The moment I exit the bathroom, I put the hat on my head and push my arms into the sleeves of the jacket. I pop the collar for more coverage. My steps are fast, but not fast enough to arouse notice. Another corridor is coming up, and I continue to take over other people’s walking paths. Just before I turn, I glance up to the mirror perched in the corner of the ceiling. I look toward the food court, and sure enough I find Deacon standing facing my direction, brow furrowed as he looks around, his hands folded behind his head as he searches. He knows that something is wrong. He feels it. The woman from the bus is nowhere in sight. And I realize that I could have been wrong about her; she could have nothing to do with the grief department. But there’s no time to think.
I quickly dart around the corner and head for the exit. I’m careful not to look panicked, just hurried. I can’t check back to see if Deacon’s following me, so I stick to the wall. The sliding doors of the exit come into view. It’s started to rain, and I say a quiet thank-you. It’ll be harder to find me this way.
I walk purposefully toward the sliding glass doors of the exit. The minute I’m outside, I pull my hood over the baseball cap, acceptable fashion while in the rain, and walk down the curb until I see a cab. I put out my hand, careful to keep my face turned from the doors in case Deacon walks out here. A cab stops, and I’m nearly out of breath as I get inside. I lock the door, and the cabdriver lifts his dark eyes to mine in the rearview mirror.
“Corner of Fifth and Pearl, please,” I say, and sit back, sinking down slightly. The man shifts into gear, but keeps his foot on the brake and turns to look at me. “You know that’s just a few blocks from here, right?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, although I had forgotten. “But it’s raining and I’m in a hurry.” Each second the driver delays, the closer Deacon gets to finding me.
The man shrugs. “It’s your money.” He eases off the brake and pulls into the street.
Once we’re moving, I check the mirror on the passenger side for Deacon’s reflection. I watch until the bus station fades from view, and when it’s gone completely, I hurt more than ever.
I’m all alone.
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN I WAS A LITTLE girl, A Doctor brought me to a man who’d just lost his child. This man, my eventual father, was suffering from the death of his wife and daughter. I should have been a temporary relief from grief, but Dr. Arthur Pritchard had different plans for me. He let my father keep me and raise me as his dead daughter. I was brainwashed to believe it—although I don’t know how.
For years after, the grief department employed me, teaching me ways to adjust my personality to suit their clients. With the exception of my last assignment, the one that changed things, I was always able to adapt. But I fell in love with a family and lost myself. I was almost gone completely.
As I sit in the backseat of the taxi, I push up my sleeve and stare down at the gold bracelet around my wrist. I trace my finger along the delicate band, determined to keep my mind clear this time. Isaac Perez, the boyfriend of my last assignment, gave me this bracelet. During my time with him, we crossed a few lines, made it all too real. It nearly destroyed me. But in the end Isaac found closure, and he gave this to me as a gift. And right now it adds to my strength. It resets me in my purpose.
Despite my fear of the grief department, I have to find Arthur Pritchard and demand he tell me who I really am. I won’t leave until he does. And while he’s at it, he can tell me what the grief department wants with me—what they’re really doing there. My father warned me that Arthur doesn’t have much clout there anymore, saying a board of directors has taken over. But Arthur created the department; I have to believe he knows how to stop them too. I just want a life that’s my own. I want the truth.
The cabdriver pulls to the corner of Pearl and Fifth and bumps the curb, startling me from my thoughts. My head is a mess. In the last forty-eight hours I’ve lost my identity, my family, my friends. Even Deacon. It’s hard to keep on a mask of calm when I lean forward and ask the driver how much.
The guy swings his arm over the seat as he turns back to look at me. “Five fifty, sweetheart,” he says, prickling my nerves. I fish out a ten from my pocket and tell him to keep the change.
I lower my hood and climb out of the cab, glad when it drives away; the smell of pine air freshener is still in my nose. The rain is barely a drizzle now, and I glance around, trying to reacquaint myself with the surroundings of the area. Things have changed since the last time I was here, updates to the two-story market next to the light-rail tracks.
