The Remedy (35 page)

“Yeah,” I say, instead of the million other thoughts racing through my head. I turn and walk numbly down the stairs back toward the car; Aaron’s staring at me with his mouth open. His disbelief doesn’t fade when I get in, but he doesn’t press me for details. He doesn’t ask
why
.

Instead he backs out into the road and drives us toward Marie’s apartment.

AARON PARKS MY FATHER’S CADILLAC
at the curb in front of Marie’s building instead of using the lot. He doesn’t turn off the engine. When I look at him, his fingers are tightly wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles white. My heartbeat kicks up, and Aaron blows out an unsteady breath before he turns to me.

“What’s going on?” I ask him. His expression devastates me, fills me with abandonment even before he says it.

“It’s time to say good-bye,” he says, smiling at the irony. “I have to leave, Quinn. You won’t see me again.”

My heart constricts, and I breathe out, “No.”

“Your car’s in the back, keys in the visor like always,” he continues calmly, like I’m just an assignment. “Marie had it brought here for you earlier. I’m going to drop off your dad’s car and then Myra and I are leaving town.”

“But your contract—”

“Canceled. My contract’s been canceled and I’ve been paid for my services. I leave today or I get nothing, do you understand? I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement and I can’t say any more.”

“From who? Aaron, you can’t just not tell me what’s happening. We’re partners.”

“Not anymore. And let’s be honest,” he says with a sad smile, “you never needed a partner.”

I reach out to grab the sleeve of his jacket, determined to hold him until he explains what’s going on. “Did my father do this?” I ask, incredulous. “Marie?”

Aaron gently unclasps my fingers from his sleeve, and then squeezes my hand with his. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “My last assignment was to drop you off here. I wasn’t even supposed to say good-bye.” He tilts his head, looking me over with the admiration of a friend. Of my best friend. “But I wasn’t going to leave you without giving you closure. Hell, I didn’t want to leave you at all. But the grief department has ended my employment. My severance package is dependent on me skipping town within twenty-four hours.”

I plan to find out what role my father played in this, but I won’t let those thoughts steal away my last moments with Aaron. I lean in and hug him, my head resting on his shoulder. His familiar cologne filling my nostrils. “Does Deacon know?” I ask.

“Naw,” Aaron says, resting his chin on the top of my head. “That boy is going through something, and I don’t mean you. I didn’t want to add to his stress. Not to mention he’d be pretty pissed.”

“He’s going to kill you,” I agree, sniffling as I pull back to face Aaron for the last time. “And when he asks me about you?”

Aaron brushes a tear off my cheek. “Tell him the truth. I ran away without saying good-bye to him because it hurt too much to do it any other way. He’ll understand.”

“He’s going to be heartbroken.”

Aaron nods. “I know. Which is why you can’t leave him. He needs you. And whether you like it or not, Miss Badass, you kind of need him too.”

“He’s badass; I’m hard-core, remember?”

Aaron laughs and then closes his eyes, smiling and shaking his head like he can’t believe this is happening. When he looks at me again, he’s crying, but the tears aren’t just sad. I know the truth, and once I get over how much it hurts, I’ll be happy for him.

“I can’t believe it,” I whisper. “You’re actually free of the system.”

Our gazes linger for another moment, and then Aaron casts a look at the apartments outside my window. “You’d better go,” he says. “Marie said she’d be waiting. And you know how much she hates waiting.” Determined to not let this moment last forever, I reach behind the passenger seat and grab my backpack.

“Quinlan,” Aaron says hesitantly. “If you go after Virginia Pritchard, promise me you’ll be careful.”

I pause, tilting my head as I try to determine if there’s more to his warning, but he doesn’t go on. “I always am,” I tell him. Aaron smiles to himself and then nods his good-bye.

I climb out of the car and start toward the oversize apartment doors, stopping to look back. Aaron doesn’t lower the window, but he lifts his hand in a wave. I stand there and watch him shift gears, turn away, and drive off.

I gasp in a breath and put my hand over my heart. In the past two days I’ve lost so much that I’m starting to wonder what’s left. What’s really left of me.

