“Yes, I’m still here,” he says into the phone. “That would be amazing, Martha. I really appreciate your help.” He chuckles, and I recognize the charming and oh-so-fake tone. Rather than annoy me, it makes me miss our easy banter. It makes me miss us. “Well, that’s kind of you to say,” Deacon tells the woman. “I think you have a nice voice too.”
I lift my eyebrow, letting him know he’s laying it on a little thicker than necessary, but he just winks at me. I play along and blow him a quick kiss, and without missing a beat, Deacon snatches it out of the air and pretends to eat it. I laugh but then cover my mouth when he frowns at me, turning away with the phone still at his ear.
“All right, Martha,” he says. “You have a—oh . . . sure. I’m free. I’ll stop in. See you then.” He hangs up and then exhales heavily and looks over at me.
“Did you just make a date?” I ask.
“It’s only lunch,” he says, and then shakes his head like he can’t believe I thought he’d actually go.
“I’m just saying it’s not the most ethical way to get information.”
“Oh, yes.” He rolls his eyes. “Our ethics.” Deacon sets his phone on the bed and comes to a stop in front of me. “I’ve had a terrible day,” he says, and when I reach to touch his arm out of concern, he tries to smile. “I didn’t even get to finish my hot chocolate.”
But he can’t keep the mixture of fear and relief out of his expression, and his smile breaks. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry,” he whispers, dropping all pretenses. “Are you okay?”
I nod, and Deacon immediately pulls me into a hug, wrapping me up. I close my eyes, my cheek against his chest. I wanted to forget the darkness of the day, but I realize I can’t. It’s always with me, screaming to be let out.
“The incident at the school has been all over the news,” Deacon says, his breath warm in my hair. “That kid Micah . . . he was in tenth grade. He’s dead.”
I’m glad I didn’t witness his death, and just as soon as I think that, I’m attacked by guilt for being grateful. It’s selfish. I really am a coldhearted closer.
Deacon runs the back of his hand over my hair and then straightens, gazing down at me. “How did it end up with Virginia?” he asks. “How fucked are we?”
I step out of his arms, immediately missing the heat, and go to sit on the edge of the mattress. “I told her everything,” I say.
Deacon stares at me. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Everything everything?”
“I told her I was a closer and that her father brought me to the grief department and helped fake my life for the past eleven years. I asked for her help in return for us helping her.”
Deacon tilts his head. “Wow—so yeah. All the everythings. Now, what did you promise her exactly?”
“She’s having blackouts. Big pieces of her memory have been wiped out. So I promised that we’d find out what her father has done and retrieve her memories for her.”
“Wait, what?” Deacon asks. “How are we supposed to do that? You think Arthur is just going to tell us? You can’t promise someone a thing like that.”
“I had no choice. She was ready to cut off ties with me. But she has a clear way into her father’s files; she’s gotten into them before. She agreed to try to get us that access.”
Deacon folds his hands and locks them behind his neck as he looks at the ceiling, thinking it over.
“But there’s more,” I tell him. At this, Deacon meets my eyes, concern painting his features. “She’s not well, Deacon. Whatever her father is doing, it’s breaking her. And it scares me.”
Deacon drops his arms to his sides and comes to sit next to me on the bed. “Tell me about her memory loss,” he says. “Any specifics you can think of?”
“The missing pieces seem to be tied to the times around traumatic events. Deaths. She didn’t remember the party on Friday, didn’t remember Micah—maybe because he was at the party too? I’m not sure. And she doesn’t remember Catalina at all. She keeps notes of her memories so that she can revisit them, but she can’t recall them on her own.”
“Quinn,” he says. “That reminds me of . . .” He pauses, furrowing his brow.
“Of what?” I ask.
“Well . . . of you.”
“I guess, but it’s hard to compare. I was only a kid, so Arthur couldn’t have erased all that much.”
