When the transformation is complete, I look at my reflection. Despite the changes, I see a shadow of Quinlan McKee—the girl I used to be—and I grow nostalgic. It must be the hair.
I wait a moment until the emotions fade. Elizabeth probably hasn’t noticed that her credit card is gone yet, so I chance it and use the phone to order a bus ticket, which I charge to her credit card. It works. Once that’s settled, I swipe the makeup off the counter into the backpack and then walk out into the morning light, popping up my hood.
I’ll be on bus number eighty-four to Roseburg. I pull up the bar-coded pass on the phone and head toward the bus station, noticing a decent crowd and immediately feeling eased by it. The buses are already lined up, and I spot number eighty-four in the back.
A car on the street slows and pulls to the curb a few yards in front of me, and when it’s apparent it’s stopped for me, my heart leaps into my throat and I stagger to a halt.
They’ve found me.
The driver’s-side door of the gray sedan opens, and I put my palm on my chest in relief when August climbs out. He smiles broadly, checking the street before closing the door and walking toward me. “Hey, you,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his corduroys.
My momentary relief is quickly covered by my fear of last night. Did he actually drug me? And if so . . . why? “August,” I say, trying to sound casual. “How did you . . . how’d you know it was me?”
“You look different,” he responds. “But you still have the same shape, same eye color too.”
“You’re very observant,” I tell him.
He laughs. “You must be rubbing off on me.”
“Must be.” My shoulders are tense, and I have to fight to keep my face from reflecting that. I’m growing more certain that I trusted him entirely too much. “You knew where to find me?” I ask, wondering how he’ll dodge the question.
“Considering the fact you slipped out my second-story window,” he says with a laugh, “I imagined you were ready to leave town. Bus station was an easy choice. I’m surprised you’re still here, honestly.”
“Me too,” I say, tightening my hand on my backpack. “And sorry about that. I, uh . . . I didn’t want to wake you guys. I decided to head home,” I lie.
He laughs. “We wouldn’t have minded if you did wake us. No need to risk life and limb.”
“Again, sorry for the scare,” I say. In the light of the morning I start to notice things about him that I didn’t see yesterday. The roots of August’s hair are lighter than the strands hitting his shoulder, as if his hair has been dyed. His irises are slightly larger than normal, his brown eyes the exact color of Deacon’s—contacts, I realize. Even August’s phrasing is similar to Deacon’s.
I swallow hard. My father was right.
“I was worried,” August says, taking another step toward me. “You’d been drinking, and then you were off in town alone. I’m glad I found you. You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you want, Brooke. It’s a safe place.”
“Is it, now?” I murmur. I glance behind him to where bus eighty-four has pulled to the front of the line.
August furrows his brow as if he thinks I’m acting weird, but I’m sure he understands what’s really happening. He takes another step toward me, hands still in his pockets, feigning relaxation. “At least let me give you a ride home,” he offers. “I’m sure your father’s worried about you.”
I still. I never told him about my father. In fact, I told Eva that I was a ward of the state. That I had no family. And yet here stands this closer, thinking I won’t recognize him. How he’s tried to subtly mimic my boyfriend to provide false comfort and unearned trust. Well . . . he’s underestimated me.
“That’s super nice of you,” I tell him, folding back my hood and smiling. “But I’ve already imposed so much.”
“You kidding?” he says. “Our stray dogs are more trouble than you.”
I force a laugh. Yeah, I didn’t see any dogs, either. I wonder how real Eva was. If she was a friend or a closer as well. I don’t have time to think about it now. I motion toward his car.
“A ride would be awesome, August,” I say. “Thank you. Would you mind if we hit up the gas station and grab snacks? My treat . . . for the trip.” I start in the direction of his car, noticing the way his hand shifts in his pocket. I can’t tell, but I’m afraid he might have a knife.
I quickly tick through my options. I could run, right now, screaming for help. Perhaps I’d find it before he could hurt me. But even so, I would be questioned. Underage, I’d be sent home. Calling attention to myself will have to be my last resort.
August falls into step beside me, chattering away as if he has no idea that I’m onto his ruse. I glance at him and smile, keeping up the façade, all the while watching number eighty-four, waiting until the moment when boarding will be complete and the bus is about to pull away.
I just need another three or four minutes, and then I’ll bolt through the crowd, weave in and out, and hop on the bus. Hopefully before August can catch up with me.
When I get to the passenger side of the car, planning to stall, I feel August behind me. I spin, having expected him to be at the driver’s side, and find him entirely too close. My plan disintegrates, and my façade falls away.
“What are you doing?” I demand, nearly tripping over my shoes as I back up a step.
August smiles, but it’s not the inviting smile he used earlier. It’s lopsided, and I see a flash of his real personality. “Opening the door for you,” he says easily, reaching around me to grab the door handle.
My breath is caught in my throat, and I decide that it’s time to run after all. I push his shoulder, trying to move past him, but August is fast. He grabs me by my backpack and yanks me backward. He wraps one arm around my waist and lifts me off my feet; his other hand clamps under my jaw, forcing my mouth shut so I can’t scream. My eyes are frantic as I struggle to get free.
