“My name is Quinlan McKee,” I whisper, trying to pull myself out of it. But I can’t even finish my mantra, the one that used to keep me grounded after an assignment. I’m not Quinlan McKee. I’m no one.
I turn to the side and see a phone on the side table, a landline, and my fingers itch to pick it up. Tears gather in my eyes: Who can I call? Deacon is working against me, because no matter who sent that text, it was outside us. We should have been everything to each other—it was the only way to ensure our safety. He betrayed that. I would hate him for it if I could. I want to.
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the tears slip down my cheeks. It hurts too much to imagine my life without him. It hurts too much to believe that none of it was real. But if I’m going to survive this, I need to forget him for now. Forget what he’s done.
My father, I think suddenly. I ran to him the last time Deacon hurt me—the time he broke up with me and left me shattered. Yes, my dad’s a liar too. But he’s the only family I have. The only family I know.
And hasn’t he loved me? Would my real father, whoever he is, treat me as well? The idea that I have another father strikes me as odd. I’ve never considered it. I’ve daydreamed about a mother, but my Tom McKee has always been a constant; I can’t imagine it any other way. I’m going to change that by discovering the truth.
I put my palm flat on my chest, as if I can relieve the ache there somehow. Right now I need something. Someone. If I can just talk to my father . . .Tom. I’m not sure what to call him anymore. I saw him only a few hours ago; I don’t know what more there is to say. But I’m like a little kid running home to tell her dad that she scraped her knee, only to find that it hurts worse once he acknowledges the wound.
But maybe I just need him to acknowledge that I’m hurt.
Calling my dad right now is surely a sign of weakness, but I decide that I’m allowed to be weak once in a while. My entire life I’ve been manipulated into playing the permanent role of a dead girl, so yeah, it’s understandable that I need to hear my father’s voice again so I feel like a real person. My feelings for him don’t disappear just because I want them to. Despite all his lies, part of me trusts him. Believes he doesn’t want me hurt. Right now . . . he’s all I’ve got.
I reach for the phone, pulling myself to sit up despite the wave of dizziness that accompanies it. What is wrong with me? I blink several times to get my bearings, and then I pick up the phone and stare at the numbers. It takes a second for them to come completely into focus.
It occurs to me that my father won’t be home. From what I know of him, which admittedly isn’t nearly as much as I thought, he will try to act as if everything is normal. I’ve memorized my father’s behaviors, a side effect of being a closer: observation. He’s a creature of habit, and when he’s stressed out, he likes Mexican food from a little joint near the college. When I’m not around to call it in, he heads there himself straight from work.
I can’t call his cell phone—the number is too easily monitored. Luckily, I know the number to the restaurant by heart.
I dial, and when the line rings, I dart a careful glance at the closed door of the bedroom, worried that August or Eva will come in and ask me what I’m doing. I’m just using their phone, of course, but with each ring my paranoia grows. Again my emotions are exaggerated.
“Barrio’s on University,” a man answers in a thick accent, making me snap to attention. I feel a rush of warmth at the familiarity of his voice, a small reminder of home.
“Hi, Rubio,” I say, able to picture him with the phone resting between his ear and shoulder, his finger tapping the keys of the register as he multitasks. “It’s Quinn. I’m wondering if my . . . dad is there.”
Rubio laughs. “No, not yet. Is he fetching his own order tonight?”
My heart sinks. “I guess not,” I say, disappointed. I’d taken for granted that I knew his routines. Which was stupid. I never knew him at all. “Thanks any—”
“Oh, hold on, Q,” he interrupts. “He just came in. See you soon, all right?”
“Yeah, all—” But I hear the phone shifting as he hands it over the counter. The anticipation sticks in my throat.
“For me?” I hear my father’s voice say to Rubio. There’s another rustle and then, “This is Thomas McKee,” he says.