*  *  *

I’m sluggish as I walk up the stairs, drained of emotion. I’m building myself up to throw my shoulder against Marie’s hard-to-open door when I stumble to a stop on the fifth-floor landing. Marie door is ajar, the room dim inside. I swallow hard and take a tentative step forward, looking around at the other apartments. All of the other doors are closed; the only sound is a low murmur from a television behind one of them. Silence radiates from Marie’s apartment.

Aaron said she was waiting for me. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. “Marie?” I call softly, moving closer to the door. I wish Aaron had come upstairs with me.

I call my advisor’s name again, but the room beyond the door stays silent. Well, I’m not about to get murdered here. I take out my phone, but the minute it’s out . . . I realize that Aaron is the person I’d call for this. A wave of sadness rushes over me. I consider calling Deacon or my father, making them stay on the line while I poke my head in and check on things. I don’t think I need to call the police or anything—it’s just an open door of the apartment of a person who’s expecting me.

I debate what to do, but ultimately, I send out a quick text to Deacon, just in case I disappear:
AT MARIE’S.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and approach the door. I push the heavy door open a little farther, peering in. The overhead light near the sink is on, casting the room in a soft glow. I take a step inside the room and slide my hand along the wall until I touch the switch and flip it on.

The apartment has changed. The furniture has been pared down; her most treasured knickknacks are gone. The bigger pieces—sofa, coffee and kitchen tables—still remain, but the room is no longer eclectic and alive. It’s been stripped of all personality. Marie is gone—I know it immediately. It’s not a complete surprise. She and my dad have been at odds for a while, so I knew that one day she would leave. This was just a really shitty way to do it.

Numbly, I walk over to the couch and sit facing the door. I let the knowledge sweep over me. The loneliness. I take out my phone and skip the return text from Deacon to dial my father’s number. Part of me worries that he’s gone too. That I’ve been completely abandoned by everyone I love. The line rings, and as it does, I glance around the now-plain room—missing Marie. Waiting to hear the jangle of her bracelets. My eyes fall on the kitchen table, and I jump to my feet. There’s a file.

I hang up the phone and move quickly toward the kitchen. If Marie took off, she wouldn’t have left this behind. She has to be coming back. Wild hope seizes me, and I sit at the table—maybe she’s on a different assignment. I turn the folder around to the look at the name on the tab.

The world stops and the hairs on my arms stand up.

QUINLAN MCKEE

This is my file. Why do I have a file? My hands are already shaking as I open the manila folder, pick up my birth certificate, and check the name to make sure it matches. Yeah, it’s mine. Has Marie been keeping notes on me? I mean, closers are careful not to give away too much because we fear being copied, but that’s never actually been done. The fear . . . I thought it was almost irrational. But my advisor has an assignment folder with my name on it.

On the inside cover someone has printed
CASE
20859
. I shift through the papers, surprised that much of the information is severely outdated. There’s my mother and father, smiling in a copy of the same picture that hangs in the entryway of my house. I find a photo of me, blond-haired and pigtailed. There are drawings from when I was in kindergarten,
SUPERSTAR
sticker from the teacher and all. I don’t understand—why have a file on me and not update it?

I find more candid photos with my parents, although I’m not sure I’ve seen these ones before. My stomach knots as I sense that something is off. Why wouldn’t I have seen these pictures before?

There’s a photo of me next to a trampoline. My father’s lips are pulled into an exaggerated frown, and I’m next to him with a cast on my arm. A cast . . . on my arm. I look down at my left wrist, forearm, elbow. Not only do I not remember breaking anything, but there’s no sign of trauma. When was this taken?

I whip my hand through my hair, pushing it back and out of my face. I sift through the pages more quickly, hungry for information. There are no journal entries, even though I’ve been required to write them before. Why aren’t they in here? My fingers are trembling so badly, I can’t even read the pieces of paper I hold. I smooth them down on the table, my body in complete panic mode.

When I see the page, I begin to hyperventilate. The room tips from side to side, my eyes blur with tears, and I brush my palm roughly over my face to clear them. I start to whimper, scared because I don’t understand what this means. I don’t know what’s happening.

I’m holding my death certificate.

