CHAPTER Eight
WE’RE LIVING OFF GAS STATION CUISINE UNTIL CAS
shows up a few days later with a bag of nonperishable goods he snagged from the food bank. Dallas eyes him but doesn’t ask where he’s been. But soon after he returns, they’re leaving for long stretches—hours at a time—with no explanation of where they’re going. Because of my and James’s high-profile statuses, we’re left behind to wonder about them.
The days begin to blur together, and cut off from the outside world, James and I are falling into a routine. I start to think that maybe we could actually get a dog—but then my rational side reminds me this is all pretend. At least for now.
“You should wear an apron,” James calls out playfully from the kitchen table as I wash the last of our dishes. I’ve never thought of myself as very domestic, and if my cooking proves anything, I’m not. So James cooks, and I clean, and Dallas and Cas wander about like rebel leaders and make jokes about how James and I are playing house.
I shut off the water and then, instead of drying my hands on the dishtowel, I walk over and wipe them on James’s face as he tries to fight me off. We’re both laughing, wrestling in a way that will surely end in kissing, when Dallas walks in, taking in the scene.
“Cute,” she says as if she doesn’t find it even the least bit endearing. “Did you get the hot water heater working?” she asks James. He bends his head back to look at her as I sit on his lap.
“Not yet. I’m not very handy.” He smiles. “My talents lie elsewhere.” I swat his chest and he laughs, turning back to Dallas. “The Internet on your phone is spotty here, so I can’t down-load a how-to video or anything. Is Cas good at fixing stuff?”
“No,” she says immediately. “Cas is good at gathering information, not evaluating it.”
James straightens and helps me off of him as he stands.
“What sort of information? What exactly are you and Cas doing all day, and why won’t you tell us?”
“We’re collecting intel, monitoring the safe houses, looking for new recruits. And we don’t tell you because we don’t trust you. While you and Sloane are living in some delusion, there are people killing themselves. It’s an epidemic out there, James, and The Program is using that to further their agenda. First step is getting rid of all of us.”
“And how do I know you’re not the one leading them here?” James asks, calling her on the suspicions that have been festering.
Dallas’s normally pretty face hardens, her jaw tightens.
“You want to know why I don’t work for The Program?” she asks him. She pushes up her sleeves and holds out her arms, a wide scar, light pink and healed, wraps around her wrists. “This is from the restraints,” she says. “I kept pulling out my hair, so they tied me down. But that made fighting off the handler pretty difficult.”
“F*ck,” James murmurs as he looks over her scars. A shud-der races through me, knowing the story, and hating Roger even more for it.
“‘The first one’s free,’ he told me,” Dallas says, her eyes dark and cold. “He stuffed a pill inside my mouth and said to focus on a memory. I focused on my mother. I nearly choked to death on my own vomit, but he wouldn’t take off the restraints.
Said I was a danger to myself.”
James reaches for the chair to steady himself, but I’m watching Dallas with both sympathy and understanding. She can’t be part of The Program—after what Roger did to her, she could never work for them.
“They kept me sedated for close to three weeks,” Dallas continues. “And for those three weeks all I remember is his hands on me. His body on mine. He said he only liked the willing, but when the choice is him or eradication, I’m not sure there is much willingness in that. I gave in to him. I had no choice. But he stopped giving me the pills, said I couldn’t remember too much or The Program would realize what he was doing. He lied to me. He took everything from me.
“The minute they removed my restraints, I grabbed a Taser and nearly killed him. I wanted to.” Her hard expression cracks long enough for a few tears to streak from her heavily lined eyes. “I’m going to kill them all,” she says quietly. “I’m going to burn that place to the ground.”
“I didn’t know,” James says to her. “I’m sorry.” Then to my surprise, he reaches for Dallas and draws her into a hug, brushing his hand over her arm in a moment so tender, I can’t help but feel jealous. “We’ll find him,” James whispers. “And we’ll kill him.”
Dallas doesn’t look at me. Instead she closes her eyes, squeezing them tight as her arms come around James, turning her face to rest on his shoulder. She’s completely stripped down and broken, and James is the only thing holding her up as she starts to cry.
