My mother shouts something that sounds an awful lot like “sue you,” and I tense my shoulders. “Are you sure you shouldn’t check?”
“Would it make you feel more comfortable?”
I swallow hard, hunching my shoulders. “Definitely.”
She slips outside, taking her little notepad with her. I am off the couch the instant I hear the door click shut. Her desk is small and sparse, highlighters and paper clips in the top drawer. Both file drawers are locked. Damn it.
I sigh, leaning back against the desk. A leather strap meets my eye. Her briefcase.
Through the door, I can hear Dr. Kirkpatrick working to soothe my mother. She probably won’t say anything about me being here. It breaches doctor-patient confidentiality, a fact that she’s probably discussing with my mother right this moment. With very little success I’d guess.
I open the heavy leather flap of her bag and flip through an assortment of invoices and educational articles. There are a few patient files with unfamiliar names, but nothing else. This can’t be another dead end. It just can’t be.
I go through it again, my fingers catching on a slim manila folder I hadn’t noticed before. No title.
I pull it out and glance through the papers. There are documents on meditation. Documents on study strategies. I scan one set of papers that’s been clipped together, and it’s—oh God. Oh God, that can’t be right.
But it is.
My knees threaten to give. I force them to hold by sheer force of will, my fingers pinching the clipped papers tightly.
The first page is a roster of the study group. The second is a list of chemical side effects. I see little red ticks and dots next to each of the names on the first sheet. Some sort of code. Or checklist.
I hear the door chime as I drop the folder back into her bag, holding on to those two papers. My blood is roaring behind my ears as I close the flap and shove the bag back beneath her desk. I fold the papers with shaking hands and shove them deep into my purse. I’m still fiddling my zipper closed when Dr. Kirkpatrick returns, shaking her head.
“I apologize for the interruption—Chloe, are you all right?”
Doubtful. My heart is probably beating three thousand times a minute and I’m breathing faster than a hummingbird. I say the only thing I can think of. “That was my mom, wasn’t it?”
It’s—oh God, it’s brilliant. I didn’t even think of it when I hatched this whole thing, but my mom showing up at an impromptu session? Yeah, that’s definitely a valid reason to panic.
Dr. Kirkpatrick sits back down, looking like she’s got it all figured out now. “Yes, it was. Something tells me you won’t be surprised that she’s here thanks to an alarming note left on her kitchen table.”
I look down and bite my bottom lip, hoping my total incapacitating panic will pass for shame.
“Chloe, is it possible that some small part of you wanted her to come here, to prove that you matter?”
The only thing my mother proved by showing up here is that she needs control like most of us need oxygen. But I don’t say that. I force a wounded look onto my face and glance up at her.
“Maybe,” I say, voice soft.
Dr. Kirkpatrick tilts her head and waits a beat. It stretches too long, long enough for me to think about how close I’m sitting to the woman who stole my memories. I think of the little red marks next to our names, and it’s all I can do not to bolt off the couch and run for the door.
“Chloe, it’s understandable to crave attention from your mother, to need that evidence of her love. But perhaps we should talk about more constructive ways to meet your needs?”
I nod along, and it’s easier than it should be considering who this high-handed crap is coming from today. But that’s fine. She can preach all she wants. If I’ve got what I think I do in my purse right now, I’m pretty sure the next time I hear her say anything, she’ll have her hand on a Bible and a judge to her right.
Chapter Twenty-six
Adam pulls into the school parking lot five minutes before he said he’d arrive. I hop out of my car and slide into his passenger seat. He’s clean and showered, but he still looks horribly unnerved. And even though he threads his hands through my hair and murmurs hello against my lips, I can’t kiss that pinched look away from him this time.
“So what’s up?” he asks.
I don’t answer, and I don’t ask about what’s got him upset. There will be time for all that later. I unzip my purse and offer him the paper with the chemical name and possible reactions. I scoot back to my side of the car because I don’t need to read it. I know every side effect listed.
Vivid dreams. Increased cognitive ability. Dry mouth. Excessive thirst. Sleepwalking. Headaches. Paranoid delusions. And my personal favorite—memory disturbances.
Adam scans the page, brow furrowing. “What is this?”
“Well, they don’t have a kitschy name for it yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s a variation of a benzodiazepine. You know, like…Rohypnol.”
He looks up at me, eyes wide with shock. “Chloe, why do you have dosage and side effect information on Rohypnol?”
“Well, it’s not exactly Rohypnol. In addition to that dratted blackout effect, Rohypnol creates drunken, sluggish behavior. Not really conducive to exceptional test results.”
“What are you even talking about?”
I hand over the second paper, the one with our names and all the little red pen marks. “See, this fancy new stuff lowers inhibitions, but boy, it sure makes you a real sponge for information. As long as you don’t lose huge chunks of your memories, you’re golden.”
He meets my eyes, and it’s clear he’s gotten it now. His voice is low. Different than I’ve ever heard it maybe. The paper shakes in his hands, and I watch it shudder. It brings me back to that first day I remember looking at him. I think of Maggie at the front of the class and me pulling the fire alarm.
“Chloe, where did you get this?” he asks, voice whisper quiet and face blanched.
“In Dr. Kirkpatrick’s files. Don’t worry. You and Blake don’t have any marks next to your name, so it didn’t affect you. But all of the rest of us have some. I have only two, so I guess I should feel pretty lucky, huh?”
“You think our study group was drugged.” He sounds like a robot, like he can’t believe it, can’t even get his head around the possibility.
“There’s no thinking to it, Adam. You are holding the proof.”
He shakes his head over and over. “And you found this in Dr. Kirkpatrick’s files? Are you sure?”
I roll my eyes. “Well, unless she just so happened to swap briefcases with the person who’s behind my memory loss, then yes, I’m pretty freaking sure.”
He looks so pale I wonder if he’ll get sick. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he silences it with a grimace. He rubs a shaking hand over his bloodshot eyes. “What are you going to do?”
“Go to the police. What else would I do?”
He shakes his head. “You can’t do that.”
“Excuse me?”
“What if you’re wrong? What if this is a misunderstanding? I know this looks bad, Chloe, but this is the sort of thing that can end her career even if she’s proven innocent.”
I bristle at his words, glaring across the seat. “Are you insane? It was paper clipped together! She’s in on it, Adam!”
“Or maybe she’s the one who uncovered it! Have you considered that? Have you thought for one second about what you might do to her without even knowing her intentions?”
I haven’t thought of that. I haven’t thought of much of anything, so I stay silent, watching him like a lit stick of explosives.
He draws back from me, his face closing off as he hands the papers back. “I just think you should talk to her.”
“Talk to her? Talk to the woman who might have drugged eighteen teenagers?”
“Yes, talk to her! Because if she found this, going against each other could unravel the whole damn thing. There is strength in numbers, Chlo.”