August spins me around and pins me to the car like we’re in an embrace out in front of the bus station. The pressure of his weight is enough to keep me too short of breath to yell for help.
“Just relax,” he soothes. “No one’s going to hurt you.” He reaches into the pocket of his corduroys, and to my horror he pulls out a syringe. I attack with renewed ferocity, shifting from side to side and trying to knee any part of him I can get to. He casts a glance around the street to make sure no one is paying attention. They’re not. August flicks off the orange cap with his thumb and looks down at me.
“This is just a sedative,” he says as if I’m being dramatic. “I tried the phenylethylamine last night, but I guess you weren’t in the mood. Instead you had to be stupid and try to run away.”
He has no idea how “stupid” I can be. I have no intention of letting him stick that needle into me. Struggling is pointless at this angle, so just before he’s about to inject the sedative into my neck, I stop fighting completely and let myself go limp. August pitches forward now that the force of me pushing back is gone, and I twist around him, pulling from his grasp.
I ram my palms against his back, sending him chest-first against his car. In the same motion I turn away, set to run, when I hear him yelp. The wounded sound makes me pause, and I look back at him. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, and the thought that I did weakens me slightly.
August turns, and I see the syringe sticking into his hip. He yanks it out and tosses it aside, groaning. “That fucking burns,” he mutters, wincing.
“I apologize that I don’t feel bad that you stabbed yourself,” I say, although if I’m honest, I do feel a little bad. “You drugged me last night,” I accuse, out of breath.
August laughs, limping over to rest against the hood of his car. The fight is gone out of him now that he knows he won’t have time to secure me. “Sure, but it was harmless. Should have made you euphoric.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have much to be happy about these days,” I tell him. “Now why are you doing this? Who sent you?
”
“The grief department requests your return, Miss McKee.” He rubs his hip where the syringe jabbed him, the drowsiness already distorting his expression. “They messaged me yesterday and told me you’d disappeared in my town. I studied your boyfriend’s records, things he told his advisor. And then, in the files, I saw you’d once had an assignment here. Researched the family and found the bike shop. It wasn’t a great choice, Quinlan,” he says.
“Obviously,” I reply, angry at myself for not having been more careful. He snorts a laugh. “And Eva?” I ask.
“I told you she wanted to be a closer, right?” he says. “That includes being around them—she helps me where she can. She’s damn good, too. She did like you, though, if it matters.”
“It doesn’t,” I say. The idea that Eva was playing me stings more than it should. God, I’m so naïve. I’ll have to do better if I’m going to survive this.
August pretends to pout. “Poor Quinlan,” he says. “But hey, on the bright side, you get to go home.”
“Not today,” I tell him. “In case you didn’t notice, you’re over there, all fucked up, and I’m about to run away.”
August shrugs sheepishly. “Well, yes, clearly, this”—he holds up his hand to motion around us—“wasn’t supposed to happen. I was only charged with monitoring you and earning your trust. Seeing what you were up to. But after you contacted your father, I was instructed to bring you home. You’re in breach of contract.”
Across the way the bus driver steps off the stair and makes a final boarding call. It’s time for me to go. “Do me a favor, August,” I say, hiking my backpack up on my shoulders. “Or whatever your name is.”
“Roger,” he says with a small smile.
“Well, Roger. Tell the department that I’m on vacation.”
He mock salutes me, his eyelids drooping. I leave him, jogging toward the bus, but I check to make sure he isn’t following me. I don’t think he can.
I meet the bus driver at the door and let him scan the bar code on my phone. Then, when he steps aside to let me climb the stairs, I slip open the case on the phone and pull out the SIM card. I pop out the battery and dart over to the closest trash bin to toss in the phone parts. I get on bus eighty-four at the last second, earning a dirty look from the driver for making him wait, and find a seat near the back. The bus is mostly empty, and I take a spot near the window, facing the street where Roger’s car is parked. I watch as he stumbles and climbs into the driver’s seat. I sit up straighter, worried he’ll try to drive and get into an accident. But he doesn’t even turn on the engine.
As the bus pulls away, Roger slumps over in his front seat and disappears from view. My heart is still racing, but I relax slightly and close my eyes, trying to regulate my breathing. I was stupid to trust him, to go home with him. I’m glad I called my father—he saved me.
After a moment I open my eyes and stare straight ahead toward the front of the bus, knowing there will be no rest for me. The grief department knows where I’m heading. I’m just not sure if they know why.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’M A BUNDLE OF NERVES when I exit the front doors of the bus station in Roseburg. Once on the street, I slip my hands into the pockets of my jacket and glance around. Whether I mean to or not, I immediately check for Deacon. I’m both relieved and disappointed when I don’t see him.
Roseburg itself looks mildly familiar, even though I’ve never been here. It could be the landscape; it’s not much different from Corvallis. I try to find a building or a tree in particular, but it’s just a general sense of familiarity. Then again, as Roger proved, I may be searching for a connection that doesn’t exist. Surely I accepted him as a friend because I miss Deacon. Now I’m doing the same thing with landscaping. This could all be a symptom of homesickness.
