It’s probably why he hated Deacon so much when we broke up. He saw that Deacon had the power to affect me too. My father had lost a bit of his hold on me. Could have been why he let Deacon out of his contract early, in the hopes of keeping us apart.
My father didn’t count on the fact that I have power over myself. I’ve been doing this long enough to understand my emotions now, to be fully self-aware. He won’t get inside my head again. I won’t let him.
Headlights illuminate the windows, and I sit up with a start as a car pulls into my driveway. My heart beats frantically, but I take a breath, reminding myself that I have to keep cool. I can’t show him any weakness.
The front door opens, and my father rushes in, stopping when his shoes crunch on shards of broken glass. “Quinlan!” he yells, stricken with worry.
I don’t move. I sit half in the dark, staring straight at him. He sets his briefcase near the door and shrugs out of his coat, examining the mess of frames on the floor. He glances toward the staircase.
“Quinn?” he shouts.
“I’m here, Dad,” I say calmly.
He spins, startled, and clutches his chest. “My God,” he says. “You scared me.” He comes into the room, squinting his eyes in the low light. He stops at the lamp and clicks it on. “Deacon called me and said—” He abruptly stops when he sees me in the light.
I study every tic of his facial expressions. Flashes of worry, fear, realization. He tries to quickly cover it with parental concern, but I’ve already seen behind the curtain. I tilt my head to let him know I’m not here for his bullshit. When he still doesn’t budge, I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded copy of my death certificate. I toss it onto the coffee table between us, and my dad picks it up and opens it.
His throat clicks as he swallows, and then he drops onto the couch, devastated as he stares at the paper in his hands.
“Who am I?” I ask him. “Because obviously that’s not me.”
“You’re Quinlan McKee,” he says, but there’s no force behind the words. He lowers the paper onto his lap and takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. He slips the spectacles back on and looks at me. “You’re my daughter—”
“Don’t you dare!” I shout, kicking the table and startling him. “I read the file. Saw the video. I remember bits and pieces.” I grit my teeth, anger and hurt bubbling up. “You’re not my father, are you?”
He holds my eyes, refusing to answer. In his stubbornness I see a bit of myself. My personality that I’ve adapted because he’s been my father for the past eleven years. I wilt slightly, the enormity of his lie breaking my will to find out the truth. I still love him.
“Please,” I say, my voice a little weaker. “Please tell me.”
My dad looks down at the paper and clears the emotion from his throat. For the first time, I see how tortured he truly is. I don’t know how I haven’t seen it before, or maybe he’s brilliant at hiding it. But that death certificate is his truth tea.
“No,” he says quietly. “No, I’m not your father.”
I begin to shake, not my hands or feet. My insides tremble, my heart broken into a million pieces. There’s a quick flash of our lives, the times we’ve sat together laughing, moments when he held me while I cried. I don’t know when I lost the truth—how I became my assignment. But his love is all I’ve ever known. And it’s all been a lie. My whole life is a damn lie.
I feel I might throw up again, but I fight the sickness. I can’t walk away now and give him a chance to regroup. He’s too good. He’ll find a way to cover, make me believe his false truths.
“What happened to your real daughter?” I ask, the words painful to say. “The certificate only lists the cause of death as an accident.”
My father sits quietly for a long moment, and then he leans his head back against the cushion, staring up at the ceiling. “Quinlan died when she was six years old,” he says.
I flinch at the name not being attached to me. I’m betrayed by the sound of it. But I don’t interrupt. I need to know what happened. How I got here. And what this all means.
“Quinn and her mother were on their way to school,” he continues, “when a tractor trailer that had been clearing snowbanks swung out a little too far. My wife died on impact, but Quinn held on. She survived long enough to give me hope that she’d recover. Long enough for me to accept my wife’s death and pin all of my dreams on her broken little body.
“A month,” he says. “My little girl fought for a whole month. She never woke up, but I was there for every minute. I would sing to her and brush her hair and cut her nails. I would bend her legs so they didn’t grow too weak. I wanted her to be able to play again when she woke up. It didn’t matter that the doctors told me her spinal cord had been severed. I didn’t believe them. They also told me she wouldn’t survive the night, and there she was, four weeks later.”
My father looks at me, and I’m completely heartsick.
“I loved her more than I loved anything else in this world,” he says, “including myself. I would have given anything, anything possible, to keep her with me. She was my baby. She was my everything.
“It was late on a Sunday night when she died. Soundlessly, like she just drifted away on the wind. I heard the monitor, and I grabbed her and begged her to stay. I yelled and screamed and told her not to leave her daddy. But she couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it.
“When I finally left the room, Marie was sitting in the hallway in a chair they’d brought for her. She’d been my closest friend for years, longer than I even knew my wife. I told her Quinn was gone, and rather than crying like I knew she wanted to, she jumped up and grabbed me by the shoulders, looking me dead in the eyes.
“ ‘You’ll get through this, Tom,’ she said sternly. ‘This will not break you.’ But her fierce expression couldn’t last. Her lips began to quiver, and then we were a huddle of grief in the children’s hospital wing.”