It’s been only a few hours, but it feels like weeks since I’ve spoken to him. I’m flooded with anger and hurt, mixed with the heaviest sense of loss I’ve ever known. My voice hitches when I murmur, “Hi, Dad”—the only name I know to call him.
I hear him shift the phone to his other ear, a hush in his tone. “What’s wrong?” he asks immediately. “Are you okay?”
That’s the stupidest question he could have asked. Of course I’m not okay—and so much of that is his fault. But . . . I miss him. I miss having a family. I miss the lie of it all. I begin to cry, fighting the tears as fast as they fall.
“Quinn, where’s Deacon?” he asks. “Can you put him on the phone?”
Despite their strained relationship, my father always thought Deacon was an excellent closer. He trusts him to protect me. I did too. All the people in my life who were supposed to love me have betrayed me instead. The horror of the thought helps me pull myself back together.
“I left him,” I say, swiping my palm over my cheeks to clear the tears. “I left him at the bus station. That’s why I’m calling you,” I add with bitterness. “I don’t have anyone else.”
“What happened?” he asks, alarmed. “You two are inseparable. Believe me, I’ve tried. I understand you’ve had your problems,” he concedes. “But Deacon will watch out for you. Now isn’t the time to—”
“Deacon’s hiding something, Dad,” I say, my lips pulling taut. “I can’t trust him. He got a text from someone looking for me. And then there was a woman who I think was following me on the bus. I couldn’t tell if Deacon was in on it. I . . . I don’t know where he stands. So I had to slip away—I had to disappear.”
“You think Deacon’s involved with someone at the grief department?” he asks. “I . . . I’m not sure I believe that.”
“I don’t know who texted him, but he shouldn’t be talking to anyone about me. He’s put me in danger. Why would he do that?” My father doesn’t answer right away, and I assume he’s shocked by this revelation. I don’t blame him. “I don’t know what to do, Dad,” I say. “I have to get to Arthur Pritchard, though. Find out who I really am. I have to—”
“Honey,” my dad says, making me flinch at the softness of the word. “I don’t think that’s a good idea anymore. Arthur isn’t the kind of man you can make deals with. You have to let that go. Get far away from all of this.”
“I’m sure that’s what you’d want,” I say, growing angry. “You kept my life from me. You deceived me and pretended—”
“I never pretended to love you,” he says, cutting me off before I say it. “And you know that, or you wouldn’t be calling me now. I’m your father. I’m the only father you know,” he corrects. “And I will do everything I can to keep you safe.”
“Then I need to know who I am,” I say simply. I’m desperate, but part of that desperation is building on a wave of emotion in my chest, a clarity I can’t seem to find in my head.
“I understand,” my father says. “But please, Quinlan. We have to be careful. Arthur isn’t even your biggest problem. Like I told you earlier, there are people at the grief department who will be very concerned by your absence. Since the board took over, there’s been a shift in their goals. And I’m uncomfortable with some of their tactics. I don’t want you under their control.”
The fuzziness in my head continues, and I lie back on the bed, stare up at the swirling fan. “What kind of goals?” I ask. “What more can they take from me?”
My father pauses. “Are you all right?” he asks. “You have . . . you have a slight slur in your words.”
“I had a beer,” I admit, feeling my cheeks grow warm as if waiting for my father to scold me.
r />
“Who did you have a drink with?”
“I met some people after getting off the bus. They’re letting me crash at their house. I swear I only had one drink, Dad. I guess my tolerance just sucks. And I’m really emotional right now.”
“Quinlan,” my father says, his voice growing very serious. “I don’t think you’re drunk. You need to get out of that house right now.”
My heart rate spikes, and I sit up, my head feeling two feet behind me as I rise. “What are you talking about?” I ask.
“I think you’ve been drugged.”
I laugh. “No,” I say. “I’ve been with them the entire time. How would they—” But slowly, through the haziness, I realize there was a moment when I didn’t have my drink. It had already been opened when August handed it to me. But there’s no way . . . There’s no way, right?