“No, not that,” Deacon says. I can see that he’s putting something together in his head, figuring out a puzzle. His seriousness makes my heart beat faster with anxiety.
“Are you talking about my last assignment?” I’m embarrassed by how I completely lost touch with reality when I was Catalina. I couldn’t remember which identity was mine. I believed I was Catalina Barnes, and then I believed I was all of them—all the girls that I’d portrayed. It terrifies me that I got to that point, and I’m ashamed that I wasn’t stronger.
Deacon winces, knowing it was a terrible time—for both of us. But he did help me through it. He reminded me of who I was, or at least who I thought I was.
“I hate to bring this up,” Deacon says, leaning forward. “But I’m talking about the day we broke up.”
There’s a twist in my stomach. He hurt me that day; he broke my heart. And even though I know about his deal with Arthur Pritchard now, it still hurts me. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to shield myself from the wound it reopens.
Deacon watches me a long moment, his eyes slightly narrowed. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize before. I thought maybe you just didn’t want to talk about it.”
I lower my arms, a rush of adrenaline flooding through me. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Do you remember coming to my place?”
“Of course,” I say. “Do you think I could have forgotten? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve obsessively thought about it for eight and a half months.”
Deacon swallows hard, like he’s already figured out the answer. “Do you remember your nosebleed?” he asks.
There is a horrible and sudden reaction under my skin, as if I’ve been touched by dry ice, dissolving me away. I quickly go over the day in my mind, but . . . no. I didn’t have a nosebleed. I went to Deacon’s apartment, and he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore. I begged him not to do it, not to break up with me. He shut the door in my face.
“Are you sure you’re remembering correctly?” I ask.
Deacon glances down at the floor, looking guilty. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it,” he says in a quiet voice. “Arthur told me—”
I scoff at the name, and Deacon gives me an apologetic glance before continuing.
“Arthur told me that you were becoming too attached to your assignments and that I had to look out for erratic behavior. I told him you were fine. But . . . that day . . . you showed up at my door, frantic. You said we were running away, and then you started grabbing my clothes out of the drawers. You weren’t yourself, and I was worried that you’d found out about my meeting with Arthur. I felt like a fucking monster. That was when I knew I had to step back from you. I told you we should stop seeing each other, but you argued with me, saying I didn’t understand. And then your nose started bleeding. Next thing I knew, you were hysterical. I had to call your dad.”
My face stings with the absolute lies he’s telling me. At least, they sound like lies, because that’s not the way I remember it at all. But he wouldn’t lie to me now, not about this. “And then what?” I ask.
“Your dad showed up. He told me it was my fault, that I was doing this to you—he didn’t know about my arrangement, but it proved what I was worried about: I thought I was hurting you.
“You didn’t want to leave with your dad,” Deacon continues, “but he told me he could help. I had no choice but to believe him. At that time, I thought he loved you.”
I flinch involuntarily, and Deacon apologizes. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, but I tell him to go on with his story. The question of my father’s love isn’t even the worst of
my problems.
“Then he ordered me out of the room,” Deacon says. “I . . .” His expression crumbles, and he bites hard on his lip to keep himself together. “Your dad told me that if I really wanted to help, I needed to get away from you. He said I would end up killing you. So I left the room. I shut myself in my bedroom, and then you stopped screaming. I thought he was right—I thought it was me. The next time I saw you, a few days later, you hated me.”
“I’ve never hated you,” I say.
“It felt like you hated me,” he replies. “But at least you seemed better. So I knew I had to stay away . . . at least in some capacity. I couldn’t stay away altogether. You and I have never talked about that day, and I realize now that it’s because you don’t remember it.”
I look at my hands clenched into fists in my lap. I search for even a tiny glimmer of the moments he mentioned, but they’re not there. I remember going to Deacon’s door. I remember him telling me we were over. I remember crying and calling my dad. But as I sit here, I’m beginning to doubt the memories at all. Something about them feels hollow the more I inspect them.
