The Remedy (16 page)

“Angela, I—”

“How
dare
you come here!” she says, her tone unhinged. “How dare you!” Her mouth is pulled tight in an ugly scowl. Several people around her have turned to stare, but I don’t acknowledge them; I don’t even turn to see if Isaac has noticed. I have to defuse this situation. The crowd in this room has quieted, and the echoing music from the band is hollow around me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice not nearly as close to her sister’s now. I’m trying to calm her, and to do that, I need to be less aggressive. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

She laughs, a sad laugh of disbelief. “You’re playing my dead sister,” she says, earning even more looks. “What makes you think I’d have anything to do with you? You’re a monster.”

Heat crawls over my cheeks, but I try to exude calm. “I know you’re upset,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “But if I could just talk to you about your parents. I really want—”

“I don’t give a shit what you want!” she shouts, and now it feels like the entire bar is watching us. Where the hell is Deacon?

“Maybe if we go outside,” I start, but before I finish my thought, there is a blur of movement. Angie grabs the drink from the guy nearest her and then hurls the liquid at me, splashing my face and clothes in cold, red liquid. I scream and fall back a step, completely shocked and dazed. I swipe my hands over my eyes, the alcohol burning my skin.

“I don’t want your help,” my sister growls. “I don’t ever want to see you again.” She turns and walks away, the guy calling after her that she owes him a drink. There is laughter, a couple of curses about how they shouldn’t let underage people in the bar because they always ruin the night. But mostly it’s the judgmental stares of the people who know what I do now. They know I’m a closer; they’ve put together why I’m here. And they hate me for it.

Sickness washes over me, and I try to back into the corner, shivering and sticky. Then suddenly, out of the crowd, Deacon appears, his posture hardened. He reaches past a couple of guys at the bar and grabs the stack of napkins without missing a step. When he reaches me, he takes my arm, not saying a word, and turns us toward the door.

I can feel the bouncer’s stare as we walk past him, and I’m not even out from under the awning when I start to cry. Humiliated, degraded. I take Deacon’s hand and let him lead me back to the car.

DEACON DOESN’T ACKNOWLEDGE MY TEARS.
The rain has picked up, but I don’t flip my hood. I let it wash over me, wash off the drink my sister threw in my face, wash off my shame. When we get to the car, Deacon hands me the damp napkins and unlocks the passenger side, helping me in. He closes the door, and pauses to look back at the building, as if he’s considering going back in to fight for me. But there’s no one to fight. He rounds the car, tossing a concerned glance at me through the windshield, before climbing in and slamming his door.

We sit quietly with the sound of rain splattering on the glass. Deacon doesn’t start the car, even though it’s cold. He doesn’t do anything. Which is exactly what I need him to do in this moment.

Back when we were partners, I was slow to let Deacon in—at least on a personal level. I may have liked him, but I didn’t let him know. I definitely didn’t want him to like me, either. It seemed like it’d make things more complicated. Then one night, we found ourselves parked outside the house of his assignment. He would do that sometimes: convince the clients to go out, to reconnect. I think it was more so that he could get a break from them. Get a break from the job.

This one night, he asked me to bring him food. He complained the family was vegetarian and that if he didn’t get a hamburger soon, he might die from starvation. I had nothing better to do, so I agreed. I picked up takeout and met him outside the house, surprised when he got in instead of taking the bag back inside. He said he wanted the company.

We were there for about ten minutes, and I watched him tear through two cheeseburgers and a handful of fries. I guessed he hadn’t been joking when he’d said he was starving. At one point, he turned to me, his brown eyes curious, flashing with mischief. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked, midchew.

I gave him a scathing
It’s none of your business
look.

“Oh, come on,” he said with a smile. “There’s no
special someone
in your life?”

“Shut up.” I laughed, looking out the window. The air from the heater made me entirely too warm, so I turned the directional away from me. It didn’t lessen the heat on my face, though. Deacon and I were quiet for a painfully long time, until I finally sighed and turned to him. “No,” I said. “No boyfriend.”

“Yeah. I can believe that.”

“Hey!” I called. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not because you’re horrible or anything,” he said, like I’d totally twisted his words.