I went to the workplace of a former client. That’s where August found me. The grief department would have access to that information. But . . . how would they know where to look? My mind can’t follow the logic, but I know suddenly that I was reckless in going there. I should have thought it through.
“Just indulge me on this,” my father says. “I may sound paranoid, and I probably am. But I know what the department is capable of. And—” He stops abruptly.
The bustling sound of the taco shop has gone silent in the background. Something’s wrong, and a sudden sense of panic makes me jump to my feet.
My father clears his throat. “Listen, Quinn,” he says, sounding suddenly lighter, “everything’s going to be okay.” But under his tone I hear a falseness that people get only when they know they have an audience. A pitch to his voice. “I’ll speak to the department, get this all cleared up. Right now I should just come get you. Tell me where you are.”
Reality chills my skin, and I realize that my father is not alone. He might have been followed, or he could have alerted someone. I dismiss the second option almost immediately; he’s trying to help me. I need to believe he’s trying to help me, or I truly have nothing.
“You just give me an address,” he says, “and it’ll be all right. You can let Marie know it’s fine to come home too.” My father knows that Marie isn’t with me. After a pause he adds, “I’m here for you, Quinlan.” He says it in monotone, telling me that he means the exact opposite.
I close my eyes, my fear very real. But I have to be better than my fear. I’ll have to be stronger if I want to get through this and find answers.
“I’m scared, Dad,” I whisper.
“Good girl.”
I open my eyes, steadying myself even through the fog, clearing what I can. I sniffle as I take the phone from my ear, look down at it. Then I click it off and hang up on him. Without a moment’s hesitation I go to the closet. When I got the sheets earlier, I noticed an old backpack. I quickly grab it and stuff my items inside.
My father hinted that he was compromised and even mentioned Marie. Was it a warning for her? A hint for me? The department might have tracked my call somehow.
My fingers and lips tingle, and I think that my dad might be right about the drug. I can’t pinpoint what exactly it would be—I’m not sleepy. This is mood altering. Trust-altering?
I shake my head to clear it and start toward the window, glancing outside. I’m on the second floor. It’s dark and I have nowhere to go. The odds are certainly stacked against me. But in spite of everything I trust my father’s words. And I have to hope that it’s not just because of the drugs that may be in my system.
I push open the window, moving slowly so the noise won’t rouse suspicion. I hate to leave Eva. And although I don’t think August has done anything wrong, I can’t dismiss the possibility. That would be irresponsible. That would be stupid.
I slip the backpack onto my shoulders and swing my leg out the window until my foot touches the slanted roof. I check to make sure it’s not slippery before climbing out. There is a slight creak, but I don’t have time to tiptoe. I get to the side where the bannister for the slanted front porch meets the roofline. I make my way to the wobbly railing and then hop down. My boots make a loud thud.
Without looking back, I rush past the stairs and jog up the street, escaping into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MORNING AIR IS FOGGY, and even though it’s barely seven, I slip out of the cash-only motel I found near the campus, hair still damp from the shower.
The neighborhood is deserted, and I head toward downtown in hopes of finding an open café where I can blend in and figure out what to do next.
When I woke up, I was able to think about my situation. I did consider disappearing completely, just like my father had asked. But I can’t. I can’t let it go.
I’ve decided to find Arthur Pritchard. Only I won’t be making a deal with him. A person like Arthur is used to making the rules, so I need to change them.
I’m going to blackmail him.
I’ll have to get the upper hand somehow, a bit of leverage to ensure his cooperation—and I think I’ve figured out a way. His daughter holds the key to a mystery. My last assignment, Catalina Barnes, killed herself. The circumstances of her death were covered up, but then Aaron’s assignment also committed suicide. It turns out that the only connection between these two deaths was that both assignments were in contact with Virginia Pritchard.
Arthur spoke to the families and dismissed his daughter’s involvement, never telling them who she really was. He’s keeping it from the department. His own dirty little secret. So the question is: What role did Virginia play in their deaths? What is Arthur trying to hide?
