My shoulders slumped, I head back to bed and lie down. I retreat into my memories, finding one that I can wrap around myself. This time I come back to one of me and Deacon, sitting on the back porch of his house shortly after he bought it. We were broken up, but there we were on the steps, me leaning against him as we watched the rain fall over the trees. A cold breeze blew my hair across my face, and Deacon reached to brush it back, leaning his temple on the top of my head.
“Christ, it never stops raining,” he says. We had planned to go hiking; the forecast swore it would be clear skies. Of course, we all know never to trust the Oregon weather forecast. Now we were stuck on the porch in hiking boots with a backpack full of bottled water and trail mix.
I sighed. “I’m leaving on Wednesday,” I said quietly. “Assignment down near Grants Pass. Drowning, I think. Anyway, mother and stepfather—Dad says they’re a wreck.”
Deacon was quiet for a long moment, and then moved to wrap his arms around me like a jacket. We settled in together, absorbing each other.
“One more year, Quinlan,” he said. “One more year of someone else’s life, and then you’re done.” He looked at me. “And you will be done.”
“That’s the plan,” I said. “But we both know how persuasive my father can be.”
“Funny,” Deacon said, “I told him to fuck off easily enough.”
I slapped his leg and he laughed, admitting that he didn’t really cuss my father out, just imagined it in full detail. We fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the clap of thunder above us that made the windows rattle. I jumped in Deacon’s arms, and he held me closer, his fingers trailing over my skin in a way that brought me to a new realization. A sudden awareness of his body against mine.
“We should go inside,” Deacon said in a quiet voice, the rain falling harder around us. I hummed out agreement, but didn’t move. Didn’t want to break the spell. Deacon brushed his lips over my cheek. My jaw. “I miss you,” he murmured as his mouth touched my neck. “It’s fucking killing me how much I miss you.”
I was lost then—lost in my desire for him. I ended up staying the night, and we were romantic and sad at the same time. Our passion was reckless and panicked, but it felt good. It felt like love. Like everything had been set right again.
When I woke up the next morning, Deacon was gone. No text. No note. I left his house and I didn’t see him again until my assignment was over. It was like our night together had never happened. He didn’t mention it, didn’t act any differently. But I wanted things to be different. I wanted commitment. I swore I wouldn’t give him another chance to hurt me after that.
In all of our time together, Deacon’s never said the one thing I needed to hear. He has never, ever said he loved me. And yet if he were here now, Deacon would be wrapped around me, telling me that even if the entire world hated me, he’d still be on my side. He’d threaten to kick all of their asses. He’d promise to do anything for me. But I guess promises only go so far.
I roll over in bed and take out my phone. I scroll through to see if I have any other messages, but there’s nothing. Disappointment burrows itself into my consciousness, and I wish I’d talked to Deacon sooner. Apologized for ditching him at the bar. I wish I could be on his back porch right now, letting him whisper into my hair about how shitty the rain is.
I allow myself another moment of dwelling, and then make the decision to put away all thoughts of my life to focus on my assignment. Boredom soon follows, but it’s not entirely unusual. When I’m working, I can’t go out with friends or do my normal activities—I’m quarantined in a life with as little of my own as possible. I’m sick of the Internet, of depressing news. I’m sick of feeling bad about everything.
I remember the journal pages. Of course.
The crumpled pages are just where I left them between the mattress and the box spring, and I’m all nerves and anticipation when I pull them onto my lap. I turn toward the doorway, trying to gauge the position of my family members, and hear my mother still talking on the phone with my sister. That should keep her distracted for a while. I wouldn’t want her to walk in on me reading them, especially if she didn’t know they existed. A better person would have turned the pages over, or at least alerted Marie. Luckily, I’m only average in the good-person department.
I begin, skimming and finding that all of the pages are about Isaac—like a love letter, a retelling of our relationship. I’m riveted, completely invested in learning everything. I read about how we met, our first kiss, and then I stop and go back to the start so I can absorb more.