I’m only human. Even through my anger, his grief is palpable. I have to fight back my sympathy, refusing to be weak in front him. “Where do I come into this story?” I ask.
“Marie,” he says. “She went to Arthur Pritchard and asked what could be done. I don’t know the details,” he tells me. “I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to be pulled from the illusion. Marie showed up with you seventy-two hours later, the third girl she tried. She never told me your real name.”
“She stole me from my family?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know where she found you. And I don’t know what Arthur Pritchard had to do with it—why you fit so well.” He presses his lips into a watery smile. “Although you won’t believe this,” he says, “I do love you, Quinn. I raised you. You’re my daughter.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say, fiercely. “My name’s not Quinn.”
“You can’t see this now, but there are bigger things happening, things I’ve tried to protect you from. Same with Marie.” He hesitates, but continues. “I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement—a pretty severe one—so I can’t give you more information. But I need you to know that the department doesn’t plan to let you walk away. They never did. They have custody of you until you’re eighteen, but even after that, they plan to transition you.”
“What?” I ask. “How is that—”
“You’re a ward of the state,” he says. “You all are.”
I don’t have a family, I think. I don’t belong to anybody. Maybe in some way I knew this. It could be why I’ve felt so lost, so alone. “And what the hell does the department plan to ‘transition’ me into?” I demand.
My father shakes his head. “That I don’t know. But I’ve tried to protect you, institute rules when I thought they would keep you safe. The department will keep pushing you as a closer. Find ways to make you agree. Marie was angry with me for letting you sign the latest contract, and when she found that you’re expected to sign the next one, she begged me to stop them. But I don’t h
ave that power.”
“Who does?”
“Arthur Pritchard, maybe. But he’s just one man. In the end, we’re at the mercy of a board of directors. A corporation.”
“Then what do you suggest?” I ask, even though he’s the last person I should be taking advice from. Guess it’s old habit.
“You should run,” he says. “Take whatever I have. It’s not much, but I can’t get your contract money, not without setting off red flags. I’m sorry I failed you.”
I can leave it all behind, leave the department, my father . . . if I can still call him that. I’m a danger to everyone around me—a bargaining chip the department could use against them. I’ll have to leave everything behind. Even Deacon. Especially Deacon.
Scared, paranoid, I stand, grabbing my bag and pulling it over my shoulder. My father quickly takes out his wallet and hands it to me. “There’s isn’t much,” he says. “The credit cards will give you a head start, though. Take out a cash advance, the pin number is our address. I won’t report them stolen, but when you don’t show up at Marie’s for debriefing, then—”
“Marie’s gone,” I tell him. “Aaron, too.”
He rocks back, absorbing this information. “Oh. That’s good, I suppose.”
His most trusted confidant left him without a word. If there’s anyone who knows what it feels like to be alone, he’s sitting right in front of me. I take his wallet and stuff it into my bag. Before he got here, I dreamed of telling him to rot in hell. Telling him I don’t need anything from him—he’s done enough. But I can’t erase the time I’ve spent here, the love I have for him. Even if I hate him right now.
And the truth is I’m terrified of being on my own. I know how to assimilate, how to blend in. But I’m not going to live some quiet life in the country. I’m going to find Virginia Pritchard. And after I talk to her, if I can talk to her, I’m going straight to her father for answers. But I can’t do any of that without money.
I readjust my bag and glance around the living room, the one that’s looked exactly the same my entire life, to always remind me. Remind me that I’m real. But even that was a forgery. It’s the most devastating feeling in the world. Knowing that I don’t exist. I died when I was six years old.
My heart is heavy as I walk to the front door, my boots cracking the glass on the floor. Just as I reach out for the door handle, I hear my father’s voice.
“You were always my daughter,” he says. “I know you’re hurt right now; you have every right to be. But I do love you. I swear to you I do.”
I flinch with grief, but force my face straight and turn to look back at him, watch as he bites hard on his lip to hold in his cry. The man I’ve known only as my father. How many times has he wanted to tell me the truth? To tell me about his real daughter?
And I realize that if I wanted to, I could give my father closure. He’s never had to accept the loss of Quinlan McKee until right now. I can make it easier, tell him it’ll be okay. Tell him I forgive him. A good person would forgive him.
I’m not that good.
“You’re not my father,” I say instead, bitter. Hurt. He dissolves, but before I have to listen to his cries, I walk out the front door into the cool night. I pull out the keys to my car, knowing I’ll leave it at the bus station. I don’t want to be tracked. I’ll find Virginia. Last Aaron heard, she was in Roseburg. So I guess that’s where I’ll start.
I shiver once in the cold and then tighten my coat around me. I look back at my house and worry briefly how my father will get along without me. But then I remind myself about what he’s done and harden my heart against him. Promising to never let him in again. Refuse to give him any more power over me.
I head toward my car, my expression stoic. I know now why I always felt so alone. It’s because I always was.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I’VE TAKEN FIVE HUNDRED OFF each of my father’s credit cards. I bought a bus ticket to Roseburg, and at a pay phone I called Deacon—leaving him a message when he didn’t answer. I didn’t tell him where I was, but I did tell him the truth. I’m not Quinlan McKee; I’m her closer.
