Adam can see he’s gotten a foothold with me because he leans in, touching my face. “I’ll go with you, but you have to talk to her. Give her a chance to explain all of this.”
I pull the papers from his hands and rattle them for emphasis. “I’m not giving these back to her.”
He just runs a trembling hand through his hair and sighs. “Fine. Let’s just talk to her. When does she leave her office?”
“Like two hours ago.”
“So we’ll meet tomorrow? When she closes?”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. She takes her last patient at four, I think,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, reaching for me. “We’ll get through this. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Okay,” I say again, but for once I’m not comforted by the feel of his hand against my face. Because all I can think about is the way his fingers shake against my skin.
***
I drop my keys on the table inside the door. The house is warm and mostly quiet. I follow the smell of bacon and the sound of sizzling into the kitchen. Dad’s hunched over a skillet, plaid shirt stretched across his wide shoulders.
“How goes it?” he asks.
“I’ve been better,” I admit, checking the clock on the microwave. Twenty-one hours until I can do something about this. Or I could go right now. If I’m right, I could blow this whole thing open tonight.
And if I’m wrong, Dr. Kirkpatrick’s career will be destroyed.
I watch my dad pull the strips of bacon out of the skillet. He lays them side by side on a nest of paper towels with at least a dozen others. “You know, your mother’s worked herself into a real lather over the whole Dr. Kirkpatrick episode today.”
Oh shit. I completely, totally forgot about that.
Great. I’ve got twenty-one hours until I confront the woman who drugged me. And I’m probably going to spend twenty and a half of those hours on the receiving end of a riot act.
“Mom would work herself into a lather if I had a tardy at school,” I say, snagging a strip of bacon from the paper plate.
He turns off the burner and shoves the skillet back on the stove. He looks angry. It’s a rare sight, but one I try not to mess with. “Why the note, Chlo?”
“What?”
Dad throws up his hands, clearly exasperated. “It’s like throwing gasoline at a forest fire. You know how she is.”
I crunch my bacon in silence and stare hard at the floor. What am I going to say to him? I can’t exactly tell him that yes, I did know, and the whole point was to freak her out of her mind so I could concoct a scene and steal files from my psychiatrist.
Frankly, thinking about it now makes me feel like a complete tool.
“You going to say anything about this?” he says.
“I don’t know what to say, Dad. I know it wasn’t right, but I’m tired of it. We haven’t seen eye to eye in forever.”
“Yeah, since you started walking,” he says, scoffing a little. “But this is different. You scared her, kid. And you’re acting like that doesn’t matter to you.”
I feel a stab of guilt, and I put the bacon down, my appetite gone. “It does matter. I can’t explain it all.”
“Well, it’s a new trend for you. And I’m trying hard not to assume it’s about that Adam kid—”
“Dad—”
“Don’t you ‘Dad’ me, Chloe. I’m in her corner on that one. I don’t particularly like the idea of you dating anyone, but someone with a record?”
“There’s more to that story than she knows, and more than you know too.”
“I don’t need to know anything else about Adam, and the truth is, Chloe, neither do you! Do you have any idea how bright your future is now? Do you have any idea what kinds of things are open to you?”
I roll my eyes, pressing my back to the wall. “Yes, Dad, I do. I know because I have a parent who’s drilled me on the importance of my future every minute of every day for the past seventeen years.” Then I feign a shocked gasp. “Oh, look! Now I have two of those.”
He looks down, clearly hurt. God, what is wrong with me? What the hell am I doing? I feel knotted end over end, wrung out like an old sponge. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me anymore.”
“Why are you so sure there’s something wrong? You have an open invitation to just about any college you want and parents willing to pay for it. How is that so damn bleak?”
“It isn’t bleak. But sometimes it doesn’t feel real. I don’t even know who I am or what I want, Dad. I can’t just do backflips because suddenly I’m a terrific student. There’s more to me than that.”
The words leave my mouth, and I feel stronger for having said them.
Before he can say anything else, the front door opens. “Hello! Guys?”
“In the kitchen!” Dad wipes his hands on a dish towel and puts the skillet in the sink.
Mom comes in wearing a gray suit and a megawatt grin. Something’s up. She should be frosting me out right now, but she even includes me in that smile, though it’s tighter around the edges.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m really sorry about that letter. I know it was…”
Mom arches a brow, happy to fill in the blanks for me. “Dramatic? Cruel? A breach of my trust on every level?”
“Maybe all of those things,” I admit, deflating. “I’m sorry. I am.”
She looks at me, and I can see the temptation for her to dig into me. For once, I’m pretty sure I deserve it. Which is why you could knock me over with a feather when she shakes her head.
“We’re going to put that on hold. You got mail.” She holds the envelopes just out of my reach, and the big smile is back. “But before you open these, I want you to know we have a lot of things to discuss, and I’m still very angry.”
“You do look furious.” I can’t resist it. It’s hard to take her seriously when she looks like she’s about to burst into song and dance.
“Fine. Open them.”
I scan the return addresses on the envelopes as she hands them over. Notre Dame and Columbia. College letters. Big college letters. From two of the most coveted, respected universities for psychology students everywhere. I turn them over, a little struck by what I’m about to do.
“Stop dillydallying and open them!” Dad says. He’s never been one for patience. I shoot him a brief glare and then tear them both open, pulling them loose at the same time. I don’t even breathe as I unfold them. I feel like it’s someone else’s hands. Someone else’s eyes. Someone else’s life altogether.
And that person has just been invited to apply to Notre Dame and Columbia.
Both of them.
Which pretty much means I’m in.
I feel too light for my skin, as if my body’s been filled with helium. I snag the back of a kitchen chair, desperate for something to tether me back to the here and now.
“This is it,” Mom says, beaming. “This is the beginning of your future, Chloe. You did it.”
They squeeze me into a hug, and we all dissolve into laughter. They keep saying it over and over. You did it. You did it.
Somebody did it all right. I’m just not so sure it was me.
I stare at my purse, where a different future lingers. A future of police investigations and courtrooms. All of this laughter and dancing in the kitchen will come to a screeching halt as our scores and grades are examined. Maybe even retested.
In this other future, my parents will be reminded of exactly who I really am.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I meet Adam one block away from Dr. Kirkpatrick’s office at five. He doesn’t say anything when I slide into his car, and pulls away from the curb before I can kiss him. I hold on to the edge of my seat, shocked at his speed.
It isn’t like him to drive this fast. Or to be this quiet.
He looks pale and gaunt, dark circles ringed beneath his eyes. I’m sure he hasn’t slept at all. No way.
“Hey, are you all right?” I ask.
He doesn’t take his eyes from the road. Just nods and checks his phone. A minute later, he checks it again. And then again.
“Is the president calling?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
He looks at me then. “Keeping an eye on the time.”
“Okay.”