“Oh, thank you.” I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Listen, it’s cool,” he said. “I’m not dating anyone seriously either. I’m just saying, people like us, we can have commitment issues, wouldn’t you agree?”

I smiled. “I think maybe you just have asshole issues.”

“Nice,” he responded with a laugh. “You totally called it.” He grabbed the soda from the cup holder, smiling as he sipped from the straw. I couldn’t help it—I found him completely disarming. And even though I didn’t say it, I was happy to know he didn’t have a girlfriend.

No one’s asked me that since him. No one’s cared about the answer. I look down at my lap, shivering uncontrollably in the car. My teeth chatter as my wet hair clings to the side of my face. “Everyone hates me,” I murmur.

“I don’t hate you.”

I’m so cold, both inside and out. I’m lonely and scared that nothing will ever be okay. I want a life—I want my life. I let the napkins fall to the floor. I’m sick of living on the fringes of society. And maybe I don’t want to admit that the idea of coming out tonight, it wasn’t totally about Angie. I liked the idea of being invited—even if I wasn’t really.

“Quinn,” Deacon says softly, reaching to take my hand. He squeezes it, his skin hot in comparison to mine. “Tell them you can’t finish this assignment,” he says. “Tell them it was too soon.”

“My father—”

“I don’t care about your father,” he interrupts. “I don’t give a shit about Arthur Pritchard, either. Every time you go on assignment, you come back a little different. You should end your contract. Who cares about money? I’ll give you mine. I just . . . I don’t want you to lose yourself.”

“It’s not about the money,” I say, looking up at him. “It’s never been about that.” I pause, thinking over my decision to take this assignment, even though I was so tired. “I’m doing this for my father,” I say. “He counts on me, Deacon. I’m supposed to be good at this. Do you know what it would do to him if I failed? This is his life’s work. He believes in me.” My voice cracks. “I . . . I can’t disappoint him.”

“He’s disappointing you.” Deacon’s stare holds me fast, fiercely protective. For a minute I wonder what it would be like to give it all up, be free like Deacon. But then I realize that my father would never forgive me, just like he’s never forgiven Deacon for failing him. I can’t do that. I can’t give up everything I’ve worked for. My father’s the only family I have left—he’s the only person who’s never left me.

Deacon looks like he’s waiting for an answer, but then his eyes follow something beyond my shoulder, and he adjusts his position to get a closer look. “Isn’t that your sister?” he asks.

I turn immediately, wiping away my tears as my training floods back and washes me away. I’m dismayed to see Angie stumbling out from the back entrance of the bar, talking loudly into her phone. Although she would have been troubled tonight anyway, the confrontation with me has sent her on a destructive path. I can see from her mannerisms, her wild look, that she doesn’t care what happens to her tonight. She doesn’t care about anything.

“She’s drunk,” I say. My worry spikes, and I turn to Deacon. “What should I do?”

He leans forward, draping his arms over the steering wheel as he watches the scene unfolding outside the windshield. “I don’t know,” he says, watching her carefully. “It’s a tough call. If you confront her again, who knows how she’ll react. She already threw—” He stops and looks over at me apologetically for bringing up the drink incident.

He’s got a point, but I don’t care about what happened inside the bar. She’s my sister, and I should have been looking out for her. Now the situation has gotten out of control.

Angie leaves the parking lot, heading toward the street. She kicks off her shoes into the bushes along the sidewalk and laughs. She pauses and takes the phone from her ear, staring down at it. I wonder if whoever she was talking to hung up. She opens her palm and lets her phone smash on the pavement, and then sways. She drops into a sitting position in the middle of the sidewalk.

Deacon curses, recognizing that we have to intervene in some way. I wonder where Angie’s friends are. How could they leave her alone when she’s obviously a mess?

My sister splays out on the pavement, her head falling into the edge of the grass in front of a beat-up old house. She stares up at the sky, letting the rain run over her face. God, is she going to pass out like this?

Deacon and I wait another minute, but no one comes for her. Whether Angie’s isolated herself or she’s always been this alone, I’m not sure. All I know is that I feel incredibly sorry for her. With a sore heart, I turn to Deacon.

