Evelyn is done with her interview, exhausted as she mumbles about making tea. I go to help her, turning the stove knob until the burner catches fire, and I set the kettle on top. There’s a touch on my elbow, startling me, and I turn to see Asa.
“I wanted to say good-bye,” he says in his quiet manner. In regular clothes I think he looks just like anybody else—average and normal. There is nothing sinister about this handler, not when his eyes are so kind.
“Good-bye?” I repeat. “But we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. I know nothing about you.”
Asa smiles, looking around sheepishly. “No offense”—he motions to the cameraman—“but I want to keep it that way. There’s a girl back in San Diego I’d like to go check on. Then I plan to lie low while this shit hits the fan. I truly hope you all make it. I really do.”
“I know.” I lean in and hug him, careful of my injured side. I can’t blame Asa for not wanting to get involved. If anything, it proves how smart he is. My former handler makes his rounds, carefully avoiding the reporter, and slaps hands with James and hugs Realm. And just as quickly as Asa slipped into my life, he’s gone, having played his part in my rescue.
The night is long, and James and I opt out of a filmed interview in exchange for a written statement—mostly because we don’t want our faces out there any more than we have to. Realm refuses to talk at all, and Kellan doesn’t even approach Dallas. He got everything he needed from us and Evelyn. The doctor isn’t kind when he thanks her, ready to leave. I see her anxiety continue to ratchet up, her expectant looks at the door, the wringing of her hands. But she doesn’t ask any of us to go—not yet.
I offer to walk Kellan out, and it’s just the two of us when we get to his car. It’s close to midnight—the stars blotted out behind the canopies of the trees. There are crickets and frogs and so many noises around us, we could never feel alone.
“I’m sorry,” Kellan says. Surprised, I look up to meet his eyes, noting again how they’re not the dark black I saw the first time I met him at the Suicide Club.
“For what?”
“Not coming sooner. James told me how close you came to—”
I swallow hard and look away, stopping his statement. “But you came,” I say, pressing my lips into a smile. “In the end, all that matters is I’m not there now.”
“We have them, you know,” he says earnestly. “I’m going to find the studies, and those combined with Evelyn’s statements, the eyewitness accounts—The Program can never survive this PR mess. I assure you, Sloane. They’ll never take anything from you again.”
I hope Kellan is right, and at this point I believe in him. He chased me around the country, helped save my life—I have to believe he’s a good reporter if he can do all that. The cameraman comes out from Evelyn’s house with his gear, nodding a goodbye to me, and Kellan and I exchange one last hug. I watch as he climbs into his vehicle, ready to finish his big story. Before he pulls away, he rolls down his window.
“Sloane?” he asks. “If The Treatment was still around—if Evelyn made more . . . would you take it?”
I digest his words, rocking back on my feet. The pain of my time in The Program is still so raw, and yet, I think it’s just the tip of the pain I’ve endured in the last few months. What could getting it all back bring me?
“I don’t think so,” I tell him sincerely. “Sometimes, Kellan . . . I think the only real thing is now.”
He smiles at my answer, although his brows pull together like he’s a little confused. I wave to him and he drives away, leaving the rebels behind. Leaving us to each other.
The house is quiet when I go inside. James is curled up on the living room floor, talking quietly with Dallas while she lies on the couch above him. I like the picture—him being sweet to her, protecting her. James is different since he took The Treatment. More thoughtful in a way that proves we belonged together all along.
There’s a clink of a cup and I follow the sound into the kitchen, uneasy when I find Realm at the table all alone. Evelyn’s bedroom door is closed, and Realm glances over his shoulder when I walk in the room. Despite my urge to walk right back out, I take a seat across from him, daring to look him in the eyes.
“I told you once that I wish you hated me,” he says. “Is it too late to take it back?”
I don’t want him to be funny; it only makes it hurt more. I bring my hands into my lap, squeezing them into fists in an attempt to control the emotions threatening to burst through. “Why?” I ask. “If you were a handler in The Program—if you were the one who erased my memories—why pretend to be my friend? Why continue even after I returned?”
Realm swallows, his eyes watering and downcast as my words hit him. “I was doing my job. I fell in love.” He looks up. “I did what I could to keep you. But the simple answer: I’m selfish. I thought I could make you love me back—that without James you would. I thought I could wear you down.”
“I did love you.”
