The Remedy

by Suzanne Young

  Aaron brushes a tear off my cheek. “Tell him the truth. I ran away without saying good-bye to him because it hurt too much to do it any other way. He’ll understand.”

  “He’s going to be heartbroken.”

  Aaron nods. “I know. Which is why you can’t leave him. He needs you. And whether you like it or not, Miss Badass, you kind of need him too.”

  “He’s badass; I’m hard-core, remember?”

  Aaron laughs and then closes his eyes, smiling and shaking his head like he can’t believe this is happening. When he looks at me again, he’s crying, but the tears aren’t just sad. I know the truth, and once I get over how much it hurts, I’ll be happy for him.

  “I can’t believe it,” I whisper. “You’re actually free of the system.”

  Our gazes linger for another moment, and then Aaron casts a look at the apartments outside my window. “You’d better go,” he says. “Marie said she’d be waiting. And you know how much she hates waiting.” Determined to not let this moment last forever, I reach behind the passenger seat and grab my backpack.

  “Quinlan,” Aaron says hesitantly. “If you go after Virginia Pritchard, promise me you’ll be careful.”

  I pause, tilting my head as I try to determine if there’s more to his warning, but he doesn’t go on. “I always am,” I tell him. Aaron smiles to himself and then nods his good-bye.

  I climb out of the car and start toward the oversize apartment doors, stopping to look back. Aaron doesn’t lower the window, but he lifts his hand in a wave. I stand there and watch him shift gears, turn away, and drive off.

  I gasp in a breath and put my hand over my heart. In the past two days I’ve lost so much that I’m starting to wonder what’s left. What’s really left of me.

  * * *

  I’m sluggish as I walk up the stairs, drained of emotion. I’m building myself up to throw my shoulder against Marie’s hard-to-open door when I stumble to a stop on the fifth-floor landing. Marie door is ajar, the room dim inside. I swallow hard and take a tentative step forward, looking around at the other apartments. All of the other doors are closed; the only sound is a low murmur from a television behind one of them. Silence radiates from Marie’s apartment.

  Aaron said she was waiting for me. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. “Marie?” I call softly, moving closer to the door. I wish Aaron had come upstairs with me.

  I call my advisor’s name again, but the room beyond the door stays silent. Well, I’m not about to get murdered here. I take out my phone, but the minute it’s out . . . I realize that Aaron is the person I’d call for this. A wave of sadness rushes over me. I consider calling Deacon or my father, making them stay on the line while I poke my head in and check on things. I don’t think I need to call the police or anything—it’s just an open door of the apartment of a person who’s expecting me.

  I debate what to do, but ultimately, I send out a quick text to Deacon, just in case I disappear: AT MARIE’S. I slip the phone back into my pocket and approach the door. I push the heavy door open a little farther, peering in. The overhead light near the sink is on, casting the room in a soft glow. I take a step inside the room and slide my hand along the wall until I touch the switch and flip it on.

  The apartment has changed. The furniture has been pared down; her most treasured knickknacks are gone. The bigger pieces—sofa, coffee and kitchen tables—still remain, but the room is no longer eclectic and alive. It’s been stripped of all personality. Marie is gone—I know it immediately. It’s not a complete surprise. She and my dad have been at odds for a while, so I knew that one day she would leave. This was just a really shitty way to do it.

  Numbly, I walk over to the couch and sit facing the door. I let the knowledge sweep over me. The loneliness. I take out my phone and skip the return text from Deacon to dial my father’s number. Part of me worries that he’s gone too. That I’ve been completely abandoned by everyone I love. The line rings, and as it does, I glance around the now-plain room—missing Marie. Waiting to hear the jangle of her bracelets. My eyes fall on the kitchen table, and I jump to my feet. There’s a file.

  I hang up the phone and move quickly toward the kitchen. If Marie took off, she wouldn’t have left this behind. She has to be coming back. Wild hope seizes me, and I sit at the table—maybe she’s on a different assignment. I turn the folder around to the look at the name on the tab.

  The world stops and the hairs on my arms stand up.

