The Recovery (7 page)

Aaron chuckles. “You’re detached?” he asks. “Then why do you keep souvenirs?”

“I do not,” I respond, heat crawling onto my cheeks.

“I bet you have more than hair extensions in that bag.”

I look down to see the edge of the T-shirt peeking out. “Not fair,” I say. “The dad gave that to me. It doesn’t count.”

“And the earrings from Susan Bell? The flashy yet clashy belt from Audrey Whats her name? Admit it. You’re a life klepto. You keep pieces of them like some whacked-out serial killer.”

I laugh. “It’s nothing like that.”

Aaron hums out his disagreement and takes a turn onto the freeway. It’ll be at least forty-five minutes until we’re back in Corvallis. I hate the away assignments, but our town is fairly small, and we don’t have nearly as many deaths as Eugene or Portland. But being away can mess with your head. Nothing’s familiar—not the places or the people. A person could forget who they really are in a situation like that. It’s high risk, and the return is always more difficult after being cut off completely. But it’s our job.

Aaron Rios and I are closers—a remedy for grief-stricken families. We help clients who are experiencing symptoms of complicated grief through an extreme method of role-playing therapy. When a family or person experiences loss—the kind of loss they just can’t get over, the kind that eats away at their sanity—grief counselors make a recommendation. For an undisclosed sum of money, clients are given a closer to play the part of a dead person and provide them the much-needed closure they desire.

At this point I can become anyone so long as they’re a female between the ages of fifteen and twenty. I’m not an exact copy, of course, but I wear their clothes and change my hair and eye color. I study them through pictures and videos, and soon I can act like them, smell like them,
be them
for all intents and purposes. And when a family is hazy with grief, they tend to accept me readily.

I stay with them for a few days, but never more than a week. In that time, my loved ones get to say everything they needed to but never got the chance to, get to hear whatever they’ve told the counselors they needed to hear. I can be the perfect daughter. I can give them closure so they can heal.

I’m saving lives—even if sometimes it’s hard to remember which one is mine.

“So what have I missed?” I ask Aaron. When he called me earlier to set up my extraction, he tried to talk, to reconnect me to the outside world. But I was with the family when my phone buzzed, so I fed Aaron some bullshit excuse to get off the line. Now I’m desperate for a reminder of my real life. I rest my temple on the headrest and watch him.

“Not much.” He shrugs. “Deacon’s been texting me nonstop. Says you’re not answering your phone.”

“Well, he’s not supposed to contact me when I’m on an assignment,” I point out. Our guidelines state that we only consort with our partners or our advisors while on assignment to keep us from breaking character. But the fact is, I could have responded to Deacon’s texts. I just didn’t want to.

My eyes start to sting and I check around the front seat and find a bag of open trail mix stuffed into the cutout below the stereo; salty-looking peanuts have spilled into the cup holder. My father will kill Aaron for bringing those in here. And for dirtying up his Cadillac. We always use the same car for extractions. It serves as a reminder of our real life, something familiar to bring us home.

I hike my backpack onto my lap and start rummaging through until I find the case for my colored contacts. Although I’m not deathly allergic to nuts, they irritate my eyes and make my throat burn. Aaron’s usually pretty good about not eating them around me. I guess he forgot this time—which is understandable. Assignments tend to leave us confused. At least for a while.

“I think Deacon’s worried you’ll run away without telling him,” Aaron continues. “It makes him crazy.”

“Deacon never worries about anything,” I correct, resting my index finger on my pupil until I feel the contact cling to it. “And I don’t know why he’s asking you. If I planned to run away, you wouldn’t know either.” I remove the film and place it back inside the case before working on the other eye.

“Yeah, well, he worries about
you
,” Aaron mutters, clicking the windshield wipers off now that the rain has eased up. “And whether you admit it or not,” he adds, “you worry about his ass all the time too.”

“We’re friends,” I remind him, reliving the conversation we’ve had a dozen times. “Just very good friends.”

“Whatever, Quinn,” he says. “You’re hard-core and he’s badass. I get it. You’re both too tough for love.”

“Shut up.” I laugh. “You’re just mad we get along better than you and your girlfriend.”

