The Epidemic Read Free

take over their walking path. It helps me become invisible, like the sleight of hand a magician might use when hiding a rubber ball under a shell.
    I step in front of a mom with a wiggling toddler on her hip,murmuring a quiet apology, and after a few feet I walk in front of a man in a business suit who’s talking on his cell phone. My movements are smooth and rapid. I see an older woman heading toward the restroom, and I stand at her side, blocking the view of me from the back entrance.
    Once inside the bathroom, I pause. A thick floral scent hangs in the air, and the constant sound of flushing toilets and hand dryers is exactly the kind of white noise that keeps people distracted. I go to stand near the baby changing station and slip off my backpack. I’ll have to leave it. I take off my sweater and pull out my favorite hoodie. I grab a fresh plastic bag from the changing station and throw in my Rolling Stones T-shirt, the DVD from my file, and a few pairs of underwear and some basic toiletries. Once done, I drop my backpack and sweater into the trash. No one notices me.
    I glance at my reflection, and emotions try to fight their way out, but I lock them away. Not now. Not here. I take the hair tie from my pocket and scrape my hair into a barely enough ponytail, disguising the pale blond color. I look sideways at the woman washing her hands two sinks down. She has a baseball cap snapped onto the handle of her suitcase. Near the door someone has left her denim jacket on the counter as she uses the restroom.
    I hate the thought of stealing. Sure, when I was a closer, I would take . . . a souvenir from my assignment’s house: a shirt, a necklace. But that was different—she was dead. Now it feels like stealing. But it’s my way out of here.
    In a swift motion I start toward the door. As I pass the woman at the sink, I reach down and unclip the back of her baseball hat and slip it under my hoodie without missing a step. I keep walking and casually pick up the jacket as if it were mine all along. Again—no one notices me.
    The moment I exit the bathroom, I put the hat on my head and push my arms into the sleeves of the jacket. I pop the collar for more coverage. My steps are fast, but not fast enough to arouse notice. Another corridor is coming up, and I continue to take over other people’s walking paths. Just before I turn, I glance up to the mirror perched in the corner of the ceiling. I look toward the food court, and sure enough I find Deacon standing facing my direction, brow furrowed as he looks around, his hands folded behind his head as he searches. He knows that something is wrong. He feels it. The woman from the bus is nowhere in sight. And I realize that I could have been wrong about her; she could have nothing to do with the grief department. But there’s no time to think.
    I quickly dart around the corner and head for the exit. I’m careful not to look panicked, just hurried. I can’t check back to see if Deacon’s following me, so I stick to the wall. The sliding doors of the exit come into view. It’s started to rain, and I say a quiet thank-you. It’ll be harder to find me this way.
    I walk purposefully toward the sliding glass doors of the exit. The minute I’m outside, I pull my hood over the baseball cap, acceptable fashion while in the rain, and walk down the curb until I see a cab. I put out my hand, careful to keep myface turned from the doors in case Deacon walks out here. A cab stops, and I’m nearly out of breath as I get inside. I lock the door, and the cabdriver lifts his dark eyes to mine in the rearview mirror.
    “Corner of Fifth and Pearl, please,” I say, and sit back, sinking down slightly. The man shifts into gear, but keeps his foot on the brake and turns to look at me. “You know that’s just a few blocks from here, right?” he asks.
    “Yeah,” I say, although I had forgotten. “But it’s raining and I’m in a hurry.” Each second the driver delays, the closer Deacon