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, and nods out the window. “I can go,” he offers. I consider it. Deacon’s a stranger, and he can try to help her get back inside. Then again, my sister doesn’t exactly look up to walking. She might cause another scene, and the cops might get called. Deacon can’t be involved if that happens. He’s not supposed to even see me when I’m on assignment.

“No,” I tell him. “She’s my responsibility. I’ll bring her back to the bar.” I don’t mention that Isaac is inside and that part of me doesn’t want Deacon to see him.

Deacon weighs it out and then agrees, acknowledging it’s a bad situation all around. But he also knows helping her is the right thing to do. I smile, once again reminded of how well Deacon knows me. How deep our connection runs. I lean in and hug him, our bodies pressed together, my cheek against his neck. His skin is burning hot in the cold air, and longing sweeps over me. Invades me. I pull back slowly, our eyes locked like this moment can last if we want it to. If we let it.

He smiles slightly, acknowledging that he feels it too. His fingers brush my thigh as I move away. Lights from a passing car illuminate the space around us, highlighting the passion in his eyes. I could get lost in here forever.

“I’ll be right back,” I mumble, quickly opening the door and climbing out into the rain. The cold night air hits my damp face, sobering up the crazy I just indulged in. Another minute and we might have ended up in the backseat. But Deacon and I are just friends, that’s it. It’s too dangerous to be anything else.

I wrap my arms around myself, heading toward the sidewalk. My sister laughs from where she’s lying on the pavement, and I start jogging in her direction. I pull up my hood, hoping that with a bit of cover I won’t elicit such a violent reaction from her. I slow down when I get close, and come to pause far enough away so I won’t startle her.

“Angie,” I say softly. She turns her head in the wet grass, a bit of dirt smudged on her cheek. She runs her eyes over me and then scoffs.

“Go away, impostor,” she calls. Her arms are bare, her pale skin glowing in the streetlight. I sit on the pavement next to her, folding my legs under me, and settle in. I won’t leave her like this.

“Can I at least help you back inside to your friends?” I ask, using my natural voice. Angie doesn’t want to know me as Catalina. I can spare her that pain since she’s not technically part of the assignment. At least until I know more about what she needs.

“I don’t have any friends,” she tells me, staring at the sky. “I don’t want any.”

At baseball practice she was with another girl, so I assume she has at least one friend, but she doesn’t want to think about that. She wants to feel sorry for herself, hate herself so she’ll have to reason to withdraw. She’s sad. She’s so deeply sad that I can’t believe she’s gotten this far without anyone noticing.

“Does your mother know how you feel?” I ask, keeping my voice steady but quiet. Angie winces at the mention of her mother.

“Of course not,” she says bitterly. “Only thing anybody sees is Catalina. ‘Catalina’s depressed,’ ” she mimics in her mother’s voice. “ ‘Catalina’s fighting with Isaac. What’s wrong with
Catalina
?’ ”

As I listen, my heart rate speeds up, finally about to get some answers to this assignment. There was nothing in the file about a change in Catalina’s state of mind. “And then what happened?” I ask.

Angie turns to me, her mascara bleeding black over her cheeks. “Then she died,” she says coldly. “She died right in front of me.”

I take in a sharp breath, the answer completely unexpected. This should have been in the file. This most definitely should have been in the file. “How did she die?” I ask, getting up on my knees.

For a moment I think she’s going to tell me everything. I watch pain cross her expression, pull and distort her features. But rather than answer, Angie turns away, staring straight up into the sky, hitching in uneven breaths like she’s about to break down. “She just died,” she says.

I start to move closer when I hear a shout from the bar. I look over my shoulder; my body exploding in panic as I see Isaac running toward us, his shoes sloshing in the puddles on the wet pavement. “Angela,” he yells.

“Oh, shit,” I mutter, and quickly get to my feet. I can’t talk to Isaac right now. I’m completely out of character, and my makeup has probably run off. I turn back to the car, where Deacon looks equally concerned. But just as Marie would, he holds up his hand and tells me to be steady.

Isaac runs right past me to where Angie is crumpled on the ground, and he helps her sit up. For a moment I watch them, wondering if I could hurry back to the car, cut my losses, and start again tomorrow. But before I can make the decision, Isaac looks back at me and stills. He didn’t know I was the person waiting here with Angie.