Kyle first told me she wanted me to date Isaac at the end of homeroom. I laughed, because, yuck—he was a total jock. But mostly because he’d just dumped Alexis Culverson. That was a serious douche alarm. Alexis was awesome.
I stifle a laugh, and turn the page, beginning to chew on my thumbnail.
Kyle was a total idiot. If I didn’t love her, I would have killed her to death and then killed her again. After school we went to eat at Off Campus, like we do every day. While I was mid-bite into my cheeseburger, Kyle called for Isaac and Nando to come sit with us. I gave her the death glare, which she completely ignored, and slid over for Nando to sit next to me. He and Kyle laughed about some stupid test, and it was painfully obvious to me and Isaac that we were supposed to talk too.
He looked up. I looked down. And thankfully the entire awkward exchange only lasted long enough for Kyle to get an invite to Nando’s party the next weekend. The guys got up, and I halfheartedly waved, thinking that was the end of it. But then, right next to my seat, Isaac looked sideways at me. He smiled, sort of sweet. Sort of shy. And then he left.
I didn’t admit it to Kyle—screw her—but once I looked at him, I realized Isaac Perez was kind of smoking hot. Even if he probably sucked as a person.
I lay the pages across my chest and stare out the window, smiling to myself. How much fun it must have been, being so carefree. Going to school and hanging out with friends. Meeting boys and making plans. I’ve never had that. I never will.
What I wouldn’t give to be Catalina Barnes.
CHAPTER TEN
I CONTINUE READING, HEARING ALL about how I connected with Isaac, unsure at first, or maybe he was. Either way, I’m at the part where I was debating whether I should have sex with him or wait longer, when my phone buzzes. I glance at it impatiently, not wanting to stop reading, but I see it’s Aaron. I look between the phone and the pages, and then set the writing aside and click on the phone.
“Hey,” I say. “Deacon said you’d need a few days to find out info on Virginia.”
Aaron laughs. “I do. I’m not calling about her. I just needed someone to talk to. Things around here are . . . heavy.”
I sit up, concerned by the tone of his voice. “Are you all right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine. It’s just . . . this case. Dude was messed up.”
“How so?”
“I was going through his profiles and everything was peachy, you know? Unrealistically happy. But then I found these notebooks in his closet. Three of them with words scribbled across the pages, and then a bunch of large black spirals. I felt like I was in a horror movie or something.”
My heart stops. “I know exactly you’re talking about,” I say. “I . . . I found something similar in Catalina’s things.”
“You’ve seen them?” he says. “That’s strange. And they’re unsettling, right?” he asks, as if needing affirmation for being creeped out.
“Very,” I agree. “What . . . what do you think they mean?”
“I have no idea,” Aaron says. “But to be honest, those spirals tripped me out. For a minute it was like I was slipping away. Don’t worry,” he says firmly. “I’m fine now. I just needed to hear a familiar voice, but Deacon was bringing me down.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s not too happy with me.”
“He’ll get over it,” Aaron says. “But dang, girl. He was all torn up this morning, telling
me how you left with your boyfriend—”
“First of all,” I say, “it’s an assignment—not my actual boyfriend. Second of all, if I did have a boyfriend, he still wouldn’t have a right to complain.”
“But he—”
“You know Deacon dates other girls, right?” I ask, maybe sounding a little jealous myself.
“I know Deacon pretends to date other girls,” he corrects. “He hasn’t hooked up with any of them. And believe me, he’d tell me.”
I scoff. “What, then?” I ask. “Are they off playing Scrabble all night?”
“Doubtful,” he says with a laugh. “But he likes their attention; he likes your attention to their attention. Then he drives them away, long before his tongue ever touches theirs.”
“Gross.”