The building has a brick façade and lush flower baskets hinting at its charm. There’s a restaurant with a covered patio out front, twinkling white lights on its posts, and the smell of grilled food thick in the air. Now that I’m out of immediate danger, even the horror and anxiety of the day isn’t enough to cover the fact that I haven’t eaten since this morning.
I walk over to scan the restaurant menu at the front desk, but the dinners are overpriced, so I head into the indoor market and glance at the stores. There’s a candy shop, and I slip inside and buy a handful of chocolates and a lollipop for a dollar twenty-five. My nose twitches, and I notice a barrel of roasted almonds. My eyes start to itch with allergies, and I thank the woman behind the counter before fleeing for another area of the market.
I stop by the food court and buy a rice bowl with avocado. I gulp it down, and when I’m done eating, I wander over to a bench near the center fountain. I sit and pull my legs up to wrap my arms around them, resting my chin on my knees. I eat the chocolates I bought earlier, saving the lollipop.
Deacon should be here, I think miserably as I crumple a candy wrapper in my hand. He should be here with me.
But he’s not here. I made sure of that.
I squeeze my eyes shut at the sudden hole in my chest. I didn’t even give Deacon a chance to explain. And now I’ve left him . . . again. What if I was wrong?
My breath catches on the start of a cry, but I force it down. I bury it. When it’s only a pinprick of agony, I open my eyes and steady my gaze on a flower pot across from the fountain.
What if I was right? Deacon himself would tell me to play it safe first. So I will. Even if it feels like I’ve ripped out my heart and left it on a bus to Roseburg.
I glance around at the shops, feeling suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am in public. Several of the stores start to lower their gates, and I take it as my cue to head back outside.
It’s not dark yet, but the rain has let up. The hazy evening reminds me of the times I’d sit on Deacon’s back porch, watching the sky clear. We would feel small; our problems as closers felt small. And the universe offers me that same small measure of comfort now.
* * *
I begin to walk, feeling contented by the slow pace of the town. Eugene houses the University of Oregon, but it’s still quiet here. Peaceful. I wouldn’t mind staying for a while, even though I know I can’t.
It’s when I cross into another neighborhood, still not having found a place to stay, that I remember a detail from when I was on assignment here. The Saunders family used to own a bike shop nearby. It’s past business hours by now, so I don’t have to worry about running into them—traumatizing them. But . . . they used to hide a key. Maybe it’s still there.
I continue down the road, and when I finally arrive at the store, the sky has dimmed considerably. The lights inside the bike shop are all off with the exception of a safety light behind the counter. I check that the street is empty, and then I round the brick building toward the back door.
There’s a rock in the garden trim that used to mark a hidden key, and I pick it up and dig into the mulch below. But the key is no longer there. I spend a few more minutes searching obvious areas but eventually resign myself to the fact that the family doesn’t leave the key to their business hidden in the back parking lot anymore.
It’s been years since I’ve been here, and it’s entirely possible that the Saunders family no longer owns
the business. But from what I remember, they were dedicated. The shop had been started by Mr. Saunders’s father, passed down through the family. I don’t think they’d walk away from that.
Frustrated, I set my dirty hands on my hips and look up at the overhead streetlamps illuminating the empty back lot. I only wanted a few hours of sleep; my head is foggy. My heart is broken. I’m completely overwhelmed, and I can’t hold back the wave of sadness that rushes over me. I’ve lost everything.
I slide down the locked door until I’m sitting on the ground, knees bent. I lower my head into my hands, about ready to fall apart completely. I’m worn down, but not like when I broke with reality the other day. This exhaustion is something different. Like a struggle to figure out how all my problems fit together, only I’m missing a piece.
I’ve felt this way before. It was about six months ago, a night I’d nearly forgotten about. I was at Aaron’s apartment, sitting on the couch with Deacon. We’d been broken up for nearly two months, and we were just starting to figure out what it meant to be forever friends with no other benefits.
