“Used to be? Not very many people would climb up here. Not sure I would have if I wasn’t coming after you.”
“I’m not afraid of things like this,” I say, and then I sigh and tilt my head. “But whoever did this to me…I’m scared of them.”
He leans in, kissing me once, long and soft and deep enough that I almost forget where I am. When he pulls pack, I wish I could just freeze everything about this moment so I could keep it with me.
“No one’s going to hurt you, Chloe,” he says softly.
“You going to protect me?” I ask, leaning in to kiss the underside of his jaw.
He groans a little. “As long as I make it off this building alive, I am.”
We climb down and settle into his car. There’s nothing open, so we make do with gas station fare: a pack of Twinkies and two tall, steaming cups of coffee. Mine goes down like heaven without a single nauseous afterthought.
“I thought I’d never drink coffee again,” I say, cradling the paper cup to me like an old friend.
“I’m a bad influence.”
“Yeah, I’m glad you brought that up,” I say. “You’re supposed to be this bad boy, so what gives?”
“What gives?”
“Yeah, you’re like…like Clark Kent.”
“Clark Kent?” He looks less than pleased at the comparison.
“Well, you did come to my rescue in the library.”
“Right, that.” He shrugs. “I figured it’d be a good way to get around to kissing you.”
“Making me freeze to death while you studied for another hour after rescuing me? Interesting strategy.”
He smirks again, and I think I understand why girls go for the bad boy. Or at least, the guys who appear to be bad boys.
“I think it’s all an act,” I say, licking Twinkie filling off my finger. “This bad boy thing. You do it to pick up girls.”
“Is it working?” he asks, leaning closer.
“Jury’s still out,” I say, but when he kisses the side of my neck, I’m pretty sure the verdict is in.
***
It’s eight o’clock at night when the waitress drops off our pancake platters. I pour what must be a half gallon of syrup over the top, and Adam laughs.
For ten minutes, I pick at my food while I talk. Adam listens to me outline all of the weird things I’ve pieced together, from my missing Julien file right down to the mystery Daniel/Dr. Kirkpatrick phone call. I even mention the hypnosis research, though I still can’t imagine how that would factor in.
I take a break to dig into my now lukewarm stack, and Adam leans back thoughtfully, his plate mostly clean.
“So how does it tie together? Did Dr. Kirkpatrick somehow hypnotize you into forgetting all about the last six months? Why?”
“I have no idea.”
Adam’s brow furrows. “I don’t know, Chlo. She did relaxation stuff but nothing like what you’re talking about. And I can’t figure a motive. Something like this would destroy her career.”
“Maybe she’s being blackmailed? Maybe she wants more money? Who knows what drives people to crime?”
“Typically, what drives people is pretty transparent. I mean, I’ve met the lady. She doesn’t really have an evil vibe.”
He’s got a point, but I’ve got more than a point. I have freaking evidence. Sort of.
“Adam, she was talking to someone about Julien. Someone named Daniel. As in possibly Daniel Tanner, one of the sponsors of our little study group.”
“Or as in Daniel Smith down at the post office or Daniel Starinsky who runs the gas station by the school. Do you know how many Daniels are in Ridgeview? For all we know, Julien has another doctor named Daniel and she was talking to him.”
I push a piece of pancake slowly through a river of syrup. “You think I’m grasping at straws.”
Adam reaches across the table, fingers covering my hand. “You want to know what happened to you, and I get that.”
“But?”
“But you’re too ready to point the finger. Maybe at people who didn’t do anything wrong.”
“She sounded nervous, Adam. Why would she be nervous about me talking about Julien if she hadn’t done anything wrong?”
“Maybe she was upset. Julien was in our group, Chlo. Maybe she got attached to her, and she’s worried about how upset she thinks you are about it.”
His points feel like they’re picking mine apart. And not doing a bad job of it either. “Fine,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll let it go.”
Adam smiles, but there’s something a little wary in his eyes when he shakes his head. “No, I don’t think you will. I’m pretty sure you don’t let much of anything go.”
“Careful. Being this smart can’t be good for your bad boy rep,” I say.
He steals one of the sausage links beside my pancakes, and the conversation shifts. He points out the beams in the ceilings, and I talk about an article I read on the mood impacts of decor like this, with vintage photographs and household items displayed as artwork. It’s the first time I’ve felt normal since I woke up in the classroom.
The drive home is long and quiet. He keeps the radio low, and I use the seat belt in the middle so I can curl up under his arm. I find a jagged scar, just above his wrist, tracing it with my fingers while I watch the road unfold before us.
For a while I think of what I should call this. Is he my boyfriend? It feels like such a small, childish word for the way I feel. And some part of me knows I should be afraid of this, this feeling of absolute rightness I have being pressed up against him.
But then he kisses the top of my head, and I smile. After that I don’t think much at all.
I’m half-asleep when I speak again, a sudden thought stirring me from my drowsiness. “I haven’t remembered anything.”
“What’s that?” he asks, his voice rumbling through his chest next to my cheek.
“All the times we kissed today, I didn’t remember anything. I usually remember things when you touch me.”
“Only me?”
“Only you,” I say. “But today I didn’t. I didn’t remember anything.”
“Maybe the wrong part of your mind was engaged tonight,” he says, tickling my side until I laugh out loud and smack his arm.
But he’s got a point. With his lips against mine, my mind definitely doesn’t function at its highest level.
He walks me to my door but hesitates when I lean in for another kiss.
“Did you turn into a pumpkin?” I tease.
“Cute,” he says. “I just haven’t met your parents yet. Seems a little rude to make out with you on the doorstep.”
He’s smiling, but that same tight look is back on his features. He looks around the road and then back at me before pressing a quick kiss to my lips.
“Sweet dreams, Chloe.”
I nod through a yawn then snag his hand as he’s turning away. “You’re still going to help me get to the bottom of this, right?”
“How can I resist an offer like that?”
I kiss him again, lingering a little before I draw back. “You can’t. I won’t let you. I’ll see you soon?”
“Not soon enough.”
I’m not sure my feet even hit the ground as I walk inside. I’m floating on a bubble of hormonal giddiness. I swear, I should have chirping birds trailing behind me.
I glide into the kitchen, smile so wide my cheeks hurt. It dies on my lips when I flip on the overhead light, illuminating my mother leaned against the sink.
“I think we need to have a little talk.”
Chapter Eighteen
There are no little talks with my mother, and this one is no exception. It’s like sitting through a eulogy or a recitation of the local phone book. Except I’d prefer either of those things over this.
She doesn’t yell either. Just drones on and on about the endless depths of her disappointment and my failure to live up to my potential.
“Are you even listening to me?” she asks.
Not really.
“Yes.”
She shakes her head, signaling the move into act three. The Guilt Effect. “Chloe, when you tell me you’re out with friends to study, I believe you. That trust is broken now.”
“I said I’m sorry,” I say, pressing my still-tender lips together. “I’m not sure what else you want me to tell you.”