  QUINLAN MCKEE

  This is my file. Why do I have a file? My hands are already shaking as I open the manila folder, pick up my birth certificate, and check the name to make sure it matches. Yeah, it’s mine. Has Marie been keeping notes on me? I mean, closers are careful not to give away too much because we fear being copied, but that’s never actually been done. The fear . . . I thought it was almost irrational. But my advisor has an assignment folder with my name on it.

  On the inside cover someone has printed CASE 20859. I shift through the papers, surprised that much of the information is severely outdated. There’s my mother and father, smiling in a copy of the same picture that hangs in the entryway of my house. I find a photo of me, blond-haired and pigtailed. There are drawings from when I was in kindergarten, SUPERSTAR sticker from the teacher and all. I don’t understand—why have a file on me and not update it?

  I find more candid photos with my parents, although I’m not sure I’ve seen these ones before. My stomach knots as I sense that something is off. Why wouldn’t I have seen these pictures before?

  There’s a photo of me next to a trampoline. My father’s lips are pulled into an exaggerated frown, and I’m next to him with a cast on my arm. A cast . . . on my arm. I look down at my left wrist, forearm, elbow. Not only do I not remember breaking anything, but there’s no sign of trauma. When was this taken?

  I whip my hand through my hair, pushing it back and out of my face. I sift through the pages more quickly, hungry for information. There are no journal entries, even though I’ve been required to write them before. Why aren’t they in here? My fingers are trembling so badly, I can’t even read the pieces of paper I hold. I smooth them down on the table, my body in complete panic mode.

  When I see the page, I begin to hyperventilate. The room tips from side to side, my eyes blur with tears, and I brush my palm roughly over my face to clear them. I start to whimper, scared because I don’t understand what this means. I don’t know what’s happening.

  I’m holding my death certificate.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I DROP THE DEATH CERTIFICATE back into my file, my entire body shaking. I can’t comprehend what this means, the idea so awful my mind won’t latch on to it. Taped in the back of the file is a DVD with my name printed across the middle with Sharpie. I wonder what other terrible secrets Marie has left for me. How could she do this? She sent Aaron away. She left. She left me with this. I need my father now. I need my dad. I call his phone, alternating between crying and failing at not crying as I wait for him to answer. I hang up when I get his voice mail. I just need to hear his voice. Hear that I’m okay.

  After trying a second time, I put my phone away. I take my death certificate and fold it up before stuffing it in my pocket. I grab the DVD and start toward Marie’s office, hoping her computer is still here. I step inside the small room and find the file cabinet still hanging open. I wonder for a moment if Marie left in a hurry because she had been in danger—if I’m in danger. But my advisor wouldn’t have let me come here if that were true. Wouldn’t have left me a file. She gave me her secret—I just don’t understand. I’m sick over it, yet I won’t accept what it means.

  In the cabinet, I see multiple folders, a different name on each tab. I close the drawer and make my way to the desk, and pull the computer keyboard toward me. I shake the mouse and the monitor comes to life. I stare a moment at the password entry, and then click a few buttons to see if it’ll clear. It doesn’t.

  I need to know what’s on this DVD. I pause, thinking about
the file that was left on the table. I type in 20859 and hit enter. The screen clears, displaying a bright white background. My heart beats wildly, and I lean down to put the DVD into the drive. I click it open. I’m terrified.

  A video pops up—the freeze screen set on a stark room, not unlike the early case rooms I’ve seen in old photos. In the beginning, advisors used to introduce the closer to their clients at the facility and document the meeting. Based on the interaction, they’d decide if the case would go forward. Nowadays counselors just send us to the family and collect their money—not that it’s just about money. It helps, though.

  I click the play button, leaning in to watch as the video begins. The client is out of the frame, only a pair of men’s shoes visible in the shot. The metal door opens, and I recognize Marie immediately, although she’s younger. She has a small child with her. The camera zooms in on her face, and I take in a sharp breath when I realize it’s me. I’m the little girl with Marie.

  “Come on, honey,” Marie says kindly, leading the girl to the chair. The child sits down, feet swinging because she’s too small to reach the floor. She looks around curiously, not scared or anxious, and Marie smiles to the client, whose shoes shift as he leans closer.