“Come on, Quinn,” Deacon said from the other end of the couch while flashing that devastating smile. “Turn your frown upside down before I come over there and cheer you up.”
“I love that you think moving closer would make me happier,” I told him.
“Sassy,” he murmured, making me laugh.
Aaron was playing a video game while Myra was at the store buying alcohol with a fake ID she’d gotten from Deacon. Aaron and I were between assignments, and Deacon was enjoying his retirement from the grief department.
I felt emotionally bankrupt. My last assignment had been painful. I was still wearing the socks of the dead girl I’d been impersonating; I didn’t know why I’d taken them. They were a gift from her grandma, and I suppose it was because I’d never had a grandmother. Or maybe I just wanted those socks. Either way, I took them. I wore them.
But it didn’t explain the lost feeling still festering in my chest, as if something in me was missing. As if I’d changed.
“Quinlan,” Deacon said like he’d called me once already. It startled me and I looked over at him. His brown eyes narrowed with concern. “Are you okay?” he asked, all joking aside.
I ran my hand through my long blond hair, thinking over the question. “I’m not sure,” I said. Aaron stopped pressing the buttons on his game controller and turned to watch me. Deacon’s posture straightened.
“I’m . . .” I paused, and the best word I could think of was “lonely.” “I think I’m lonely, but it’s like I miss . . . myself.” And damn, once I said it, the force of the words hit me in the chest. The sense of loss was so heavy. It wasn’t grief; it was as if something had been taken from me, and it hurt. The feeling was disconcerting to say the least.
Deacon appeared immediately at my side and gathered me in a hug, probably thinking it was all about him. And even though it wasn’t, I rested against his chest and closed my eyes to listen to his heartbeat. I loved him so much, and for a moment I entertained the thought of letting his affection feed me—cure my loneliness. But I knew better. And so I pulled away, seeing his expression flicker with hurt before he could cover it up, and I looked at Aaron, who seemed ready to pounce if his worry got any deeper.
The front door opened, and Myra came in, holding a heavy-looking brown bag. She kicked the door shut with her foot. “Who wants a drink?” she called in her harsh voice.
And I was the first one up. “Me,” I said, and followed her into the kitchen, setting aside my loneliness and its forgotten reason.
The squeak of bicycle brakes and a scatter of gravel startles me from where I’m sitting against the shop door. My eyes fly open, and I find a stranger straddling the seat of his bike a few yards away. Although the light is dim, I see that he’s a little younger than me, with shoulder-length dark hair and a flannel shirt. He looks nonthreatening, but I’m careful nonetheless.
“Uh, can I help you?” the guy asks.
“No,” I respond quickly, and climb to my feet. I’m disheveled, and I use my fingers to poke my hair back under my hat. I lower my eyes, ready to disappear. “I was just leaving.” I’ve started to walk away when the guy laughs, loud and hearty. I glance back over my shoulder at him.
He rubs his palm over his chin. “Wasn’t trying to scare you off,” he says, smiling. “I’m August. And you are?”
“Does it matter?” I ask.
“Guess not,” he allows. “I can just call you Girl Lurking in the Shadows Looking to Break into My Uncle’s Shop.” He pauses. “But it’s a mouthful.”
“Your uncle?” I ask. I look him over again, to see if there’s any resemblance to Melanie’s family. Nothing immediately sticks out, but it was nearly four years ago.
“Unless,” August says, looking around dramatically, “you have a bike stashed that needs a new chain or something?”
I know I should leave, get out of here before he realizes who I am. Once a family has had a closer in their lives, they don’t forget it. But . . . I’m not a closer anymore. That should count for something. Feeling brave, I step toward him and take off my hat. The light from the streetlamp falls across my face. August gives a reflexive smile, but I watch it slowly fade.
