“What about your dad?” I ask.
Deacon shakes his head, lowering his eyes. “My father left before I formed any lasting memories of him. I try to imagine he’s dead, because otherwise he’s worse than her. Leaving us here, no money, no food. What kind of person does that?”
I swallow hard, wanting to reach for him. To tell him I’m sorry for what happened. But he already knows that, so I let him continue. He wants to get out this poison.
“When I was a baby, we had a neighbor who’d come by and make sure I got fed. She was no saint, but when she moved away, things got worse. My brother did what he could. Brandon’s five years older, and he got a job working off the books. But my mother would drink up the money. And when that was gone, she’d have us steal the alcohol—said no one would suspect a kid.
“But Brandon got caught. He did some time, and when he was released, he moved out. I was eleven, and he left me here alone with her. There was never enough food. No shoes that fit.” He looks up, and shrugs. “It’s how I got this way. I had to learn to watch people, see what they liked, see who they liked. Because then I would become that kid—the one they would help without a second thought. The one they could trust. I didn’t have to beg for anything.
“When I was fourteen,” he continues, “Brandon came back, nursing a healthy drinking habit of his own. He was right earlier tonight when he said he wasn’t as good of a liar as me. He couldn’t get a job with his record, which had gotten longer during his absence. Soon the little bit of food I brought home wasn’t enough. I realized how much easier it would be for our mom with one less mouth to feed. How I should be that mouth.”
I think back to the day my father first brought Deacon home and fed him. I recognize the boy he’s talking about. He was hungry, distant. Watchful.
“I’d read a short article about closers on the Internet at school,” he says. “It was taken down the next day, but I remembered your father’s name: Thomas McKee. I hopped a bus to Corvallis with nothing but the fare and an address scrawled on a piece of paper. I tracked your dad to his office and marched right in and told him I was a ward of the state and I wanted to work for him. He laughed, looked around like it was a joke. But then he took a minute to stare me down and figure me out. He asked me a few questions, and every time I lied, he could tell. He was the first person who had been able to do that.” Deacon looks over at me, a hint of respect in his eyes.
“He’s the best liar out of all of us,” I say with a small bit of hurt in my voice.
Deacon nods his agreement. “I was fourteen, and Tom said I could learn,” he continues. “I told him the truth about where I was from, about my mom. I told him I hadn’t eaten in three days. Tom pulled the strings necessary to bring me into the grief department. He gave me a chance at a new life. He also never let me forget it.” Deacon glances over. “Your dad can be a real dick.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “But he knows how to spot a good closer. You were probably a gift.”
Deacon sniffs a laugh, and then reaches to take my hand. He slides his fingers between mine, studying the way we fit together. Sadness rolls off him.
“And the mortgage?” I ask.
He nods. “I thought . . . I thought if I paid the bills, it would take away the stress. I thought she’d get better. But she doesn’t. I’ve finally figured out that she’ll never get better. She’d rather die this way.”
“Then why do you come back?” I ask honestly. “Why do you keep helping her?”
Deacon looks up at me, surprised by the question. “Because she’s my mother,” he says simply.
His words unexpectedly hurt me, reminding me that I don’t have a family. I don’t have someone to love just because they’re related to me.
“Is that why we’re staying the night?” I ask. “You’re worried about her?”
He shakes his head. “No, we’re staying because I needed to remember how to be stronger. I couldn’t protect my mother or my brother, but eventually I saved myself from this life. I love you, Quinn. I love you as much as I love myself, maybe more. Having survived this proves to me that I can keep us safe.”
“We protect each other,” I tell him. “We have each other’s back—that’s how closers work. We’re in this together.”
Deacon smiles, adoration clear in his expression. “You sound like a motivational poster. Should I type that up and put it over a picture of a baby sloth, or maybe—”
I laugh. “Shut up,” I say, slapping his thigh. “Now, where is this file you’re looking for? And how exactly do you know Tabitha?”
