The Epidemic (7 page)

I head toward an outdoor mall, and although most of the stores are still closed, there’s a small food court in a center building where several groups of people are hanging around the coffee station. I spot a blond, plain-faced girl with a giant bag over her shoulder, which I assume, judging by the size, is carrying all the essentials of her wardrobe. She looks college-age, maybe grabbing her coffee before class.

I watch her a moment as she talks on the phone, laughing at something, crinkling her nose a moment later. I make sure no one is watching, and then I mimic her. The left side of her
lip goes crooked when she talks, like it’s hitched up on a tooth. It’s cute. I imagine it’s a quirk her friends like about her.

She flips her hair over her shoulder and sets her bag on the counter. There are other people around her, but not too close. She’s talking on her phone, essentially shutting down possible conversations with others. Her hair’s longer than mine, so I’ll need extensions. Other than that, she will be easy to copy.

I check around one last time and then start in her direction, taking a spot next to her at the counter, pretending to wait for a coffee. She glances over at me, uninterested, and turns away.

“Then he’s an idiot,” she says into the phone. “Tell him . . .”

I tune her out and use my peripheral vision to make sure no one is looking at me. I lean forward and slide my hand into her bag. For a moment I panic, thinking it’s too stuffed with random objects, but my hand touches what feels like a wallet, and I take it out. It’s small, black leather, and I close my hand around it. I slip it into my pocket, swing around, and start walking away, all in a smooth movement.

When I get to the other side of the coffee kiosk, I open the wallet and remove her driver’s license and a credit card. I won’t have much time to use it before she cancels it, so I’ll have to make arrangements quickly. When I have what I need, I set the wallet on the counter near the register while the barista is taking an order.

“Someone forgot this,” I mumble, not making eye contact. The barista thanks me, and I quickly escape into the main hallways. It’s a pain in the ass losing your wallet, and the girl will
think she just forgot it at the register when she starts looking for it. Still . . . I feel awful for taking it. If I weren’t desperate, I wouldn’t even dream of it. Then again, the real me might be a complete kleptomaniac—who knows? I could be anything.

The thought hardens my purpose, and once I’m out of view of the kiosk, I look down at the ID I took. The girl’s name is Elizabeth Major, and she’s eighteen. It’s perfect, really. Well suited for my purposes. I examine her picture and touch my own hair, missing the length I once had. Back when I knew who I was.

I slip the ID and the credit card into my pocket. I use the phone to look up the closest beauty supply store and fine one nearby that’s open. It’s time for a makeover.

*  *  *

It was just over a year ago that I was sitting in Deacon’s bedroom, watching him pose in front of the mirror after his own makeover. He’d shaved his brown hair and dyed it blond. He wore black-rimmed glasses, and he turned his head from side to side, changing his facial expressions. He was going on assignment the next day: Kyle Kelsey, a sixteen-year-old in Springfield who had been killed in a farming accident. Deacon had already nailed down the voice thanks to Kyle’s extensive video journaling, but he hadn’t figured out his smile yet.

“You look hot in glasses,” I called to him. I sat cross-legged on his bed while he stood in front of the mirror that was balanced on his dresser, examining himself.

“Hot, you say?” Deacon looked over, posing again just for me. I was definitely a fan.

I sat up on my knees and motioned for him to come over. He moved like he was about to, but then stopped and held up his hand. “You are an amazing distraction, Quinlan,” he told me. “But I have to figure this guy out.” He turned away and studied his reflection once again. “And the second I do, I’m going to tear off my clothes and let you ravish me.”

I laughed and fell back against his pillows, smiling madly as I watched him. I didn’t want to admit that I was consumed with all things Deacon, but it seemed okay because, although he never outright told me, I knew he felt the same.

“I swear,” I said, looking up at his ceiling, “I think my father schedules our assignments in a way to keep us apart.”

“What are you talking about?” Deacon asked. “We’re still partners—we talk during the assignments.”

“True,” I admit. “But not as ourselves.” I look over. “I’ll be talking to a version of Kyle Kelsey this weekend.”

Deacon let out a deep sigh and finally turned to me. He reached up to touch the corner of his glasses. “On or off?” he asked.

“Off.”

He took off the glasses, and his shirt, and came over to the bed to lie down on his stomach. I immediately turned, and I ran my fingernails down his back as he rested his chin on his folded forearms, seeming lost in thought.

“Then let’s stop,” he said quietly. “How long can we really stand this anyway?”

I leaned in and kissed his shoulder before resting my cheek there and closing my eyes.

“We’ll quit after this one,” he said.

“You say that every time,” I told him. “But we never do. It’s a lot easier to say when your father isn’t your boss.”

Deacon shifted in the bed and moved over. We lay on our sides, facing each other. His soft brown eyes met my gaze. “Your dad may not be related to me, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have the same control. Nothing’s easy for a closer,” he told me. “Nothing easy but us. This.” Deacon leaned in and kissed me.

But Deacon was wrong about us. Eventually we became difficult and complicated. He failed me when I needed him, abandoned me more than once. And worst of all, I’m not sure why.
Why
he would conspire against me. If I get more answers, maybe that one will finally become clear.

As I poke through the different hair extensions in the back aisle of the supply store, looking for the one closest to my color, all I can think about is Deacon. And how much I hate him because of how much I love him.

And when I have to sniffle back my emotions, I brush aside thoughts of him, too. I grab the blond extensions and head to the makeup section. I end up spending another forty dollars in cash on makeup and brushes because Elizabeth Major’s face has subtle differences I’ll have to create. And although I can’t mimic her turned tooth, I can copy the way she compensates for it.

I leave the store and head to the nearest gas station and ask to use the bathroom. Once inside the small, dingy space, I take out the license and prop it up on the backsplash of the sink. I
examine the picture. Our eye color is more or less the same, so that’s a plus. I didn’t buy any contacts.

I open the concealer and cover my freckles first. Once I’m a blank canvas, I begin to change the shape of my features with the stroke of a brush: widen my lips, play down my cheekbones.

I finish the makeup and then take the extensions out of the bag and comb through them with my fingers. I reach under my hair and snap them in, immediately hating how they feel. At least the ones Marie uses are expensive—better quality. I comb the extensions out and change my hair part to match Elizabeth’s.

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.