Free The Recovery by Suzanne Young Page A

“Quinn,” she says in her therapy voice. “Tell me about Emily Pinnacle.”
    I furrow my brow, contemplating. “She was quiet, polite. I read through her diary three times, flipped through photo albums, and studied her social media profiles. She didn’t have a boyfriend, but she had an intense crush on Jared Bathman. She never told him,” I say. “She should have, right?” I ask. Marie hums something noncommittal, and I continue. “She was worried he wouldn’t like her back,” I say. “But the day she died, he finally talked to her at the basketball game. She was so excited. On the way home she texted her friend and told her the entire conversation. But she never made it home.” I look down into my lap, tears pricking my eyes. “It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair Emily had to die at sixteen.”
    “You’re right,” Marie agrees. “It says here that her mother became very distraught after Emily’s death. The father hired us because she had become unstable, erratic. The counselors were very concerned about her well-being. What did you observe?”
    “Heartbreak,” I murmur. “I saw a lot of heartbreak.”
    “And how did it feel?”
    “It was a deep, dark hollow in my chest. It felt like hopelessness.” I look up to meet Marie’s eyes. “I started to think that I was never going to see my parents again—her parents,” I correct. “I was scared. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to die.” Tears roll down my cheeks as grief and loss submerge me. “Now I’ll be alone forever.” I tried to keep these feelings at bay when I was Emily, but now I can’t lie. I can’t hide from myself.
    Marie reaches to take my hand, squeezing to reassure me. “ You will see your father tonight, Quinn. You didn’t die—Emily Pinnacle did.”
    “It could have been me,” I say, shaking my head. “They all could be me.”
    “No,” she says. “You’re Quinlan McKee. You live at 2055 Seneca Place in Corvallis, Oregon. You’re seventeen and you drive a beat-up old Honda that your father won’t replace.” She reaches and touches my cheek to draw me back into reality. “And you’re alive, Quinn,” she whispers. “You’re here, and you’re alive.”
    I let her words soak in, thinking about my crappy car—the check-engine light that won’t shut off. After a moment I’m rooted back in place. Back in my life. I clear the tears and grab a tissue to blow my nose. When I’m cleaned up, Marie resettles on the couch.
    “Do you want to tell me about the T-shirt?” she asks.
    My stomach drops and I shoot a betrayed look toward the back room. “Aaron told you?” I ask, angry that he’s called me out twice since we’ve been here.
    “He had to.”
    It’s true. Even if my friend wanted to keep a secret, he couldn’t here. “Why were you asking about me in the first place?” I demand. “I don’t like being spied on, Marie.”
    “I thought we talked about this,” she says, ignoring my comment. “Taking things—retaining possessions of the dead. It isn’t healthy and it’s against the rules.”
    “Emily’s dad gave me the shirt. I didn’t steal it.” My emotions are starting to bubble up, but not the sadness I felt earlier. This is different—it’s anger, defiance.
    “I didn’t say you did,” Marie clarifies. “But why would you keep Emily’s shirt? Does it hold an emotional attachment?”
    My thoughts swirl as I fight the impending effect of the tea. Admitting an emotional attachment to the family could send me straight into therapy. This is why I hate talking about my feelings.
    “I just really liked the shirt,” I say, relieved at the words. Relieved . . . that I just told a small lie. I don’t react, even though my heart races. It wasn’t a huge lie—but it was evasive. The truth is that everything I keep has significance, even if it’s only slight. That T-shirt reminds me of my dad, Emily’s dad, and how he bought it for me on my birthday two years ago because he