So with that I turn and start down the main street in search of a motel. And once the school day is nearly done, I’ll head to Marshall Senior High in search of Virginia. It’s not like I can get to her while she’s in class.
I see a sign jutting out from a building up ahead. Even though one of the letters has worn off, SHADY PINES OTEL seems like it might fit my criteria exactly. Meaning I can afford its weekly rate in case I need to stay long-term.
I cut across the parking lot toward the front office and see that the building has been recently painted Pepto-Bismol pink with green shutters. It’s an absolutely awful combination that gives me little confidence in the room amenities. This is the sort of motel Deacon and Aaron would want to stay in just for the story factor. Aaron always jokes that sketchy motels make the best retellings because there is always the possibility of finding blood on the carpet. God, I hope not.
In the front lobby I find a small man with patchy facial hair and a twitchy brow. I use Elizabeth’s ID and pay cash for the week. The man only glances at me, uninterested in my appearance. I almost ask for a room with a pool view, but I decide that humor would only make me stand out more.
He slides a key card across the counter. “One person per room,” he says gruffly. “Guests pay ten extra dollars.”
“Got it,” I say, holding up the card. He narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t believe me, but then he turns and disappears behind a curtain into a back room.
I sigh heavily, taking one more look around the lobby, hoping for some water. But there is only a plastic yellow jug on a folding table in the corner. I have a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t set out today, and I opt to take my chances with water from the faucet.
When I get upstairs, I’m surprised to find that the room is decent, although the smell of cigarette smoke from past tenants hangs in the air. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and I don’t have any real plan yet, but I hope this will be over soon. More than anything, I just want the truth. And then I want to live my life. Away from the grief department.
I drop my stuff on the bed and take a seat at the small table near the window, too anxious to sleep after all. I push aside the curtain and survey the complex. No one is outside, and in that isolation my fear deepens.
I was nearly kidnapped today. The thought strikes me hard in the chest, knocking the air out of me, crushing my lungs. The helplessness of the moment with Roger strips me down. It tears at my skin, at my confidence, at my person. He almost got me. They almost got me.
But why? What does the grief department really want with me? What would they do? The only outcome I can imagine is that they want to silence me—stop me from talking about closers. Or maybe it’s because of Catalina’s suicide. All I can do is guess right now. And that unpredictability makes them scarier.
I wrap my arms around myself. I’ll give Aaron until tonight to find Marie, but if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to chance another call to my father. No more strangers. Except, of course, Virginia Pritchard.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see that it’s not even noon yet. So after checking the locks and moving a chair in front of the door, I go to the bed and rest back, staring at the ceiling. I try to clear my head, block out the worry, and put together a real plan.
* * *
I’m a little early when I arrive at Marshall Senior High. School is still in session as I stand at the edge of the parking lot trying to be invisible. The school is a modest one-story building with a gated entry and a courtyard just beyond. I imagine that it has a small student population, which must make a suicide (possibly two) a pretty big deal.
The bell rings, startling me, and I walk toward the cars as the doors open and students begin filing out. I swim through the crowd, nothing about me drawing anyone’s attention. I get about midway through the parking lot and then stop and discreetly look around. I don’t know what Virginia looks like. I scan faces, and after a moment I admit I wouldn’t recognize her just because I got a glimpse of her father for five minutes two days ago. I’ll have to talk to someone.
I let my facial expression relax naturally, practice scrunching my nose when I laugh. It’s nonthreatening. I smile softly—not to
o eager—and when I see a girl, mousy with brown hair and a cardigan, I walk toward her.
“Excuse me,” I call, sounding vulnerable and yet confident—as if I belong here. The girl lifts her head and looks me over hesitantly. “Hi,” I say, crinkling my nose. “I was wondering if you’ve seen Virginia Pritchard?”
I study her face and notice when there’s a flash of recognition. “Uh . . .” She looks behind her and then pulls her cardigan around herself. Not exactly the response I was expecting. “Who’s asking?” she says.
I fumble for the right words and then finally spit it out. “I’m Liz. I just transferred here, and the front office told me to talk to Virginia to shadow for classes. I couldn’t find her, so . . .” I shrug, deciding to go less confident. It works.
“Sorry,” the girl says. “There’s been a lot of reporters. Someone was here from the New York Times this morning asking questions.”
“Really?” I ask. “Questions about what?” She flinches, and I quickly explain, “I just moved here from Eugene.”
This seems to placate her momentarily.
“I can always catch up with Virginia on Monday,” I tell her, turning slowly so that she’ll have time to stop me.
“It’s club ball season,” the girl says. “She and the other volleyball players will be practicing in the gym. They’re pretty hard-core.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “Thank you!” I smile, warm and affectionate, and then I wave before heading toward the school. The minute my back is turned, my smile fades.
I wasn’t entirely planning the “new student” excuse, but it was all I had. I’ll go with it, and if I get questioned by the office, I can actually fill out the paperwork as Elizabeth Major. I’ve heard my father and Marie complain about educational red tape before. I’ll use fake numbers, fake school information, and by the time the office requests my records to get more information, which can take up to a week, I’ll be gone.