“Shh . . .” He strokes her blond dreads. After a few minutes I leave to go back to our room, giving them some privacy.
Because even though I don’t trust Dallas, I trust James completely.
In my bedroom I go to the closet, where I set the pill on the top shelf behind an old book of children’s bible stories. I pull the string connected to the light and then sit on the floor of the closet, examining the pill through the Baggie. How hard both Dallas and I must have fought to keep our memories. Roger preyed on us. And now here I am with a key I would have given anything for.
Now I can take it. But it’s been only a few days since I felt the darkness, and only seven weeks since I left The Program.
Am I truly cured? Wasn’t Lacey? Lacey.
I close my eyes, crumpling the Baggie in my fist. Lacey’s memories drove her crazy; I can’t risk that. I can’t get sick again; I can’t let James get sick again. The girl I used to be is dead—
The Program killed her. And for better or worse, I’m what’s left.
I’ll never take the pill. I never want to know. Resigned to this, I stand and put the pill back in its place. Then I turn off the light and close the door behind me.
James and I are in the backyard, lying shoulder to shoulder in the dying grass, tanning our skin. We’ve been inside so much, we’re starting to look like vampires. We never did see the Dateline special, but it seems since then we’ve been replaced with more tragic stories about the spreading epidemic. We’re trying to make the best of our situation here, but staying in the house is making us stir-crazy. So we came to lie in the backyard, pretending we’re on the grass beach in Oregon again.
The Escalade turns into the driveway, and I shade the sunlight with my palm, watching the car pull into the garage. I’m annoyed Dallas and Cas are back—annoyed this isn’t just all ours. I wonder what James and I would do if they never came back at all. Would we stay here?
“I hope they brought food,” James says from next to me, his eyes still closed. “If not, we’re stealing the car and making a McDonald’s run.”
“Deal.” I turn over, curling against James as the heat of the sun beats down on my cheek and arm. If I could, I’d live this moment forever. Birds chirping, sun shining. James opens one eye to look over at me, and I smile broadly.
“Adorable,” he says, and gives me a quick kiss. When the garage door closes, James groans and sits up. “Dallas,” he calls.
“What’s for dinner?”
Dallas walks from the garage with a brown fast-food bag in one hand, and a canvas satchel in the other. She looks us over, her face more serious than I’d expect on a beautiful summer day. “I have something for you,” she says to James. Cas comes from the garage, his face downturned, and immediately James is on his feet.
“What’s happening?” he asks, meeting them at the back door. “What’s wrong?”
Dallas leans against the railing, the wood creaking like it might break. Cas tosses a weary glance in my direction. I climb up, suddenly out of breath. Are the handlers on their way? Did they hear something about Lacey?
Out of the satchel Dallas pulls a black accordion file, stuffed with papers, their edges fraying. My gut sinks, and I walk over to put my foot up on the stair, waiting to hear what they’ve found.
“It’s your file, James,” Dallas says. “From your time in The Program. I got access to it from a source—she stole the whole damn thing. It’s”—she looks at me—“an interesting read.”
“You read my file?” James asks, but his voice is choked as he stares at the papers. Dallas is about to give him what I wouldn’t . . . his past. My body begins to tremble.
Dallas shrugs. “I didn’t read the entire thing,” she offers.
“Just the good parts.” She flashes her gap-toothed smile. “And sorry, Sloane. I couldn’t get my hands on yours. They’re keeping that one on lock.”
James stands frozen, as if he can’t believe this is really happening. When he takes the file from Dallas, he turns to me, wide-eyed. “Let’s check it out.”
“James”—Dallas holds up her finger—“maybe you should read it alone first.” Her gaze flicks to me for a second, and from behind me I hear Cas shift. I swallow hard.
“Thanks for the advice,” James says, and then points to the fast-food bag Dallas is holding. “That for us?” Dallas nods, and James plucks the bag from her hands and disappears inside, calling my name from the kitchen.
I climb the rest of the stairs, dread seeping from my pores.
I pause in front of Dallas when I get to the top. “What’s in his file?” I whisper. Her expression is both fascinated and smug.
“Guess you’ll see,” she says. She holds open the door for me, and I narrow my eyes at her before walking in.