Realm smiles sadly. “Not like that. Never like him.” Realm’s gaze drifts past me to the living room. “He’s not bad, you know. I kinda like him. And I was wrong: I could never love you the way he does. That kid is absolutely nuts about you.”
I laugh, bringing my hands to the table as the anger fades. There’s more between Realm and me, instances I’m sure I can’t remember. I don’t want to. I want to leave us here—make a truce. I say good night, even though his eyes plead for more time.
James grins when he sees me, patting the carpet and telling me he saved me a spot. We plan to leave first thing in the morning. Evelyn is lending us a car so we can hide out somewhere in town, and Realm is taking Dallas to Corvallis, where she says she has a cousin who’d be willing to help her out for a while. We don’t know if Evelyn and Kellan have done enough to free us, but for the first time, we’re close to an ending. And there’s solace in that.
* * *
“We have to leave.”
The voice cuts through the room, and I’m on my feet, still blurry with sleep. I find Realm in the doorway, reddish-brown smears on the sleeves of his shirt. I let out a horrified cry, and both Dallas and James jump up, disoriented and confused.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” My first thought is that Realm is hurt, and I search for a source of his injury. But when I find none, I look past him toward the bedroom. The blood belongs to someone.
Realm is detached, licking the corner of his mouth as if he’s not exactly clear what he’s going to say. “Evelyn killed herself last night. She . . . uh, she didn’t want to go back to The Program. She left a note.” He takes a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. He doesn’t even look at it though; he stares through it. “She didn’t want them to ever get their hands on The Treatment. And she didn’t want them to get us. She . . . she said she was protecting her brain from the scientists.”
I stumble backward, and James catches me around the waist and eases me back onto the couch. I want to run in and check on her, but I know Realm would never leave her side if there was hope of reviving her. I see the devastation and guilt in his eyes. Next to me Dallas begins to weep, and James quickly takes her arm.
He sniffles back his own tears. “Realm’s right. We have to go.”
“We should call an ambulance,” I say. “Something!”
“No,” Realm says with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s too late. I’ve called Kellan and told him already; he’ll send someone when we’re clear. Now, James, grab the keys hanging by the door; car’s through the garage. I’ll meet you out front.”
“Realm . . .,” I start to say, but he’s already disappeared back into the kitchen. I hear cupboards opening and closing, the sliding of drawers as Realm gathers supplies. Evelyn Valentine is dead. She didn’t have to kill herself; she could have come with us. But ultimately her fear was too great. She was right—The Program has become the epidemic.
The next moments take on a dreamlike quality; Dallas cries, and James pulls her along while he shouts for me t
o hurry. We load the car and wait for Realm. He walks out the front door, pausing to lock it. He stands there, his back to us, staring at the house. I choke up, thinking Evelyn was probably the closest thing he had to a mother other than his sister. He doesn’t talk to us when he gets inside the car, only sits at the window, staring out, carrying a brown leather case.
I never asked what he took from Evelyn’s house that day. But I imagine Evelyn Valentine was a piece of his past he wasn’t willing to forget.
THE FALL OF THE PROGRAM
Once cloaked in secrecy, The Program project has been suspended indefinitely by the US government. Reacting to an interview confirming a system-wide cover-up, Congress moved swiftly to shut down all facilities until further notice.
As more details emerge about the procedures used in The Program, public outrage grows. One handler, Roger Coleman, was arrested on several counts of statutory rape and is awaiting trial. Coleman is accused of soliciting sex from underage patients in exchange for memories, and is facing up to sixty years in prison if convicted.
The scandal originally broke after a taped interview with the late Dr. Evelyn Valentine (a former employee) was leaked. She confirmed The Program’s knowledge of a study indicating their role in the epidemic, substantiating claims of a cover-up.
Since the closure, all patients have returned home and will be provided with follow-up care. But, as of now, the long-term effects of The Program remain to be seen.
—Reported by Kellan Thomas
CHAPTER ELEVEN—SIX MONTHS LATER
I ROLL DOWN MY WINDOW to let the warm air blow through my hair. James switches between radio stations, but all we hear are updates: The Program is dead, doctors and nurses testify in front of Congress about the lobotomies and the drop in suicides. Kellan Thomas is a household name—the rogue reporter who got the scoop of the century. He found the studies, and his interview with Dr. Evelyn Valentine was broadcast on every major news outlet. He never even used the story he collected from me and James.