Once I have that answer, I’ll use it against him. I’ll threaten to expose him and his daughter to the department. In exchange for my silence he’ll have to give me what I want: the truth about who I am. And I’m ready to do whatever is necessary to get it.
But first I need to find Virginia Pritchard.
As I walk, I try to keep my emotions deadened so that I can continue my journey. I’m not sure if Deacon stayed in town or went ahead to Roseburg without me. Part—okay, most—of me doesn’t want him to have left. And most of me knows he wouldn’t. Despite all that, I need time to figure out what’s going on. I need time without Deacon.
Since last night there’s been a dull throb in my head, just behind my temple. At first I thought it was a hangover, but now I’m worried that my fragile emotional state has cracked. Like it did last week when I was Catalina. I’m still in shock, and this kind of stress can lead to a break in character. A break in—
The pain suddenly intensifies into a blinding smash: my head shattering like a delicate plate. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, face downturned as I put my palm over my forehead. I grit my teeth and close my eyes, fearing an aneurysm.
And then . . . A scene plays across my mind, like when you spontaneously remember a dream from the night before. The pain eases slightly, as if the pain has opened the door for a memory to slip out. But it’s a memory I can’t quite place.
I was with Marie in the small waiting room of a doctor’s office, surrounded by hard padded chairs and stark white walls. Marie was seated next to me, casually flipping through a copy of Psychology Today. A nurse in pale blue scrubs worked behind a half wall made of glass blocks. I turned and gave Marie such a hateful glare that she must have felt it, because she lowered the magazine.
“We’ll fix it, Quinn,” she told me calmly. “Just like before. He promised it’ll work this time.” With that she turned and went back to her magazine, but I immediately reached out and slapped it from her hand, knocking it to the floor. Marie’s expression hardened, and just then the office door opened. The sound of it made my insides knot, and I slowly turned.
I take in a gasp of cold air, falling back a step on the sidewalk as the memory ends. I spin and look around the street and find the neighborhood still deserted, but my nerves are frayed. Unsettled. The pain in my head is a dull ache, the memory planted but not connected to an event, a clip from a movie I’ve n
ever seen. Where had Marie taken me and what the hell were we fixing?
I blink my eyes quickly and try to reorient myself, searching my memories to make sense of the images. Nothing fits. Could that possibly have been real? If it was, I don’t think I would have forgotten it. And I would never have glared at Marie like that, slapped a magazine from her hand. Never—she was like a mother to me. At least that was how I saw her.
There’s a tickle on my upper lip, and when I lick it, I taste metal. I quickly run the back of my hand over my mouth and see that it’s covered in bright red blood. My nose is bleeding.
I spit into the grass to get rid of the taste, but the blood continues to run down my throat. I lean forward, pinching my nose closed. I can’t remember the last time I had a nosebleed, but I do remember when Deacon had one while we were sitting outside a pizza place a few months ago. Some self-righteous woman came up to us and yelled at him for tipping his head backward, saying she was sick of everyone always getting it wrong. Deacon didn’t like her tone, so he asked if she was the nosebleed police. And then, just to spite her, he unplugged his nose and let the blood run down his face until she got grossed out and left.
I laugh to myself, blood sputtering between my lips. I spit again but keep my head forward, using the technique that I read about in my first aid class. It feels like I stand there forever, and I worry someone will wander out of their house and find me bleeding on the sidewalk. But eventually the rush slows. I straighten, then wait a moment, until I’m sure the bleeding has stopped completely, leaving my nostrils stuffy and only a drop of blood on my shirt.
Well, that was a blast, I think. I’m sure I look like a horror show right now with blood all over my face, so I sneak around the corner of the nearest house and turn on their hose. I rinse off my hand with the ice-cold water and then clean my face until the blood is gone. The faucet squeaks when I close it, and I replace the hose before shaking the water off my hands.