closure.
“Dad, I don’t think—”
“He’s refusing therapy,” my father says quietly. A quick chill shoots up my arms, hollows out my chest. As someone who hates talking, I can understand the aversion—but refusing therapy is insane.
“Refusing?” I ask, just to make sure I’m clear on the stakes. My father nods.
If Isaac refuses therapy but continues to decline, they will admit him to the psychiatric ward of the hospital. It’s what they do for people at risk—people refusing help—based on the new codes established for mental health stability. This boy will be committed, and no one knows how long it will be before he’s let out again. I think of his admiring expression and hate the idea of him being locked away.
“Isaac is only part of the assignment,” my father says, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “The parents are our main concern for now. They have another child, but she’s completed therapy and achieved success. She doesn’t want to be a part of the healing process, so she’s living with relatives during your stay.”
“And how long will that be?” I ask. My last assignment was two days, and now that I’m home, I’m ready to get back to my real life. My father’s quiet for a long moment, and I lift my eyes in his direction. “Dad? How long?”
“The assignment is for two weeks.”
I gasp, free-fall into confusion and panic. “That’s too long!” I say. “You can’t . . . what? Dad, we’re not allowed—”
“We’re making an exception. Quinn, I can’t tell you how important this assignment is. If there was anyone else . . .” He stops, pink rising on his cheeks. His response makes me pause. He doesn’t think this is a good idea either.
“You know this is dangerous,” I say. “Why is Catalina Barnes so important? She’s not the first dead teenager in Oregon, Dad.” Ouch. The words are insensitive, and I wince at my own callousness. Although I try not to get attached to my assignments, I know more than anybody the gravity of their situation. They’re not coming back. Their lives are over, and it’s a tragic thing.
My father’s shoulders stiffen, and he pushes the papers back into the folder and closes the file. “You’re right,” he agrees. “But this request is coming from beyond the department, from my boss. If you don’t think you can help the Barnes family, we’ll contact the other advisors again. See if another closer can be brought in in time. But it’s not likely. This one is flagged for immediate intervention.”
The words echo through the room. It’s rare that my father’s boss asks a favor. Only Deacon has ever met Arthur Pritchard, and he quit soon after. “This is dangerous,” I repeat quietly. “So why me?” I’m scared of losing myself, but I’m also scared of failing the family. Failing my father.
“You’re the best.”
“But I’m your daughter.”
My father lowers his eyes, his expression tightening as he struggles with the same thought. When he looks at me again, all I can see is how much he cares about me. How I am his pride and joy—his greatest achievement. His belief in me never wavers.
For the last eleven years, I’ve completed every assignment he’s given me without fault, except for the occasional taken item. I don’t screw up. My father is truly devoted to his patients, devoted to their well-being—and he counts on me to help them. He’s a good man, and I’m ashamed of my selfishness, guilty now that my father has made it clear what’s at stake. I swallow hard, nodding that I understand.
“Why two weeks?” I ask. “Why so long?”
“It’s all in the file.” He taps the closed folder. “Quinn,” he says, leaning into the table. “I know I sprung this on you, but I promise you’re strong enough. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
“Is this why Marie was asking Aaron about my state of mind?” I ask, realizing now the purpose of the new line of questioning. “Did she
“Dad, I don’t think—”
“He’s refusing therapy,” my father says quietly. A quick chill shoots up my arms, hollows out my chest. As someone who hates talking, I can understand the aversion—but refusing therapy is insane.
“Refusing?” I ask, just to make sure I’m clear on the stakes. My father nods.
If Isaac refuses therapy but continues to decline, they will admit him to the psychiatric ward of the hospital. It’s what they do for people at risk—people refusing help—based on the new codes established for mental health stability. This boy will be committed, and no one knows how long it will be before he’s let out again. I think of his admiring expression and hate the idea of him being locked away.
“Isaac is only part of the assignment,” my father says, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “The parents are our main concern for now. They have another child, but she’s completed therapy and achieved success. She doesn’t want to be a part of the healing process, so she’s living with relatives during your stay.”
“And how long will that be?” I ask. My last assignment was two days, and now that I’m home, I’m ready to get back to my real life. My father’s quiet for a long moment, and I lift my eyes in his direction. “Dad? How long?”
“The assignment is for two weeks.”
I gasp, free-fall into confusion and panic. “That’s too long!” I say. “You can’t . . . what? Dad, we’re not allowed—”
“We’re making an exception. Quinn, I can’t tell you how important this assignment is. If there was anyone else . . .” He stops, pink rising on his cheeks. His response makes me pause. He doesn’t think this is a good idea either.
“You know this is dangerous,” I say. “Why is Catalina Barnes so important? She’s not the first dead teenager in Oregon, Dad.” Ouch. The words are insensitive, and I wince at my own callousness. Although I try not to get attached to my assignments, I know more than anybody the gravity of their situation. They’re not coming back. Their lives are over, and it’s a tragic thing.
My father’s shoulders stiffen, and he pushes the papers back into the folder and closes the file. “You’re right,” he agrees. “But this request is coming from beyond the department, from my boss. If you don’t think you can help the Barnes family, we’ll contact the other advisors again. See if another closer can be brought in in time. But it’s not likely. This one is flagged for immediate intervention.”
The words echo through the room. It’s rare that my father’s boss asks a favor. Only Deacon has ever met Arthur Pritchard, and he quit soon after. “This is dangerous,” I repeat quietly. “So why me?” I’m scared of losing myself, but I’m also scared of failing the family. Failing my father.
“You’re the best.”
“But I’m your daughter.”
My father lowers his eyes, his expression tightening as he struggles with the same thought. When he looks at me again, all I can see is how much he cares about me. How I am his pride and joy—his greatest achievement. His belief in me never wavers.
For the last eleven years, I’ve completed every assignment he’s given me without fault, except for the occasional taken item. I don’t screw up. My father is truly devoted to his patients, devoted to their well-being—and he counts on me to help them. He’s a good man, and I’m ashamed of my selfishness, guilty now that my father has made it clear what’s at stake. I swallow hard, nodding that I understand.
“Why two weeks?” I ask. “Why so long?”
“It’s all in the file.” He taps the closed folder. “Quinn,” he says, leaning into the table. “I know I sprung this on you, but I promise you’re strong enough. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
“Is this why Marie was asking Aaron about my state of mind?” I ask, realizing now the purpose of the new line of questioning. “Did she
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