“Tattoos,” James says the minute I’m through the kitchen door. He’s got a cheeseburger to his lips, the open file spread out on the table. “These scars were tattoos. Can you believe it?” He slaps the page down and pulls up his shirtsleeve to show the white lines. On the table is a photograph, and I take in a sharp gasp when I see the first name.
“Brady,” I say. Surprised, James looks down and sets the cheeseburger aside.
“I tattooed your brother’s name on my arm,” he says quietly, and looks up. “I must have cared a lot about him.” The thought brings me comfort, knowing Brady wasn’t alone even though Realm had told us as much. But I’m glad they were friends. It tells me a lot about the kind of person James must have been, and it reassures me. Maybe I never needed to be afraid of our past together.
James leans forward suddenly and pokes at the picture.
“Holy shit. Look.”
I sit next to him, and when I see it, I turn to him. “Miller.” The name Miller is the last on James’s list, but it’s not tattooed like the other names. It’s a cut, jagged and scabbed over like he . . . carved it into his arm. I grab his bicep, inspecting the space, trailing my thumb along the scars.
Miller. Miller. My eyes flutter closed, something itching behind my skull, a thought cracking through the smooth surface of my memories until it shatters open.
“Would you mind moving over?” a guy says, coming to stand next to me at the lab table. “I’m kind of an expert at this.” I glance up and back away from the Bunsen burner, which I couldn’t manage to turn on.
“Golly, gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically. “I didn’t know they were sending in the professionals.”
The guy’s mouth twitches with a smile as he reaches to turn the gas all the way up, the hissing barely audible over the sound of the other student conversations in the chemistry room. “Name’s Miller, by the way,” he says. “In case you want to write a thank-you letter.”
“I’m drafting it in my mind as we speak. Um . . . are you sure the gas should be turned up that high?” I look around the room, but my teacher seems preoccupied with his computer screen.
“Miller,” I say, feeling funny using his name when we’ve only just met. “Please don’t burn up my homework.” He turns to me, the igniter dangling from his fingers. “Are you kidding?” he asks. “I could do this with one hand tied—” He clicks the igniter and the minute there’s a spark, all I hear is a giant whoosh before a bright-blue flame explodes over the Bunsen burner. I yelp and Miller drops the igniter, sending more sparks over the lab table, igniting the homework I’d just specifically told him not to burn up!
The girl at the lab table in front of us looks back and then points a panicked finger at our now-flaming table. Miller reaches quickly to turn down the Bunsen burner, and then, with complete calm, he picks up my half-empty can of Diet Pepsi and douses the fire, putting it out with an unceremonious sizzle.
“Well, shit,” he says, staring down at the soggy, smoking, with-ered paper. “That didn’t go the way I planned it in my head.”
I put my hand on my hip and turn to glare at him. But the minute his dark brown gaze meets mine, we both start laughing.
Miller. I open my eyes, feeling the tears rush over my cheeks. What happened to Miller?
“I remember him,” I whisper. “I have a memory of him.” James grips my forearm, squeezing tight, even though I’m sure he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I shouldn’t have this memory. Is this recall? Will I end up like Lacey, broken and crashing? My heart is pounding so fast, I’m afraid it might just quit. “I think Miller was my friend, and I remember him.” James gathers me into a hug. “What have they done to us?” he whispers, mostly to himself. I replay the memory over and over like a sad song on repeat, familiar and comforting even though it’s scratchy and painful. “Look at me,” James says, pulling back to examine my face. “Headache?”
I shake my head, and he takes another second to make sure I don’t spontaneously combust. He waits while I tell him the memory, smiling likes it’s a good story and not some forgotten piece of my past. When I’m done talking, I’m calmer.
“Better?” James asks softly.
“Yeah. There’s nothing else trying to break through. It was just a blip—a spike and then back to flatlining. This isn’t like Lacey,” I say. Even though James didn’t bring up the connection, I know it must have crossed his mind.
“Of course it’s not,” he says dismissively, his jaw tight. “But that memory—we’re not going to tell anyone about it. Maybe you’ll have others, maybe you won’t, but this is our secret.” He looks at me. “Right?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him. I quickly assess myself and realize I’m telling the truth. I do feel fine. A little stressed, but I don’t feel like I’m about to fall apart or anything. This isn’t at all like Lacey.