Deacon stands and walks over to the closet, opening the door and scanning the space. “I don’t, really. I’ve only met her once. Marie’s worked with her.” Marie occasionally consults with other advisors and their closers when they need help with an assignment. I’ve heard Tabitha’s name before in the department. Marie must have worked with her, liked her. She must trust her now.
Deacon reaches up and slides his hand along the top shelf. He pauses and then pulls down a black file. He turns to look at me, holding it up. “Got it.”
He comes to sit on the bed and slides his finger under the lip of the envelope to open it. “Anyway,” he continues, “last year Marie told me that Tabby went off the grid, so she asked me to make sure she was okay. I gathered her contact info, put it in a file. But when I brought it to Marie, she asked me not to tell her the details. So I left it here. Honestly, I forgot until she mentioned it. It wasn’t a huge assignment or anything.”
“I wonder if there were people keeping tabs on me,” I say. “I mean other than you.”
Deacon scrunches his nose as if he hates the reminder. I lean back on my arms, watching as he takes out a paper and reads over the handwritten notes. He grabs his phone and dials a number, setting down the paper before standing up. He paces the room, the phone at his ear. I can tell when Tabitha answers, because he stiffens.
“Hey,” he says. “Is this . . . is this Tabitha?” He stops to stare out the filthy window toward the street. “Deacon Hatcher. Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “That one. I know. I hoped you’d never hear from me either.”
He listens, nodding along. Then, “She wants you,” he states. “And it’s not bullshit, either. We’ve got some big things happening here, and she trusts you. You up for it or not?” He smiles and looks over at me, giving me a thumbs-up. “Cool. Yeah, tomorrow at ten a.m.,” he says into the line. “A place called the Mill in Roseburg. See you then.” Deacon clicks off the phone and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans.
“That’s done,” he says, and comes to stand in front of me. “Hopefully we didn’t just ruin her life.”
“It’s sad how often we have to ask ourselves that about the people we meet.”
He reaches to put his hand on my hair, all loving and tender. “It is,” he whispers, and his fingers slowly thread through the strands. He turns and walks back to the closet to get some sheets for the bed. When he finds one yellowed white sheet, dusty from time in the closet, and a thin blanket, I help him make the bed.
Once we’re done, he spreads out on the mattress, sighing heavily as he stares up at the ceiling. I shut off the light and go to lie next to him, my thigh over his, my cheek on his shoulder.
Before we drift off, I have one last question. “Is there anything else, Deacon?” I ask, closing my eyes. “Anything at all?”
“No,” he says. “This is all of me. You have all of me, Quinlan.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEACON AND I SPEND THE night in his childhood home. I don’t sleep well; the creaks and groans of the dilapidated house set me on edge. But I notice how well Deacon sleeps. Whether it’s because he’s home, or because his conscience is finally clear, I’m not sure.
The house is quiet in the morning. I stand up and stretch, and when I look back at the bed, Deacon smiles at me. I can see that his nerves have twisted him up. He checks the time and says we should leave.
As we get downstairs, ready to slip out
like we were never here, the sound of a thick cough comes from the kitchen. Deacon flinches at the sound. He hesitates a moment, and after an apologetic look we both head toward the kitchen.
We find his mother at the same spot at the kitchen table, her short hair a bit more askew, her dark circles deepened. She looks up when we enter.
“Deacon,” she says, as if relieved to see him. Deacon starts to smile, but his mother picks up her drink and sloshes around what’s left in the beer can. “Your son-of-a-bitch brother stole my beer again,” she says.
Deacon’s smile fades, his shoulders slumping slightly. And it feels like a knife twists in my heart for him.
“There’s none left,” his mother continues. “Go get me some from the market. They’ve been open for an hour, but you know I can’t walk down there.” She rubs her knee, her mouth in a sneer as if Deacon asked her to go for herself.
“I don’t think Brandon stole it, Ma,” he says, his voice far away. “And Quinlan and I have to leave right now. But it was good to see you.”