I DROP THE DEATH CERTIFICATE
back into my file, my entire body shaking. I can’t comprehend what this means, the idea so awful my mind won’t latch on to it. Taped in the back of the file is a DVD with my name printed across the middle with Sharpie. I wonder what other terrible secrets Marie has left for me. How could she do this? She sent Aaron away.
She left.
She left me with this. I need my father now. I need my dad. I call his phone, alternating between crying and failing at not crying as I wait for him to answer. I hang up when I get his voice mail. I just need to hear his voice. Hear that I’m okay.

After trying a second time, I put my phone away. I take my death certificate and fold it up before stuffing it in my pocket. I grab the DVD and start toward Marie’s office, hoping her computer is still here. I step inside the small room and find the file cabinet still hanging open. I wonder for a moment if Marie left in a hurry because she had been in danger—if
I’m
in danger. But my advisor wouldn’t have let me come here if that were true. Wouldn’t have left me a file. She gave me her secret—I just don’t understand. I’m sick over it, yet I won’t accept what it means.

In the cabinet, I see multiple folders, a different name on each tab. I close the drawer and make my way to the desk, and pull the computer keyboard toward me. I shake the mouse and the monitor comes to life. I stare a moment at the password entry, and then click a few buttons to see if it’ll clear. It doesn’t.

I need to know what’s on this DVD. I pause, thinking about the file that was left on the table. I type in 20859 and hit enter. The screen clears, displaying a bright white background. My heart beats wildly, and I lean down to put the DVD into the drive. I click it open. I’m terrified.

A video pops up—the freeze screen set on a stark room, not unlike the early case rooms I’ve seen in old photos. In the beginning, advisors used to introduce the closer to their clients at the facility and document the meeting. Based on the interaction, they’d decide if the case would go forward. Nowadays counselors just send us to the family and collect their money—not that it’s just about money. It helps, though.

I click the play button, leaning in to watch as the video begins. The client is out of the frame, only a pair of men’s shoes visible in the shot. The metal door opens, and I recognize Marie immediately, although she’s younger. She has a small child with her. The camera zooms in on her face, and I take in a sharp breath when I realize it’s me. I’m the little girl with Marie.

“Come on, honey,” Marie says kindly, leading the girl to the chair. The child sits down, feet swinging because she’s too small to reach the floor. She looks around curiously, not scared or anxious, and Marie smiles to the client, whose shoes shift as he leans closer.

“This is our next candidate,” Marie says, taking a seat next to the girl. She puts her arm around the back of the chair to offer the child the feeling of comfort and safety. The girl rests against her, eyes wide.

“It’s uncanny,” the man says, his voice thick with grief. “She looks just like her.”

I cover my mouth, stunned. That’s my father’s voice. What’s happening? I don’t remember any of this.

“She’s very sweet,” Marie says, brushing at the girl’s hair lovingly. “I think she’s just perfect, Tom. She’ll make the perfect daughter. We’ve already filled her in on the assignment.”

My father is quiet for a long moment, and I imagine from the way the little girl is watching him that’s he’s studying her, too, looking for differences. Then there’s a sniffle, and the soft sound of my father crying.

Marie’s face registers his pain. “Tom,” she says sympathetically, rising to her feet. But then the little girl who used to be me climbs down from the chair and crosses to him, my father’s face still off camera. “Don’t cry,” she tells him in a closer’s voice. “Don’t cry, Daddy.”

I turn away from the laptop and get sick all over Marie’s wood floor.

*  *  *

I ejected the DVD and put in my backpack, careful to wrap it in my old Rolling Stones T-shirt so it wouldn’t break. I cleaned up my mess, intermediately stopping so I could sob. I’m a closer. I’m a closer for my own life. I hiccup in another cry, standing in the middle of Marie’s apartment, unable to move. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fight to pull myself together, my mind racing with possibilities.

“Hello?” I mumble without checking the caller ID.

“Quinn?” Deacon breathes out. I cradle the phone to my ear, wishing Deacon was with me now. Saw what I just saw. “Are you okay?” he asks. “I’ve called you like five times.”

“No,” I tell him, my voice scratchy from crying. “Something’s happened. Something awful.”