“Wait,” he says, furrowing his brow as he thinks. “I know you.” He climbs off his bike and lays it on its side, approaching as he studies me. I feel it coming, and sure enough, I see his Adam’s apple bob as the realization falls over him. “You’re . . .” He takes a step back like I might hurt him. “You’re her,” August says, his expression calm but his voice pitched higher. “You’re the closer for Melanie.”
I only went out in public with the family once or twice. But he could have seen me. Could have seen pictures from a reenacted moment. And when you see a person acting as someone you know is dead, you don’t tend to forget their face. Only the clients can do that, and that’s because they’re sick with grief.
“I was a closer,” I admit, waiting for him to tear out of here or, worse, tell me I’m a monster. “But I don’t do that anymore,” I add, hoping it makes a difference.
August stares at me and then nods slowly. “That’s good, I guess,” he responds. “Because closers are creepy as fuck.”
My mouth flinches with a smile, even though I don’t think he’s joking. But it reminds me of something Deacon would say if he hadn’t been a closer himself. Even August’s brown eyes are the same shade as Deacon’s. Or maybe I just really want this guy to be Deacon right now.
“So what are you doing here, then?” August asks. “If my uncle sees you, he’ll—”
“I wasn’t sure where else to go. I thought maybe . . .” I shake my head, feeling stupid. “I don’t know what I thought. I’m leaving town tomorrow anyway. I’ll probably just go to a motel.”
August seems to think this over, and then he scrunches up his nose like he has a horrible idea. “I’m heading back to my house,” he says tentatively. “If you don’t have a place to go . . . you can come with. My roommate’s cool. I’m sure Eva will have a million questions for you. Closers fascinate her.”
“Roommate?” I ask. “You don’t live at home?”
“Nope,” he responds. “Not anymore. I’ve been on my own for over a year.”
It would be dumb to go with him, but his tiny show of damage makes me trust him—as if we have it in common. But I hesitate. People are hostile toward closers: We make them confront mortality. We prove they’re replaceable, even if only for a short time. The bruise on my cheek from when I was punched by my last assignment’s best friend has barely faded. I touch the spot, worried I could be walking into something worse.
“Look,” August says. “Eva’s my roommate. We have a shitty house near campus that never warms up and has a constant stream of stray dogs that we rehome. I promise we’re not stranglers. I can call her first if you want. Make sure it’s cool.”
Fact is, I do want to go. Not just because it’s a hiding place eithe
r. I want to hang out with regular people, not people who spend their lives as others. I miss my time with Aaron, Deacon, and Myra, but there’s something to be said for being normal. I had that for a little while on my last assignment, and I’m craving it now. I’m craving a chance to be myself—not as a closer, but as a girl starting over. A girl without a name of her own.
I want to figure out who I am. I want to get to know me. And I’ll never figure that out surrounded by a bunch of fakers.
“Would your roommate have to know who I am?” I ask August. “Do you have to tell her?”
He waits a painfully long moment and then shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “I wouldn’t bring a closer into our house without telling her.”
Although he says them kindly, his words sting. Not even a week ago, when I was Catalina, Isaac brought me to meet his friend Jason. When Jason found out who I was, what I was, he wasn’t kind. He acted as if I were an infection. A disease. A monster. At least August knows who I am already. I won’t have to worry about being discovered.
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Thank you.” I wait while he takes out his phone, turns away from me, and talks in a low voice to the person on the other end. He laughs.
“I swear,” he says. He glances back over his shoulder at me. “No, she looks cool. All right. See you in a few.” August puts his phone away and smiles. “Eva is totally stoked. You ready?”
I say a silent prayer that I’m not about to get murdered, and then nod my head. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER THREE
I WALK BESIDE AUGUST AS he rides his bike in the street. He stands on his pedals, swerving back and forth along the pavement to keep his balance. He tells me about his uncle and how after I’d given them closure, the family started doing better. That they even had another child. I’m glad—glad the family is okay. It sets me at ease, proving it wasn’t all a waste. I gave them peace. Now if only I could find a bit of my own.