She casts her eyes in my direction and then looks at Deacon. She picks up her cigarette from the ashtray, taking a long drag until it reaches the filter, and talks through the smoke. “You can be an asshole,” she says, putting out her cigarette. “But you’re better than your brother.”
She starts to laugh, but it quickly turns into a thick cough. Deacon watches her with concern, despite her words. His compassion is the greatest part of him. He deserved better than this.
When she finishes coughing, Deacon’s mom takes a swig of her beer to clear her throat. I touch Deacon’s arm to remind him that we have to go meet Marie. He nods.
“Good-bye, Mom,” Deacon tells her, and moves in to kiss her cheek. She tilts her head, letting him, but she looks more interested in fishing out another cigarette from her pack.
“Bye, now,” she says. She doesn’t tell him that she loves him. I wonder if that’s why he had such a hard time telling me. I wonder who he would be if his life had started differently—if he’d been born with a different family. And then I wonder if I might have started in a place like this too.
Deacon sniffles, keeping his back turned to me so I can’t see his emotions. He puts his hand on his mother’s shoulder and then he walks out of the kitchen. I follow behind him, giving the living room one last glance before going outside into the gray and cloudy morning.
* * *
Deacon is quiet on the ride back to Roseburg. My thoughts keep drifting to my father, and I worry about him. Seeing Deacon’s home life has made me appreciate what I had. Sure, most of it was a lie—but I was well fed and looked after. And in my heart I think my father loved me. In my mind I know I loved him.
I hope he’s okay.
We’re meeting Marie in an hour, and although I was terrified when I called her at first, now I feel more myself. I’m not exactly sure who that is, but with Deacon, I’m always myself.
I text Aaron while we drive, completely disregarding Marie’s direction to keep him out of it. He’s my partner, even if neither of us is a closer anymore. What affects me and Deacon affects him. I won’t leave him hanging on his own, unaware of all the shit that’s happening with the department. Turns out, he didn’t plan to get left out anyway. He’s already on his way to Roseburg, so I text him the address to the diner in Myrtle Creek.
When we pull up in front of the Hash House at 10:05, we take a moment to scope it out. There is no one lurking out front, and I wonder how long it will be before the grief department tracks us down. Roger found me pretty quickly. Then again, maybe they already know where I am, and they’re just waiting for the right moment to strike.
Deacon puts the car in park and we exchange an Are you sure about this? look before he finally cuts the ignition. The wind has picked up, and it sends a chill over my skin. My nerves aren’t helping my composure either.
I lead the way to the heavy wood door of the diner, and it creaks loudly when I pull it open. My heart is in my throat as I turn to survey the room. It’s dimly lit, with paneling on the walls and the smell of grease and potatoes in the air. I find Marie sitting at a half-circle booth in the back of the restaurant with two other people. There’s a coffee cup in front of her, as if this is an assignment. She lifts her eyes to meet mine, and my stomach knots in part nostalgia, part anger.
Deacon puts his hand on my arm, steadying me as if he can sense my hesitancy. I’m not surprised when I see Reed Castle sitting with Marie, chowing down on a plate of morning nachos. His timing at the school was certainly suspicious, but he’s here now, so Marie must trust him. He’s always been one of her favorites.
Next to him is Shep Donavon, a closer from Albany. He’s short with painful-looking acne; he wears his baseball cap backward, thick tufts of black hair poking out.
The door squeaks open behind us, and when I turn, I see a tiny redheaded girl, no older than fourteen. I guess that she’s Tabitha. She notices Deacon immediately and flashes him a smile when she walks past us. When she gets to the table, Marie stands to give her a hug, smiling affectionately and twisting me with a bit of jealousy.
Deacon watches me, his eyebrows hitched up, telling me we still have a chance to leave this all behind. But like I told him last night, closers have each other’s backs. “They deserve to know what’s happening within the grief department,” I say.
When Deacon agrees, I turn and lead us toward the table.