“But accurate,” he says. “So rationalize all you want, little closer, but your not-so-ex-boyfriend is saving himself for you, even if he doesn’t tell you. But I think you already know. And I think that’s why you feel so guilty for playing house with Isaac Perez.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I saw you with him. We’ve been at this a long time. I’m just worried what you’ll take away from this assignment, life klepto. I hope it’s not his virginity.”
“I doubt that’s still intact, but I assure you I won’t find out.” We get quiet for a moment, the reality of our situations sinking in. “I do think about it sometimes, though,” I say quietly. “What it would be like to live like this—to have a family. Regular life.”
“Isn’t that the biggest danger?” Aaron asks. “The fact that we get to see what normal is like. Only to realize it’s not normal at all. These people hired us to fill in their grief. Never forget the truth, Quinn. They don’t love you. They love who you used to be.”
“I remember,” I say, glancing down at the pages lying on the bed. From beyond the door I hear my mother say my name. “I should go,” I tell Aaron, sitting up. “Call me when you find out more about Virginia.”
“I will,” he says. “And, Quinn . . . stay safe.”
I thank him just as my mother opens the door. I quickly pull the phone from my ear, and covertly slide the pages under my pillow. I smile politely and see my mother’s eyes flash with curiosity.
“Isaac,” I lie, motioning to the phone. “How’s Angie?” I attempt to distract her, relieved when I see that it works.
“She’s good.” My mother smiles. “In fact, I was coming to see if you wanted a sandwich. Maybe help me cut some vegetables for dinner? Your sister’s going to join us.”
My stomach turns abruptly. “Oh . . . that’s great.” Although I’m not sure if I’m ready for the emotional abuse Angie will want to hurl in my direction. “Yes,” I continue with fake enthusiasm. “I’d love to help.”
I climb up from the bed, checking back once to make sure the pages are safely hidden, and follow my mother from the room to assist with dinner. I’ve already lost my appetite.
* * *
My sister sits across from me at the table, her thin arms crossed over her chest. She glares at me, disturbed by my presence. No one has said a word since we sat down. My mother sets a plate of pork chops in the center of the table, the sweet scent of apples wafting up from the glaze that I helped her make. My father tells her it looks great, and stabs one with his fork to plop it onto his plate. Angie doesn’t make a move for the food. Neither do I.
Finally my sister groans and looks at my father. “You’re seriously going to let her stay?” she demands. My composure cracks, but I see my mother’s face twist with agony and pull it back. The last thing my mother wants is a reminder of how not happy our family really is.
My father doesn’t react so abruptly, though. He folds his hand in front of him, looking kindly at my sister. “Angie,” he starts, but she’s already scoffing.
“You always liked her better,” she says bitterly, tossing her napkin onto the table. “You even like her impostor better.”
“Angela!” he snaps, his booming voice sucking the air of the room. My sister wilts under his authority, and even my pulse has skyrocketed. A moment passes, and my father unfolds his hands, seeming to know the effect of his tone. “This is part of the process,” he says in a quieter voice. “You haven’t been here.” He meets her eyes, and I observe their interaction, tense but ultimately concerned for each other. “We’re suffering,” he says, cracking over the words. “And having . . . your sister here is helping.”
Angie flinches as if he’s slapped her. She leans in to the table, her eyes wild. “That is not my sister,” she says. “She’s a counselor, or an actor, or God knows what. You bought her,” she says, shooting me a hateful glare. “And if you and Mom don’t realize how twisted that is, then you really do need to be in therapy.”
“Angela,” my mother scolds. “How dare . . .” But she can’t finish her sentence. She dissolves into tears and covers her face with her hands. I immediately reach for her and my sister jumps up so quickly, I think she might attack me.
“Stay away from her!” she shouts, rounding the table to stand next to my mother. She puts her arm around her and my mother turns her face in to Angie’s side, sobbing. My father is quiet, staring down at his food.
But I’m hurting too. I feel my own body weaken with the rejection and hatred. There’s a flicker of recognition in Angie’s eyes when she looks over at me, like maybe she’s almost sorry. I’m numb as I stand from my spot at the table.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, and leave the family to their misery. They’ve filled me up with it, and I need a minute to process. I walk straight out of the room and through the kitchen and out the patio doors.