“Damn right,” Aaron says with a defiant smirk. “It ain’t cool. You two—”

“Stooooop,” I whine, cutting him off. “Change the subject. Deacon and I are broken up. End of story.” I stuff my contact case back into my bag and drop it down by my feet. The traffic has faded from the freeway, leaving the dark road empty around us.

“I’m not saying you should hate each other,” Aaron continues. “But you shouldn’t want to bone every time you see him either.”

“You have serious problems, you know that, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, nodding dismissively. “Yeah,
I’m
the one with problems.” He whistles out a low sound of sympathy, looking sideways at me. “You’ve both got it bad,” he adds.

“No,” I tell him. “We’re both better off. Remind Deacon of that next time he’s checking up on me.” Aaron scoffs and swears he’s staying out of it. He won’t, of course. He thinks we’re still pining for each other. And . . . he may not be entirely wrong. But Deacon and I have a very platonic understanding.

Deacon Hatcher is my ex-boyfriend turned best friend, but more importantly, he used to be a closer. He gets it. Gets me. Deacon was my partner before Aaron, almost three years side by side until he quit working for my dad eight months ago. He quit me the same day. The breakup may have wrecked me a little. Or a lot. Deacon and I had shared everything, had a policy of total honesty, which isn’t exactly easy for people in our line of work.

I hadn’t even known he’d ended his contract with the grief department when he told me we were over, said he’d moved on. I assumed he meant with another girl, so we didn’t speak for over a month. I’d been blindsided, betrayed. Only thing left for me was closure, and I was damn good at it. I absorbed more of my assignments’ lives, their families’ love. I rebuilt my self-esteem with their help, their memories. Then my father assigned Aaron as my new partner.

The next day, Deacon showed up at my front door, saying how sorry he was. Saying how desperately he missed me. I believed him. I always believe him. But every time we get close—the very minute I fall for him again—Deacon cuts me off, backs away and leaves me brokenhearted by the absence of his affection. Whether it’s his training or his natural disposition, Deacon
is
charming. The kind of charming that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters. Until you don’t anymore.

I’m tired of the push and pull that continues to crack and heal over the same scar. I told Deacon that I was done letting myself be vulnerable to him, that he was ruining me. The thought seemed to devastate him. So Deacon and I agreed not to get back together, but acknowledged that we couldn’t stay away from each other either. Best friends is the compromise. It lets us go to the very edge of our want without actually going over. And that works for us. We’re totally screwed up that way.

From the center console Aaron’s phone vibrates in the cup holder. He quickly grabs it before I do, and rests it against the wheel while he reads the text. After a moment he clicks off the screen and drops his phone back into the cup holder. “Myra says hello,” he says, glancing over. “She’s
super
excited for you to be back.”

“I’m sure,” I say, flashing him an amused smile. Aaron’s girlfriend is barely five feet tall, with wide doelike eyes and a red-hot temper. She used to hate me—which, under normal circumstances, could be understandable. I spend
a lot
of time with her boyfriend. We’re over it now and the entire situation became a running joke between me and Aaron. And although Myra might still hate me a
little
, she’s one of my closest friends. But everything will change soon. This is Aaron’s last month as a closer—his contract ends in four weeks. After that, he and Myra are going to run off and live some deranged life in one of the Dakotas.

“Any chance I can talk you into dropping me off at home first?” I ask Aaron in a sickly sweet voice. “I’ve been dreaming about my bed for the entire weekend. Emily had a futon.”

Aaron whistles in sympathy. “Sounds tough, Quinn. But I already called Marie to let her know we’re on our way.” He smiles. “And you know how much she loves late-night debriefings.”

False. Marie absolutely hates when we come by after dark.

I exhale, dreading our next stop. I just want to go home, tell my dad good night, and then crash in my bed. Unfortunately, none of that can happen until we register our closure and confess our sins. Our advisor, Marie, has to interview us before we’re allowed to return to our regular lives. There are procedures in place to make sure we don’t take any grief home with us, take home the sadness. It’s the old saying: misery loves company. Yeah, well, grief can be contagious.

THE DOOR TO THE FIFTH-STORY
walk-up apartment is always stuck, and Aaron has to ram his shoulder against it to get it open. He stumbles in, turning back to flash me a smile.