  “This is our next candidate,” Marie says, taking a seat next to the girl. She puts her arm around the back of the chair to offer the child the feeling of comfort and safety. The girl rests against her, eyes wide.

  “It’s uncanny,” the man says, his voice thick with grief. “She looks just like her.”

  I cover my mouth, stunned. That’s my father’s voice. What’s happening? I don’t remember any of this.

  “She’s very sweet,” Marie says, brushing at the girl’s hair lovingly. “I think she’s just perfect, Tom. She’ll make the perfect daughter. We’ve already filled her in on the assignment.”

  My father is quiet for a long moment, and I imagine from the way the little girl is watching him that’s he’s studying her, too, looking for differences. Then there’s a sniffle, and the soft sound of my father crying.

  Marie’s face registers his pain. “Tom,” she says sympathetically, rising to her feet. But then the little girl who used to be me climbs down from the chair and crosses to him, my father’s face still off camera. “Don’t cry,” she tells him in a closer’s voice. “Don’t cry, Daddy.”

  I turn away from the laptop and get sick all over Marie’s wood floor.

  * * *

  I ejected the DVD and put in my backpack, careful to wrap it in my old Rolling Stones T-shirt so it wouldn’t break. I cleaned up my mess, intermediately stopping so I could sob. I’m a closer. I’m a closer for my own life. I hiccup in another cry, standing in the middle of Marie’s apartment, unable to move. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fight to pull myself together, my mind racing with possibilities.

  “Hello?” I mumble without checking the caller ID.

  “Quinn?” Deacon breathes out. I cradle the phone to my ear, wishing Deacon was with me now. Saw what I just saw. “Are you okay?” he asks. “I’ve called you like five times.”

  “No,” I tell him, my voice scratchy from crying. “Something’s happened. Something awful.”

  I squat down, using one hand to cover my face as I start to cry again. I can’t imagine how this must all sound to Deacon, but I manage to get a few words out. “I’m a closer,” I tell him. “I’m a fucking closer.”

  “I know you are,” he says soothingly, not understanding the true meaning of my words. “And I’m sorry I asked you to quit. I’ll support you in whatever you want. But right now I’m worried. Are you still at Marie’s? Let me talk to her for a minute.”

  “Aaron and Marie are gone,” I say, sucking in my cries. “They’re gone, Deacon. It’s all been a lie. Every damn thing.”

  “What do you mean they’re gone?” he demands. I hear him moving, his voice taking on a frantic edge. “Okay, Quinn, listen,” he says. “I’m coming to get you. Don’t move.”

  “No,” I tell him, shaking my head and getting to my feet. “You can’t save me from this.” I take the phone away from my face and try to regain my composure. The grief and shock begin to wear off, but now I’m flooded with thoughts. With anger. I have to find my father.

  When I bring the phone back to my ear, Deacon is talking quickly and I hear a door closing, the sound of wind as he gets outside. “Don’t come here,” I say, my voice calmed. “I have to take care of something first.”

  I have to go home. Home. I can never go back. I’m not even Quinlan McKee. My entire life is a lie, and I would be irresponsible to drag Deacon into that. “I love you, Deacon,” I murmur into the phone. “I’ve always loved you.” I hang up. I let the phone fall from my hand to smash on the floor, not wanting to be tracked. Even if I have removed the app, I can’t trust anything. The two people who loved me most in the world have lied to me. I start toward the door, fighting back the emotions, forcing myself clear. I need to deal with my father and figure out what happened to me. How I got here. I need to find out the truth.

  * * *

  The tires on my car squeal as I take a sharp turn into my driveway. My adrenaline is pumping and my mood is frantic. I’m slightly more rational, needing an explanation more than a cry at this point.

  I slam my car into park, jutting forward in the seat. I jump out and rush up the front porch, trying the door but finding it locked. My hands shake as I try to use my key, the metal skipping along the hole. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get the door open, pushing it hard enough that it hits the wall, sending several frames crashing to the floor, smashing the glass panes.