After a moment James picks up the photo of his tattoos again, checking it against the scars on his arm. “What happened to all these people?” he asks.
“They died.” I think about Brady. My brother’s final days were erased from my memory, and this could be our only chance to find out what really happened to him. “James,” I say, reaching past him to spread out the files, looking for my brother’s name. “See if there’s any mention of Brady.” He helps me sort through the file, picking out papers that he thinks look promising. “How about this one?” he asks, sliding out a page. “It’s minutes from my sessions with Dr. Tabor.” I look sideways at James, surprised he remembers his doctor’s name. I remember Dr. Warren, but James has never mentioned anything about his time in The Program, nothing beyond that it’s all a blur.
“It’s the only one,” he says, examining the print on a few other papers before he gives up the search. He settles back in the chair with a quick look at me to make sure I’m listening, and then he starts to read from the page. “Session one,” he starts. “Patient 486: James Murphy. Doctor: Eli Tabor. The patient refused medication for targeted recall and was therefore injected.” James tenses at the line, and I lean down to read over his shoulder.
Dr. Tabor: Why are you here, James?
Patient 486: What? They didn’t tell you? What sort of a seedy operation is this?
Dr. Tabor: Are you depressed?
Patient 486: Not that depressed. Maybe I’m just tired.
Dr. Tabor: Tell me about Brady Barstow.
Patient 486: F*ck you.
(Patient becomes uneasy and another injection is given.)
Dr. Tabor: Better?
Patient 486: No.
Dr. Tabor: I see. James, teens in your position are always combative; this isn’t a new feeling.
But you need to understand that we’re here to help you. To cure you. Do you want to live?
Patient 486: Not after you’re done, I won’t.
(Note that patient’s speech is slurred.)
Dr. Tabor: Is it because of your girlfriend?
Patient 486: Don’t have one.
I pause at the line and look at James. The minute he reads it, his breathing changes, but he doesn’t turn to me. A new sort of worry begins, and I read on, hoping it’s just a lie.
Dr. Tabor: You’re not dating Sloane Barstow, Brady’s sister?
Patient 486: I wouldn’t call it dating.
Dr. Tabor: What would you call it then?
Patient 486: Pity.
My stomach drops at the word pity. I don’t believe it, but inside, a seed of doubt has been planted.
Dr. Tabor: We have extensive research on
you and Miss Barstow. We know you’ve been in a relationship for years now.
Patient 486: Her brother asked me to take care of her. I have been. But the minute she’s eighteen, I’m done. I’ll be done with Sloane and you won’t have to worry about her ever again.
Dr. Tabor: But we are worried. She may not be carving names into her arm, but she’s high-risk, James. We want to bring her in.
Patient 486: You’re wasting your time. She doesn’t love me. I don’t love her. Sure, we sleep together sometimes, but that should be expected.
I’m a pretty good catch.
Dr. Tabor: James—
Patient 486: Are we done here? Because I’m done talking.
Dr. Tabor: No. I want to—
(Note that Patient 486 charged the desk and grabbed my coat to attack me. Handlers were brought in to sedate him. He will sit in isolation for three days before his next session.)
Additional notes: Patient 486 attempted to terminate his life following his session. After waking from his sedation, he used his sheets to try and hang himself in his room. Dr. Arthur Pritchard has been called in for a consult.
I stand up from the kitchen chair, bumping it back against the wall. James is motionless, still staring down at the papers.
He tried to kill himself. He said he never loved me. I can remember Miller.
Suddenly my head is pounding, my heart racing. I touch my temples just as a wave of dizziness hits—I shouldn’t mess with my memories, but I can’t stop myself. I’m trying to piece together what I know for certain.
When I first returned from The Program, I met James outside of the Wellness Center. A guy named Liam had called me a freak, and although we didn’t know each other, James stood up for me. As we got closer, James always held back. Is this why?
Would he have really left me when I turned eighteen?
Tears start to sting my eyes, and I rub them roughly as I back away from the table. I need a minute to figure out what’s happening. I leave the kitchen, heading for our room . . . and James doesn’t stop me.