The Epidemic (3 page)

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 either. 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.”

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.

“What about you?” August asks, glancing over at me. “What have you done since? Have you been busy
being
other people?”

“Yeah,” I say, looking at the sidewalk beneath my boots as I walk. “A lot of them, I guess. I’ve lost count. The last one . . .” I stop myself. Now is not the time to overshare. “The last one finished my contract,” I lie, looking over. “I’m a regular person again.”
Or for the first time.

“Eh.” August shrugs. “Being regular isn’t all that great.” He watches me a long moment and smiles broadly. “Man, Eva is going to love this. She looked into becoming a closer, you know.”

“What happened?” I ask. “Did she apply?”

“Nah. The statistics scared her. Some of you can’t hack it, end up hospitalized . . . or at least that’s what the local paper reported.”

I widen my eyes. “The paper wrote about us?”

“An op-ed,” August says. “It was tucked in the back of the paper, but Eva found it. The paper never followed up. I used to joke that the grief department probably whacked the journalist and covered it up. Either way,” he continues, “Eva will be excited to meet you. You’re way better than the stray dog I brought in last week.”

I laugh. “Well, I do have all of my shots.”

“That’s good. Although I’m not sure Eva does.”

We continue on, and after a strenuous trip uphill, August pauses in front of a two-story, ramshackle house lit up under the streetlamp. The paint on the shutters is peeling, and the porch pitches dramatically to the left. Despite its condition, it’s kind of cute. There’s a flower planter outside the second-story window with petals that glow orange in the low light.

“Having second thoughts?” August asks.

“No,” I tell him honestly, “I think it’s nice. It looks lived in.”

He smiles. “Now, that is such a closer thing to say. Come on.” He hops off his bike and bumps it up the stairs before stashing it in the corner of the porch. I’m nervous, but excited
for something different. I want to be a part of society. I’m sick of being an outcast.

The door is unlocked, and August leads me inside to a small, split-level foyer. We start up the staircase; it’s dark even when August flips on the light. I follow him toward the door at the top. He knocks once to announce our arrival and walks in.

I step in just behind him, immediately comforted by the colorful tapestries tacked to the wall and the mishmash of thrift-store furniture. In a way it reminds me of Marie’s apartment. The cluttered residence of my advisor was a touchstone for my real life—or at least what I thought was my real life. Despite the lies she told me, I long for her now: her trusted advice, her confidence. But she’s a liar, and I quickly squash the nostalgia I’ve dredged up.

August reaches behind me to close the door, and thankfully, he doesn’t lock it. He pulls off his flannel—he’s wearing a white T-shirt underneath—and tosses it on top of a cluttered table.

I look around the meager apartment, no stray animals in sight. In the next room I find a girl on the couch, legs crisscrossed in front of her. She leans forward to stare at me. Her already-big eyes widen impossibly large; her fake lashes are painted to points like she’s an anime character. Her brown hair is shaved in a buzz cut, but she wears a headband with a pretty pink bow.

“Eva,” August says, dropping into what looks like a curb-rescue recliner. “This is the closer.”

I flinch internally, wishing to be introduced as something else.
Someone
else. But I don’t know who I am yet.

August purses his lips and turns to look at me. “Actually,” he says, shaking his head as if just realizing, “what
is
your name?”

“Brooke,” I answer, calling up the first name that doesn’t immediately relate back to a case. I turn to Eva. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say before August can ask about my last name. “And I’m not a closer anymore,” I clarify.

Eva stares at me for a long moment, and just when I think she’s going to ask me to leave, she laughs loudly, filling up the whole room. “This is so fucking awesome!” she calls out, startling me. She pats the couch cushion beside her. “Sit here. I want to know
everything
.”

I take a seat on the patterned sofa next to Eva and set my bag of items on the floor next to my feet. Eva leans forward to grab a glass of soda from the dusty trunk they use for a coffee table. I feel suddenly warm in my layers of clothes. I take off my jacket and fold it in my lap.