It hurt to recite it, even in a condensed version. But in a way, I’m glad Deacon didn’t answer. I might not have told him if he did. Unable to speak the horrible words. Unable to say good-bye to him.
The bus rolls up—a picture of the Oregon Zoo painted on its side—and I wince as the brakes squeal and hiss in front of the station. People around me on the benches get up and clamor for a spot in line, but I hang back, afraid of the next step.
“So you’re going to leave it all behind?” a voice asks. I smile, turning slowly. Deacon stands away from the crowd, his face blotchy red like his emotions have gotten the best of him. My stomach does a little somersault, and I try to hide just how thrilled I am to see him. I try—but I’ve never been able to keep secrets from him.
“That was the plan,” I say. He hikes his duffel bag onto his shoulder, and I glance at it before looking at him questioningly. He shrugs.
“I figured,” he says. “The bus station was a lucky guess.”
“And what does that mean for you? What’s your plan, Deacon?” I ask, moving over on the bench so he can sit next to me. At first he studies me with his careful gaze—assessing me like an advisor. He darts a look at the bracelet Isaac gave me, the delicate silver snug against my skin, and then Deacon meets my eyes with an expression that’s completely open.
“To be with you,” he says in a low voice.
No matter what Deacon and I have been through, it always seems to come back to this. The fact that we just can’t stay away from each other. I consider all of the baggage Deacon will have to deal with. How the department will come after him now. Use him as leverage against me.
“I’m not good for you,” I tell him.
Deacon doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t care.”
“You’re not good for me,” I say instead.
“I know,” he responds. “But I could be.”
I close my eyes, the words hurting me with their possibilities. But I don’t think he truly understands my situation. “We don’t make sense anymore, Deacon,” I say, looking up at him again. “I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not even Quinlan McKee.”
“I heard your message,” he says. “But that doesn’t matter to me. Because wherever we are, whoever we are—we always make sense. I think we’re the only things that make total fucking sense. We belong together.” He says it like it’s a fact, an unchangeable part of this world. And even if I didn’t agree, it wouldn’t change how he felt.
What Deacon doesn’t realize, or maybe he does, is that those words are the ones I’ve wanted to hear. Ever since I was a child, I’ve wanted to belong to somebody. I could always take care of myself; that wasn’t the problem. But to have a real family, people invested in your outcome, well, that’s something completely different. I wanted to be loved. I accepted my father’s lies because I wanted it so much. I don’t know what happened to me before I was left at the McKee house. But I’ll find out. I have to.
“I don’t even really exist,” I murmur, the familiar hurt crawling up my throat. I look at Deacon. “I don’t even know my real name.”
Deacon lowers his bag and sits on the bench, his shoulder against mine as he stares toward the bus. “You exist,” he says in a low voice. “Quinlan, you take up my whole world. I assure you, you exist.”
My heart hurts, a deep ache that’s been caused by loss and lies. And although I’m brave, I’m not sure I’m brave enough to walk away from this. I love Deacon too much. “We’re both coldhearted closers,” I whisper. “How do we keep from hurting each other again?”
“We try really hard.”
He turns to me, all of his beautiful parts combining in my favorite way. He’s both friend and more. I think there’s no way I can lose myself again so long as Deacon’s with me. He’s my touchstone. My tether.
“I love you,” I say, not caring if he ever says it back.
&
nbsp; Deacon lips pull into a slow smile. “Can I kiss your face now?” he asks.
I laugh, and my heart is full, my loneliness abating. “Yeah,” I say. “You definitely should.” He sighs, relieved, and leans in to press his mouth to mine. Kisses me sweetly. Lovingly.
The driver steps off the bus and makes the last call for passengers. Deacon and I pull apart slightly, but my fingers clutch his shirt to keep him close. “You sure you want to come with me?” I ask Deacon, motioning to the bus. I’m scared of his answer. I’m asking him to leave it all behind too—his entire life. His future. But without a moment of thought, Deacon kisses me again, this time more fiercely, passionately.
When we stand up a moment later, he takes my hand as we walk to board the bus. He gives me a look that says, This is not friend hand-holding, and I laugh. We make our way down the aisle, and the air is stuffy and tinged with the smell of sweat, but we find two seats together in the middle of the bus. I push in toward the window and drop my bag on the floor. Deacon does the same and then unzips his bag to pull out a package of Twizzlers (for me) and earbuds (for him). The windows rattle as the bus pulls away from the station.
We’ll have to find a new home, but I don’t even know what that means anymore. For the past eleven years I’ve been an experiment, a homegrown remedy created by my father and Arthur Pritchard. I want to know who I was, where he found me. But first I’ll have to find Virginia Pritchard and discover her role in all of this. And then I’m going after her father.
As if sensing my swirling thoughts, Deacon takes my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine again. Warmth floods me, and I give his hand a reassuring squeeze. Then I open the package of Twizzlers and pass him one.