“They’ve manipulated my memories,” I say without looking up. “Not just when I was a child, either. It’s the same thing they’re doing to Virginia. And that means . . . that means, the other day, that memory I had of Marie—it was real.” I lift my head, betrayal striking me in the chest. “Marie knew all along, Deacon. She was helping him erase me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEACON CONTACTS MYRA AND GETS Aaron’s new number and then tells Myra to ditch her phone. Deacon and Aaron talk, making plans for how to track down our former advisor.
Marie is a liar, an accomplice. But if anyone has the goods to blackmail Arthur, and possibly save both me and Virginia, it’s her. We need her help, even if she’s part of the reason I’m in danger in the first place.
Deacon paces the motel room, occasionally giving me encouraging looks, as if he’s worried about my emotional state.
He pauses and turns away. “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?” he says into the phone. “Can’t you trail her from when she left the apartment? Uh-huh. No.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “No, Tom didn’t mention where she could be. Yes”—he smiles a little—“he is an asshole.”
Deacon cracks his neck, listening on the line a little longer, even though I can tell that Aaron has had zero luck tracking down Marie. She’s probably better than any of us at disappearing. She’s definitely better at lying.
“All right,” Deacon says into the phone with a heavy sigh. “Do what you can. Yeah”—a little laugh—“love you too, man.”
Deacon takes the phone away from his ear and clicks it off, tossing it onto the bed. He puts his hands on his hips, looking frustrated. “He says she doesn’t want to be found—that he thinks she’s actively hiding from us. He’s trying everything, but he’s not hopeful. He also said he thinks we should disappear too.”
“He’s right,” I say. “But we’re not nearly smart enough to do that.”
Deacon groans, running his palm over his face. “We need Marie,” he says, sounding helpless. “Why is she doing this to us? Why won’t she help us?” He sits on the bed across from me, looking betrayed. And it’s in his hurt that I can recognize my own. I never had a chance against the grief department—there were too many people working against me. The thought is heavy and hard to take, and I’m losing myself in the hopelessness of it.
“Hey,” I call out. Deacon slowly lifts his eyes to mine, his expression stricken. “Hey,” I repeat more softly, and stand up. Maybe if I take away his pain, it will lessen my own. I cross to the other bed, stopping between Deacon’s knees. He leans in to me, wrapping his arms around the backs of my thighs, gazing up at me.
“I failed you,” he says. “I could have stopped this; I should have seen it. And now we don’t even know what they were doing to you. I let them. I let them experiment on you.”
“You didn’t know,” I say, moving to sit next to him, the side of my thigh pressed to his. He’s right—he did fail me. But I can’t blame him for this. The most trusted people in my life manipulated me. Erased parts of my past. I hate the vulnerability that they’ve left me with.
Deacon sinks down as if ashamed and rests his cheek on my shoulder, his hand casually on my leg. His fingers brush the skin just inside my knee, and it sends a shiver up my body. I close my eyes. Although he didn’t mean to, Deacon has brought a new feeling to the surface.
I want to feel powerful. I want to be in control of my life. I turn so that our mouths are closer, and I reach up to place my palm on his cheek. His hand slowly glides over my thigh, and I pull back to look at him.
Deacon’s eyes are heavy-lidded, and he licks his bottom lip before he breathes my name. His fingertips dig into my thigh, and at the sudden pressure I lean forward and press my mouth hungrily to his. His lips are soft, even as I’m rough against him.
I pull off his shirt and kiss him again, his skin hot under my hands. I’m completely lost in a moment that is everything—and nothing. It’s easy. No thoughts can break through the absolute desire burning me up. Soon we’re falling back on the bed. Deacon kisses my neck, my jaw. He murmurs how much he loves me over and over.
And then it’s just us—naked and alone. Then it’s just him holding his weight above me.
We’re careful like always, but our hearts are threadbare as we give in to each other. Broken and honest. Both of us with regrets and old secrets. A terrifying future ahead of us.
