The Epidemic (2 page)

“Sorry,” he tells her. “We’re all packed in here pretty tight.” I don’t turn back to them, but I read people’s reactions for a living: I hear the annoyance in Deacon’s voice, and I can only hope he doesn’t know her. Hope that he’s not trying to hand me over to the very people we’re running from. I can’t believe he ever would.

Stop,
I think, forcing myself cold. I can’t let my love for him blind me. I have to get somewhere safe. The stakes are too high to take a chance. Even on Deacon.

I stare ahead until I notice a frail older woman two rows up. She huffs out in pain, trying to lift her bag with one hand while balancing herself with her cane. I narrow my eyes, and when it’s clear no one else plans to help her, I elbow my way past the businessman in her direction.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I have to help her.”

The man nods as the crowd ahead of the old woman thins—he doesn’t want to hold up the line. I stop next to the woman and look down.

“Do you want me to grab that for you?” I ask.

She looks me over and then smiles kindly, the wrinkles around her bright blue eyes deepening. “Why, thank you, honey.” She steadies herself on her cane, leaving her small suitcase behind for me to grab.

She starts down the aisle, and I turn to find Deacon watching me, a soft smile on his lips—as if my kindness impresses him. I nod toward the window to say I’ll meet him outside. He looks oblivious to my true intentions, and I give myself one last chance to back out. To ask for his help. But then I catch a glimpse of the woman just behind him. There’s a flicker of panic in her expression. I have no choice but to run.

I let the part of me that loves Deacon desperately drain away; I feel it flow down my arms and legs, out my fingers and toes. And I turn, cold and empty—ready to take on whatever identity I want—and start down the aisle behind the old woman. I thought this was the beginning of something new. Getting answers to my past, starting a life with Deacon. But now I know I’ll have to find the truth on my own. I am the only person I can trust. There is no time for sentimentality.

Disappearing should be easy for me, but with Deacon, someone deft at recreating himself and blending in, it won’t be that simple. I mentally tick off the items I have at my disposal. I still have my father’s credit cards, which I can probably use at least once more before they’re reported stolen. Also in my backpack is a change of clothes, the DVD that Marie left me, and some cash. Nothing that can actually help me disguise myself, though. I look out the window at the bus station.

I’m in Eugene,
I think.
And once upon a time I played a dead girl here.

Melanie Saunders was fourteen when she died in a car accident. She lived in a charming area of older homes, and her
parents were understandably devastated. She was an only child, and I remember hoping they’d have another when I left. They were good people.

My memory of the area hasn’t completely faded, and I’m sure if I go downtown, I can find a place to hide. Regroup and flee in the morning. Deacon will assume I’m leaving immediately—why would I stay? I hope the grief department draws the same conclusion.

Now I just have to slip away.

I walk down the steep bus stairs and set the small suitcase in front of the old woman. She starts to say thank you, but I slide past her and walk swiftly toward the building. I’m nearly to the door when I hear Deacon call my name. I flinch, but I reach for the handle anyway. I have only seconds, and as I step over the threshold into the building, I know I’ve just changed everything.

Now it’s time to be smart. I’ll have to be smarter than the entire grief department. But first I have to be smarter than Deacon.

I walk calmly toward the restrooms. I don’t look back—never look back when trying to disappear. I scan the crowd as I slip in and out of people’s way, making it a point to shift into their space so that they have to step aside. I take over their walking path. It helps me become invisible, like the sleight of hand a magician might use when hiding a rubber ball under a shell.

I step in front of a mom with a wiggling toddler on her hip,
murmuring a quiet apology, and after a few feet I walk in front of a man in a business suit who’s talking on his cell phone. My movements are smooth and rapid. I see an older woman heading toward the restroom, and I stand at her side, blocking the view of me from the back entrance.

Once inside the bathroom, I pause. A thick floral scent hangs in the air, and the constant sound of flushing toilets and hand dryers is exactly the kind of white noise that keeps people distracted. I go to stand near the baby changing station and slip off my backpack. I’ll have to leave it. I take off my sweater and pull out my favorite hoodie. I grab a fresh plastic bag from the changing station and throw in my Rolling Stones T-shirt, the DVD from my file, and a few pairs of underwear and some basic toiletries. Once done, I drop my backpack and sweater into the trash. No one notices me.

I glance at my reflection, and emotions try to fight their way out, but I lock them away. Not now. Not here. I take the hair tie from my pocket and scrape my hair into a barely enough ponytail, disguising the pale blond color. I look sideways at the woman washing her hands two sinks down. She has a baseball cap snapped onto the handle of her suitcase. Near the door someone has left her denim jacket on the counter as she uses the restroom.

I hate the thought of stealing. Sure, when I was a closer, I would take . . . a souvenir from my assignment’s house: a shirt, a necklace. But that was different—she was dead. Now it feels like stealing. But it’s my way out of here.

In a swift motion I start toward the door. As I pass the woman at the sink, I reach down and unclip the back of her baseball hat and slip it under my hoodie without missing a step. I keep walking and casually pick up the jacket as if it were mine all along. Again—no one notices me.

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.

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.