  “Dad!” I scream, looking wildly around the entryway. I start walking through the hallway of lies that are meant to remind me of who I’m not. “Dad!” I scream again, and even saying that word makes my throat burn. I curse, and toss the keys on the kitchen table and trample up the stairs.

  I head directly for his room and flip on the light. He’s not here. The bed is neatly made as always, all of his items arranged on his dresser and desk. I’m so upset, I can barely think. I immediately pull the drawers out of his dresser, letting them fall to the floor with a clatter. I bend down and sort through his things, throwing his clothing aside, and I look for anything he might have hidden. I check underneath the drawers, in his closet and his desk. I look everywhere, but I find nothing.

  Nothing. No papers at all. I still, thinking about that. My father’s entire life revolves around keeping files. And yet there isn’t one paper out of place here. Not one piece of information that he’s left unchecked.

  “He’s too careful,” I murmur to myself, spinning to exit the room. He’d never leave evidence, not something I could find. There’s nothing here.

  I stand there for a moment, my resolve slipping. I step toward his bed and run my hand over his pillow, my eyes filling with tears. It smells like home in here. Like love and safety. He’s my dad.

  I sniffle and snatch back my hand as if I’ve been burned. He’s a liar. He’s a stranger who kept me.

  “No,” I say out loud, shaking my head. “No, I don’t belong here anymore.” Without a backward glance, I walk out.

  I get downstairs and start to pace, knowing I’ll have to confront him. There’s no other option. I grab a kitchen chair and drag it into the living room, letting it scrape the gloss-finished wood floor. I set it in front of the couch, not wanting the comfort of a sofa—false comfort, I remind myself.

  I’m sure Deacon has contacted my father, so my dad has probably left work and is on his way now. I’ll go upstairs to pack my bag—one that will have to carry everything I need. Because once this is over, I’m never coming back.

  * * *

  I was eleven years old when my father told me I’d have to sign another contract. I’d completed my first three years, and more than anything I wanted to be a regular kid. Sixth grade was supposed to be my time to do that. He’d promised me that every time I begged to quit.

  “The McKees are not qui
tters, Quinlan,” he said sternly. “We’ve taken an oath to help these people, given them our word. Would you really want them to suffer for your selfishness? I can’t believe I raised you this way.”

  I was ashamed, lowering my eyes to my now-cold dinner. He’s right, I thought. I am selfish.

  “If your mother was here,” he said, taking a sip of his iced tea, “she’d be very disappointed in you.”

  My heart broke, and I covered my face and started to cry. I missed my mother, even though I couldn’t remember her. My father told me that was normal, that I’d been a little girl when she died. But all the other kids, they had a mom to braid their hair and make them lunch. I wanted a mom too, and I promised that if I ever got one, I’d be so good to her. I’d never cause her trouble. So the idea that I had disappointed my mother absolutely broke me down.

  “It’s okay,” my father murmured, coming to kneel next to my chair. He pulled my hands away from my face, and his eyes were so sad. I sniffled, and he reached to touch lovingly at my cheek. “You look just like her sometimes,” he said dreamily. “It’s like she never left at all.”

  In that moment I hugged him, telling him how sorry I was. That I would sign the contract if he thought I should. That I wouldn’t disappoint anyone again.

  I swipe my finger under my eyes now, sitting in my living room. It’s dark outside, but I don’t turn on the light. My anger has bubbled over, and this memory only helps cement the fact that my life is a lie. I realize now, especially after all the time I’ve spent with grieving parents: He wasn’t saying I looked just like my mother that Saturday night. He was saying I looked just like Quinlan McKee. His daughter.

  My back aches, and to distract myself I twist my torso a few times to loosen it up. I sit back in the chair and prop my black boots up on the coffee table. It’s been over a half hour since I left Marie’s. I know my father will be here any second.

  After packing, I took the time to strip my emotions—to try to lose myself so I could become numb enough to handle this. Brave enough. Strong enough so that he won’t be able to manipulate me. That’s the thing that Deacon doesn’t realize. Looking back now, my father has always been able to bend me to his will. Make me believe that I want to be a closer, that I want to help these people. But really, he studied me. Knew me well enough to push the right buttons to get the reaction he wanted.