So strong,
I mouth, making him laugh. I follow him inside, and then close and lock the door. I pause to look around. I haven’t been to Marie’s house in at least a month, but it’s just as cramped as I remember. Exactly the same. Wall-to-wall antique furniture, ornate chairs and thin-legged tables. Layers of incense hang in the air; red tapestries are tacked over the window, casting the room in soft light from the lamps. The place is shabby chic—much like its tenant.

“You’re late,” a raspy voice calls from the kitchen. I catch sight of Marie’s bare shoulder and thin long braids as she opens and closes kitchen cabinets in search of something.

“Quinlan was being nice again by giving them extra time,” Aaron calls. He drops onto the worn velvet sofa and kicks off his shoes. I scowl at him for ratting me out so quickly, and remove my sneakers before Marie can yell at me for disrespecting her apartment. “She’s too kindhearted,” Aaron adds. “Tell Quinn she’s too kindhearted.” He rolls his head toward the kitchen, and Marie pokes out from behind the cabinet door.

“Stop being so nice,” Marie scolds, and then goes back to what she was doing.

“See.” Aaron holds up his finger to me in warning before working his arms out of the sleeves of his blazer. He carefully folds the fabric over the back of the couch.

I roll my eyes. “I was doing my job,” I clarify, sitting on the painted chair near the door. “Check with the Pinnacles—I’m sure I’ll get a glowing review.”

“Don’t worry,” Marie says, coming out of the kitchen, carrying a tray. “We always check.” She smiles at me and then sets the tray on the coffee table. There’s a small teapot; the smell of mint wafts up from the cups. My stomach turns. That’s not regular tea—not here. It’s a medicinal cocktail that will compel me to tell the truth once I drink it. Luckily, I have nothing to hide.

Marie hands Aaron a cup. “Guess I’m first,” he murmurs, and gulps his drink quickly. He sucks in a breath to cool down his mouth. “Nasty,” he says with a shiver, and sets the cup on the table.

“I’ll get the paperwork,” Marie announces. She walks toward the home office, her anklets jangling above her bare feet, her long braids clicking as they swish across her back. Marie Devoroux is in her late thirties with dark brown skin, piercing black eyes, and an effortless beauty that allows strangers to trust her. She’s been my advisor since the beginning. I can still remember being a little girl on her lap, telling her about Barbara Richards—a nine-year-old who cracked her skull while riding her bike. I sipped peppermint tea and told Marie how sad it made me when Barbie’s mother cried. I had a hard time adjusting to the grief in the beginning.

Marie’s a bit less patient now, especially with me. She and my father have been at odds over a case neither will talk about. I’m not sure when it started, but it’s clear Marie is on the verge of leaving the department altogether. I don’t know what the counselors will do if she does.

Marie reemerges a moment later with folders and a voice recorder. She takes a spot next to Aaron on the couch, flipping her hair over her shoulder before she sorts through the file with
DEXTER REED
printed on the tab.

I pick up my warm teacup, swirling around the liquid. I’m not sure I could hate the taste of mint any more than I already do. Eleven years of drinking this stuff will do that to a person. I take a tentative sip and then gag. Marie gives me a dirty look like she’s offended, and I hold up the tea in cheers before downing it, gagging again.

Aaron starts recounting his short time as the distinguished law student Dexter Reed. It took less than twenty-four hours to bring a person’s entire life to a close. Which is good, I guess. Otherwise Aaron would have been late picking me up. Again. I don’t listen to the story—although it’s not a huge deal if I do. Hearing his experience won’t make me sad, not like reenacting it can. That’s why we’re here with Marie. Closers aren’t allowed to go home until we process the grief. We take that burden from the clients, help them heal. But we can become affected, taking it on as our own pain and suffering. Our extreme method of therapy isn’t without its risks. The counselors don’t want that to happen, so we talk to advisors. God, sometimes we talk so much I want to cut out my tongue.

I smile, leaning back in the chair. The tea must already be working. Even my thoughts are honest.

Aaron’s voice drones on, and I contemplate the evening, the taste of peppermint thick on my tongue. Things could be worse, I guess. I could actually be Emily Pinnacle.