Reed looks up, and smiles when he sees me. Whether he notices Deacon or not, he pretends he doesn’t. Reed scoots in closer to Marie to make space for me. “I knew I’d be seeing you again,” he whispers.
“Hi, Reed,” I respond, politely taking the seat he offers. Deacon grabs a chair from across the aisle and flips it around to sit at the end of the table near me. Reed glances up at him.
“Deacon?” he says as if surprised. “Good to see you again. Marie didn’t tell me you’d be joining us.”
“He’s here with Quinlan,” Marie says, watching Deacon with a hint of a smile.
Reed’s expression registers the information, and he lets his charm slip away. “Fantastic,” he mumbles, and starts picking at his nachos again.
“It’s really great to see you, too!” Deacon says, sounding overearnest. Marie gives a quick shake of her head as if telling him to control his attitude.
Shep is playing a game on his phone, ignoring all of us, and Tabitha watches curiously. She leans in to the table, getting my attention.
“Hi,” she says. “You’re Tom’s daughter?”
The question is a shot to the gut, but I nod, avoiding eye contact with Marie.
“That must have been fun,” Tabitha says with a little laugh. She darts a look at Deacon. “Heard you quit,” she tells him. “And that you disappeared. Hell, I thought you were dead until you called.”
“Still alive,” Deacon says. “But believe me, I wish I had disappeared.”
Tabitha smiles at him, as if she can relate, and turns to Marie. “All right, Marie,” she says. “Why did you drag us all down here?”
“There’s a suicide cluster,” Shep answers for her in a bored voice, his eyes not leaving his phone. “People are dying left and right.” His thumbs stop moving, and he looks up. “I heard about it on the news,” he adds. “They said it’s contagious.”
I should have figured that most of the closers would have been listening—we deal in death. Unless they were on the run, like I’ve been, news like this would have been unescapable.
“A behavioral contagion,” Reed corrects. “Copycat behavior.”
“Ahh . . . ,” Tabitha says. “Mass hysteria. Well”—she leans forward to take a chip off Reed’s plate—“I’m just glad it’s not zombies.” She smiles and bites the chip.
Reed curls his lip, clearly annoyed, and turns to Marie as if disappointed in her choice of closers. “So . . . ,” he says. “What does this have to do with us? Why this covert meeting? I’m already prepping for an assignment.”
Across the diner, th
e sound of the door opening draws my attention. Both Deacon and I turn toward it, and the moment I do, my heart leaps. It’s Aaron.
“Oh my God,” I say, jumping out of the booth and rattling the glasses on the table. I meet him halfway, let him sweep me up into a hug. I didn’t fully know how much I missed him until just now.
I pull back, still holding on to his forearms like he might disappear, and see how his dark eyes are glassy with the same emotion that I’m feeling. He looks good, not sick the way he did when he was on his last assignment. He adjusts the straps of his backpack on his shoulders.
“I’m so glad you shaved that beard,” I say, making him laugh. He runs his palm over his cheeks.
“Naw,” he says. “I miss it. But now I’m all GQ up in here.” He smiles and reaches behind me as Deacon walks up. They slap hands and hug.
For a moment my heart is full. Me, Aaron, and Deacon back together again. They’re my family, and not because they were brainwashed to be. Deacon and Aaron laugh about something, and then Marie waves us over, checking around the diner and looking uncomfortable with the attention we’re garnering. The closers in the booth move in tighter, allowing Aaron to slide in next to Tabitha. She smiles at him, probably impressed because Aaron Rios is very cute. He’s also very attached, so he politely nods and sets his bag between them. He turns to stare intently at Marie.
“You forget about me?” he asks her. “Because I’m seeing a closer convention in here that I wasn’t invited to.”
Marie’s expression is decidedly chilly. “You shouldn’t have come,” she says. “I gave you an out.”
I’m taken aback by her demeanor. I know how she cares for him; she’s always had a soft spot for Aaron. Sure, he made a choice to leave, but that was before we knew the scale of this problem. I guess Marie just wanted to keep him out of danger.
So what does that mean for the rest of us?