I spin, chest heaving, stomach churning.
“Aaron?” I say, incredulous. I shoot a look at the Barneses’ house before kneeling down next to him to check his ankle. My sneaker scuffed off a good chunk of skin, and a thick line of red blood runs down his leg. His eyes are pained, but before he can lecture me, I stand, putting my hand on my hip. “Are you nuts?” I whisper forcefully. “Didn’t you think I’d fight back?”
“I was trying to keep you quiet so we could talk in private.”
“Uh, how about you call my name?”
“I was afraid you would run.”
“What?” I ask confused. “Aaron—I wasn’t thinking straight the other day, but I’m better now. I should have called you. I’m sorry.”
He nods as if he understands, rubbing at the skin just above the cut on his leg. “I was looking out for you,” he says, but not bitterly. “You should have known better.”
I smile, lowering myself to the ground next to him. “So you’re here to say I told you so?”
“Not hardly. I had to talk to you,” he says. “The guy—my assignment, Mitchel? He knew Catalina. They were friends.”
I furrow my brow. “Are you sure? I haven’t seen anything about him.” Although now it’s obvious that there was a lot about Catalina I didn’t know.
“Yeah,” Aaron says. “After Catalina died, Mitchel, he . . . he killed himself. Took something he called QuikDeath—a poison cocktail, I guess.”
I fold my legs underneath me, this revelation a punch in the gut. Two suicides so close together—this town must be reeling. And yet no one has mentioned it. The fact that Mitchel and Catalina were friends is especially troubling.
“Catalina committed suicide too,” I tell Aaron quietly, feeling like I’m betraying her by revealing this secret. “Coincidence?”
“Well, if it is,” Aaron says, “it doesn’t end there. Guess who Mitchel’s girlfriend was.”
I’m stumped at first, but then my breath catches. “Virginia Pritchard?” I ask in disbelief. Aaron nods, and I turn back to the house, wondering if I should go inside, ask for their help. But I can’t tell them about Arthur Pritchard’s connection to their daughter’s death. They’re just getting well, and this could compromise their entire recovery.
“We have to call Marie,” I say. She’s the only person I can think of who might know how to help.
“And what would we tell her?” Aaron asks. “Marie knows everything. Do you really think she didn’t know about this before sending us in? She practically runs the department.”
/> There’s a pit in my stomach, a hint of betrayal at the thought of Marie purposely putting us in harm’s way. I’m not sure I’m ready to believe that yet.
“Then what do you want me to do?” I ask him, unsure of a next step. “I’m almost done with my assignment. I’m ready to go home.”
“You have to find Virginia,” Aaron says. “My contract is almost up, Quinn. Sooner than you think. There is something big happening here.”
The words are ominous, and they crawl over my skin. “Meaning?”
“Mitchel left all sort of pages, scribbled notes, creepy shit. He even started drawing spirals, just carving them into his bed frame. It was . . . psychosis or something. I don’t know. Anyway, he would write about dying. About him and Catalina and Virginia, all of them dying.”
“So you think this was a suicide pact?” I ask.
“All I know,” Aaron says, his face clouding over, “is that everything got real dark, real fast.” He puts his hand on the ground and gets to his feet, hobbling slightly because of his injury. “Look,” he adds. “Marie’s already contacted me for extraction. She’s going to pick me up in a few hours. I’m not going to tell her about Virginia or the suicides; it shouldn’t be part of the debriefing. But the other stuff . . . this is on us.”
“What do you need me to find out?” I ask.
“I think there are others,” he says. “Suicides listed as ‘undetermined.’ Deacon’s been researching for me, but we think the grief department has been covering them up. They’ve been using us and other closers to do it. But more than anything, you have to find Virginia Pritchard. Last I checked she was in Roseburg. Quinn, you have to find her before she kills herself. Find out what she knows about all of this.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask, having no idea if I want to chase down Arthur Pritchard’s daughter.
Aaron shrugs. “Then I guess we’ll see if this is bigger than a suicide pact.”
I tighten my jaw, more worried than I want to admit to him. I understand why Aaron needs me to find Virginia. She’ll know what happened to Catalina and Mitchel; she’ll provide some background. Catalina’s life has been scrubbed clean of her intentions. I have to believe part of that is coming from Arthur Pritchard’s daughter. Who else would have known what the department would be looking for when duplicating someone’s life?
Aaron takes out his phone and looks at the time. “We’ll talk more about it after your debriefing,” he says, and steadies himself on his bad leg. I’m glad the bleeding has stopped, the gash clotting dark red. Aaron slides his phone into his pocket and pulls me into a hug. “You be careful,” he says near my ear. “I’ll be back to extract you. Okay?”
He looks at me, and although he doesn’t say it, there’s a hint of worry there. Worry that he won’t come back at all. That he’ll be sent to therapy, and then who knows when I’ll see him again.
“Yeah,” I tell him, forcing a smile. “You’d better.” A streak of paranoia runs its course, and I look around the street, checking to see if we’re being watched. There isn’t a white Lexus in sight, but the feeling doesn’t entirely abate.
Aaron says good-bye, bumping my fist, and then he limps down the driveway and disappears around the corner.
I’m unsettled, turning over all the information in my head. Putting it together with what I learned today. I get in the Jetta and take out my phone. Deacon hasn’t contacted me since I left him this morning, but I try not to let that in. This isn’t about us, I told him. That’s especially true now.
I text Marie to let her know there’s been a change in scheduling and I’m close to finishing my assignment and will be done before Friday. I don’t tell her about seeing Aaron or even Arthur Pritchard. I don’t mention suicide at all. There’s a possibility she already knows what’s going on here, and that she and the entire grief department have played us for fools. But part of me wants to believe she’s still on my side. No matter what.
