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in. See you soon, all right?”
    “Yeah, all—” But I hear the phone shifting as he hands it over the counter. The anticipation sticks in my throat.
    “For me?” I hear my father’s voice say to Rubio. There’s another rustle and then, “This is Thomas McKee,” he says.
    It’s been only a few hours, but it feels like weeks since I’ve spoken to him. I’m flooded with anger and hurt, mixed with the heaviest sense of loss I’ve ever known. My voice hitches when I murmur, “Hi, Dad”—the only name I know to call him.
    I hear him shift the phone to his other ear, a hush in his tone. “What’s wrong?” he asks immediately. “Are you okay?”
    That’s the stupidest question he could have asked. Of course I’m not okay—and so much of that is his fault. But . . . I miss him. I miss having a family. I miss the lie of it all. I begin to cry, fighting the tears as fast as they fall.
    “Quinn, where’s Deacon?” he asks. “Can you put him on the phone?”
    Despite their strained relationship, my father always thought Deacon was an excellent closer. He trusts him to protect me. I did too. All the people in my life who were supposed to love me have betrayed me instead. The horror of the thought helps me pull myself back together.
    “I left him,” I say, swiping my palm over my cheeks to clear the tears. “I left him at the bus station. That’s why I’m calling you ,” I add with bitterness. “I don’t have anyone else.”
    “What happened?” he asks, alarmed. “You two are inseparable. Believe me, I’ve tried. I understand you’ve had yourproblems,” he concedes. “But Deacon will watch out for you. Now isn’t the time to—”
    “Deacon’s hiding something, Dad,” I say, my lips pulling taut. “I can’t trust him. He got a text from someone looking for me. And then there was a woman who I think was following me on the bus. I couldn’t tell if Deacon was in on it. I . . . I don’t know where he stands. So I had to slip away—I had to disappear.”
    “You think Deacon’s involved with someone at the grief department?” he asks. “I . . . I’m not sure I believe that.”
    “I don’t know who texted him, but he shouldn’t be talking to anyone about me. He’s put me in danger. Why would he do that?” My father doesn’t answer right away, and I assume he’s shocked by this revelation. I don’t blame him. “I don’t know what to do, Dad,” I say. “I have to get to Arthur Pritchard, though. Find out who I really am. I have to—”
    “Honey,” my dad says, making me flinch at the softness of the word. “I don’t think that’s a good idea anymore. Arthur isn’t the kind of man you can make deals with. You have to let that go. Get far away from all of this.”
    “I’m sure that’s what you’d want,” I say, growing angry. “You kept my life from me. You deceived me and pretended—”
    “I never pretended to love you,” he says, cutting me off before I say it. “And you know that, or you wouldn’t be calling me now. I’m your father. I’m the only father you know,” he corrects. “And I will do everything I can to keep you safe.”
    “Then I need to know who I am,” I say simply. I’m desperate, but part of that desperation is building on a wave ofemotion in my chest, a clarity I can’t seem to find in my head.
    “I understand,” my father says. “But please, Quinlan. We have to be careful. Arthur isn’t even your biggest problem. Like I told you earlier, there are people at the grief department who will be very concerned by your absence. Since the board took over, there’s been a shift in their goals. And I’m uncomfortable with some of their tactics. I don’t want you under their control.”
    The fuzziness in my head continues, and I lie back on the bed, stare up at the swirling fan. “What kind of goals?” I ask. “What more can they take from me?”
    My father pauses. “Are you all right?” he asks. “You have . . . you have a