* * *
Michelle Blake was fourteen years old when she fell down an old well shaft. Her family’s property was a sprawling acreage just outside of Salem, and they ended up suing the former owners for not disclosing the hazard when they purchased the home. The girl’s body had gotten lodged only two feet below the opening, just close enough that her parents could reach and stroke her hair while they waited for the fire department and ambulance. Michelle had died instantly, though, so she didn’t suffer. That was all saved for her parents. Normally those sorts of grizzly details would have been left out, but Michelle’s older sister felt it was her duty to inform me of everything. She was the one who had convinced her parents to contact the department in the first place, concerned for their well-being.
She was right to be worried. Her dad attempted suicide the night before I got there. Marie almost called off the entire assignment, but my father assured us that we would be saving the family. Andrew Blake was still in the hospital when I arrived, so I spent the first day with my mother and sister. They were both very helpful and kind, and I quickly diagnosed that my father was the one with symptoms of complicated grief. I gave the family instructions on what to look out for, how to redirect. Technically, it wasn’t my job to advise them, but it helped pass the time.
When Andrew returned, everyone in the house was working toward his well-being. His recovery was swift, and even his wife said she found peace when I was around. In the end I redirected them to their daughter Hailey, helped them rebuild their family structure around her while still honoring Michelle.
I liked Hailey. She was a sister to me. Somewhere in my room at home in Corvallis, there’s a picture of Michelle and Hailey, sitting together on a porch swing. I took it from one of the photo albums stacked under the entertainment center of the Blake house. I haven’t looked at it in a while, but I used to when I first came back. It reminded me of the time I spent with my sister and mother, and how we worked together. There was a camaraderie there built on love and trust. I needed a little bit of that in my life.
And so my thoughts turn to Hailey now as I sit on the porch steps, hugging my knees to my chest. I’ve never had a real sibling. Not sure it would have worked anyway. Would my father have turned us both into closers? Would it have been cruel to only have one, while the ot
her lived a full life? I feel a wave of homesickness, but not for my actual home. That place is so familiar it feels manufactured. Unlived—especially in comparison to this one.
This is a home . . . and I already miss it. I think back to gardening with my mother and practicing batting with my father. I’m just starting to feel better when the sliding glass doors open.
I turn and see my father, his large mass blocking out the light of the kitchen. His face is a silhouette, and I have a sudden fear that he’s here to ask me to leave. Please, no.
“Hey, kid,” he says. I sway, relieved by his approach, the warmth in his voice. As he sits down, I consider my reaction when he first came out. How much I really didn’t want to leave. It’s disconcerting to say the least—my attachment. “You okay?” he asks.
He sits on the porch step next to me, and I turn to him, suddenly feeling like a child. I nod. “Yeah. Just . . .” I’m not sure how honest I should be. I’ve never had this much negative interaction while on assignment—maybe it’s that the scale of this one is bigger, but the constant barrage of insults is weighing on me. “It just hurts my feelings,” I say, wincing once I do. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says, turning to face the woods beyond the house. “You’re a human being. I can’t imagine the pressure you live with.” He looks sideways at me. “Can’t imagine a parent who would let you take that much on your shoulders, but I’m not here to judge you or them.” He nods, lowering his head. I’m no longer in character, but I think I’m the one he wants to talk to.
“I know why you’re here,” he continues. “And to be frank, I’m grateful. I like having you around. I think the toughest part of losing my little girl was the silence left behind in the house, the damned quiet.” His voice tightens, and he struggles with the start of tears. “You’ve made noise, taken up the empty space. You’ve breathed life in the empty hole that was left behind, and for that, I thank you.”
My own tears match his, and I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “You have a beautiful family,” I say. My father bites down on his lip, his bushy mustache overtaking his mouth. He then smiles painfully at me.