Marie texts back that she’ll notify Aaron of my pending extraction—not mentioning that he’s leaving his own assignment. She doesn’t break procedure. She also doesn’t ask how I am, and that is an immediate red flag. She would have known about my meltdown yesterday, been made aware especially if Arthur Pritchard got involved. And yet she didn’t warn me he’d be here. Didn’t track me down at Deacon’s.
My advisor is hiding something. Seems we all are.
CHAPTER TEN
I WONDER HOW MANY “UNDETERMINED” deaths there have been over the past fifteen years. How deep the cover-up goes. How much my father is involved. Catalina Barnes committed suicide. She was lost in a way that was just her own, isolated and apart from everything and everybody. She didn’t reach out for help—she didn’t want it.
Catalina Barnes killed herself and no one was able to predict it. Her family wasn’t able to stop her. Suicide clusters have existed for years, one death influencing others with no other known stimulus. A ripple effect. It’s why they don’t detail suicides on the news, afraid of the public reaction. But now is that what the grief department is using closers for? To control the perception of death?
Undetermined. What a bunch of bullshit. They knew how Catalina Barnes died and they didn’t tell me. Instead they used me to help cover it up. I have to find Virginia Pritchard and find out what she knows about the suicides. If Virginia Pritchard is even still alive. A chill runs down my back at the morbid thought, and I quickly refocus on my current situation.
Before I can go to Isaac and finish this assignment, I need to talk to Angie. She was there the night Catalina died. Maybe her sister said something to her. Or maybe Angie knows more about Virginia—maybe she can tell me about the connection.
I drive toward the school. I know Angie sometimes hangs out at Off Campus after classes. I head that way, hoping I’ll see her car and know she’s there. Getting her to actually speak to me might be a different issue altogether.
I slow as I pass the lot, relieved when I find the red SUV I recognize from her sixteenth birthday pictures parked there. Angie’s inside. I pull up next to her ride and shut off my engine. I watch the café through my window, waiting for her to leave. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, and I’m startled by my eyes. They’re brown—but they’re not supposed to be.
I hold up my index finger until I feel the contact cling to it, and I take it out and drop it into the cup holder, and blink rapidly to help the stinging. I do the same with the other eye and then check my reflection again. Blue eyes. I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve seen them.
I’m comforted a bit by my own face. I think of Deacon, how much he would have liked to see me now. How I occasionally catch him gazing at me like I’m his favorite thing in the world. Last night he admitted that he’s been keeping his distance, said it was because he was afraid he’d hurt me again. But then he let me close; he was open to loving me. I felt it. This time I walked away. Maybe one of us always will.
A rush of sadness rolls over me. I miss him, and I wish things were different. Wish we were different. But I don’t think either of us can change.
Out of the corner of my vision I see movement, and when I look up, I notice Angie, her long hair blowing across her face so that she has to pick it out of her lip gloss. She’s walking with a friend, one I recognize from that first day at the bleachers. My heart starts to race, and I consider leaving without ever uttering a word. She sees me and it’s too late.
Angie’s posture stiffens, and she turns to say something quiet to her friend. The other girl turns to me quickly, horror on her face. She says good-bye to Angie and heads in the other direction. I get out of the car and move around to the front, slipping my hands into my pockets to look casual. Less combative.
Angela walks past, aggressively ignoring me, but then stops and turns. She jabs her finger in my direction. “What?” she asks, her face screwed up in disgust. “Are you here to tell me again what a terrible daughter I am? Because I don’t really want to hear it.”
“Angie,”
I say in my own voice. She starts, surprised that I don’t sound like her sister. She stares at my eyes, noticing the color. But it only succeeds in making her more afraid. After all, I am a closer. “I’m leaving today,” I tell her. “But I wanted to talk to you before I did.”
A flash of grief crosses her face, but she forces herself to be angry again. “You’ve been running around with my sister’s boyfriend,” she says bitterly. “Stealing her identity. And you think that I’d want to talk you? You’re delusional.”
“Angie,” I say, moving toward her. She throws up her hands, falling back a step like she’s repulsed by my existence. She turns to stalk away, but I can’t let her leave without knowing the truth about Catalina. “Angela,” I call, sounding exactly like her sister. Angie stops, frozen. Slowly she turns back to look at me, hurt registering in her expression.
“Don’t do that,” she says, her voice weak. “Don’t . . .” But instead of chewing me out again, Angie dissolves into tears, covering her face.
I hurry around the car to where she stands and awkwardly pat her back, telling her it will be okay. Her reaction isn’t entirely unusual. I’ve seen it before. Even though Angie didn’t want me here in the beginning, I did represent her sister. Once I’m gone, Catalina’s gone for good.
To my surprise, Angie turns around and hugs me, clinging to me as she cries against my shirt. I brush my hand over her hair, my heart aching at her loss. I’ve never had a brother or sister, at least not one of my own. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose them. How much it would hurt to have your blood, your friend, taken away. I close my eyes and hold her close, trying to absorb her pain.
“I miss her,” Angie mumbles. “I don’t know how we’ll be okay without her.”
“You will,” I say. I take her by the shoulders to straighten her up, and she wipes her face, fighting back her flood of emotions. She’s failing at it, though. “Your mom and dad,” I continue, “they’re some of the best people I’ve ever met.” She squeezes her eyes shut, choking on another cry, only this time it’s because she knows how lucky she is. “To be honest,” I tell her, “they’re the best parents I’ve ever had.”
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