But just like I’d hoped, the desire consumes me and blocks out the fear, sending it to the edges of my consciousness, where it will wait for later.
For now I let myself love Deacon recklessly, stupidly, and completely.
* * *
I turn my face in to Deacon’s shoulder, kissing it, before snuggling up against him. I slide my thigh over his, closing my eyes. I listen to the beat of his heart—slow and steady.
“Well, we made up pretty quickly,” I say, and laugh.
“Uh, it was two full days,” Deacon replies, his voice scratchy. “Believe me.”
I run my fingers down his chest. Surely our friendship could have continued platonically, but in the face of everything we’re seeing—why? Why force ourselves apart anymore? I’m tired of holding back, of always doing what’s right for other people. I’m going to take what’s mine. I’m going to save my damn self. And I’m going to have sex with my boyfriend if I want to.
The phone buzzes and Deacon glances at the side table, but it’s not there. He curses and starts looking through the bedding as I tuck the sheet under my arms. He jumps up and checks under the bed, lifting the phone up to me triumphantly when he finds it.
He answers, scanning me playfully as if he’s thinking about coming back to bed instead. But then his eyes snap away in response to something said on the other end of the phone line. He stands.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, bending to grab his clothes from the floor. He dresses, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he pulls on his pants. “When?”
I want to be one of those annoying people who asks questions while he’s still on the phone, but I wait, my heart in my throat. I quickly put on my clothes and smooth back my hair. My nail catches on an extension and tears it out. Frustrated, I unsnap all the clips and toss them aside, enjoying the freedom of my short hair, the cool air on my neck. I don’t want to be Liz Major anymore.
Deacon hangs up the phone and lowers it to his side, turning to stare at me. “That was my contact at city hall,” he says. “They’re moving up the meeting to tonight. She says it’s going to get passed. They’re going to start a mandatory evaluation of all of the teenagers in the district.”
“What?” I ask. “On what authority?”
“Seems there’s precedent. The council cites a court case that upheld mandatory vaccines in order to stop the spread of infectious diseases. To support the connection, they have a doctor claiming that this suicide cluster has mutated. He’s
says it’s infectious.”
“Is that possible?” I ask. A behavior that influences copycat behavior is not the same as an infection. There can’t be a true link. Can there?
Deacon rubs his chin like he’s thinking. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess we’ll have to ask Arthur Pritchard. He’s their medical expert.”
My head spins, all the coincidences and information colliding together to make a jumbled mess of my brain. Everyone could be lying. Everyone could be trying to help. I don’t know which is true—maybe it’s both. But as I watch him, I know that I’m all in with Deacon now. We’re in this together. And I’m about to ask him to help me with a really, really dumb idea. That’s love.
“You said the meeting is tonight?” I ask Deacon, pulling on my sneakers.
“Yes,” he says slowly. “But we’re not going. I was being sarcastic when I said we should ask Arthur.”
I walk over to the table and pick up my phone, then quickly find Virginia’s number. She agreed to help us earlier, so long as we helped her. I hope she meant it.
“Hello?” she answers.
I’m immediately struck with panic, afraid I’m asking too much too soon. But we can’t miss out on this chance.
“It’s Quinn,” I say, not reassured when her end of the phone line goes completely silent. Deacon has his hands on his hips as he waits to see what I’m planning. “Look,” I tell Virginia, feigning confidence, “I know I’ve lied to you, but I meant it when I said I wanted to help you. But we have to move tonight. Are you in or not?”
She pauses so long that I pull the phone from my ear to check that the line hasn’t gone dead. Then I hear her clear her throat. “What do you want to do?” she asks.
I smile. It’s a small victory even if I don’t know the bigger implications. “Does your father keep any files at home?” I ask. I think back to the mess I found in Marie’s apartment, files spread everywhere.
“He has a home office,” Virginia says cautiously. “I’m not sure how much he keeps in there, but it is where I found the closer information for Mitchel.”