the main hallways. It’s a pain in the ass losing your wallet, and the girl willthink 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
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
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