The epidemic continues, but shortly after The Program received a cease and desist order while under federal investigation, the outbreak calmed—much like Evelyn had thought it would. Suicide hasn’t vanished, not entirely, but every month brings better statistics, and hopes are high.
James’s phone vibrates in the center console, and I look down just as he reaches to click ignore. Michael Realm. After all that’s happened, James and Realm have forged a friendship I try not to get between. I’ve never been able to trust Realm again, and I don’t know if I ever will. But my boyfriend is allowed to be friends with whomever he chooses—even if said friend once had me erased.
“I thought he was out of town,” I say. “Wasn’t he making some bad choices down in Florida?”
James pulls the car over to park in front of a pasture with cows milling about so he can quickly type out a return text. “I hate when you use your disapproving voice,” he tells me. When I don’t laugh, he sets down the phone and tugs me closer, resting his forehead against mine. “Be nice.”
“Shut up,” I mumble.
James smiles and then leans back to watch me. “That’s not very nice. Come on, baby. Life is good.” He runs his fingers between mine over and over as he talks. “We’re good. I don’t want to ruin it with talk of Michael Realm.”
“Says the person who’s now his best friend forever.”
“Not true.” Tingles races up my arm at James’s touch, warming my body. “What I am is grateful,” he says. “He got me out of The Program; he helped me get to you. He was grilled by those investigators and he didn’t once mention our names. We owe him. Not to mention that, without him, you would have ended up lobotomized—”
I pull my hand from his and cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah, I got it,” I say, still uncomfortable talking about my last hours in The Program. Even when I was questioned by authorities, I told them I was too drugged to remember the final details, the escape. I told them to defer to Program records, which I knew had probably been destroyed by then.
James is quiet for a moment, letting my anger pass as it always does. Then he starts in on my new favorite pastime since escaping the control of The Program: recall.
“There was this one night,” he says in that far-off voice he reserves for memories, “where you and Brady were about ready to throw down. I told you both that you were being stubborn, but I was, of course, ignored.” He rolls his eyes, but I’m smiling, the thought of my brother settling over me like a blanket.
“What were we fighting about?” I ask.
“What else? Me. You didn’t want me to stay the night because Lacey was coming over, and you said I was too obnoxious to play nice with others. Brady said Lacey was a lawsuit waiting to happen and that I was the safer bet. It got kind of ugly.”
“Who won?”
James laughs. “Me, of course.”
I lower my arms, grinning at the way the memory plays across my head. I don’t remember any of it, but I love when James tells me the stories. I love that he has them. “And how did you pull that off?” I ask.
He licks his lips, leaning a little closer. “I promised to be sweet. I may have had a little twinkle in my eye when I said it.”
“Hmm,” I say, reaching to take the fabric of his T-shirt in my hand to pull him closer. “I know that look. So, what? I just gave in? That doesn’t sound like me.”
“It wasn’t at all like you,” he whispers, pausing just as his lips brush against mine. “That’s how I knew you loved me. And that’s why I started leaving you notes. I told myself I wanted you to talk me out of it, but really, I just wanted you to talk to me.”
I kiss him; it’s playful and easy—we have time now. There’s no one after us. We’re free.
My phone rings from my back pocket, and James groans, trying to grab it from my hand when I take it out. He’s still kissing me as we both fumble for the phone, and when I finally pull away to check it, I see it’s my mom. “She has impeccable timing,” James says, and then drops back into the driver’s seat with one last mischievous glance in my direction.
I laugh and answer. “Hi, Mom.” James shifts the car into gear, leaving the pasture behind as we continue down the peaceful, winding road toward our destination. “What’s up?”
“Hi, honey,” my mother says, her voice distracted. “I can’t remember what you told me—was it mac ’n’ cheese you wanted me to pick up? That stuff is horrible for you.”
“I know, but I’ve been craving it. I haven’t had it in forever.” Not since I was on the run with the rebels, I think. I’m trying to convince myself I can handle memories of that time, even though my subconscious quickly tries to wipe it away.
“Your dad still wants pork chops, so I’ll make that junk as a side dish. Oh, here it is.” The phone rustles, and I tap my nails on the door.
“Anything else?” I ask, wanting to get back to James.
“No, that’s it,” my mother says happily. “Tell James I said hello. Make sure you’re both home by six.” I agree, and as soon as we hang up, I look sideways at James.
“I wish she’d stop trying so hard,” I say, although not unkindly. When I first returned home after the scandal broke, my parents were overwhelmed with the attention from the press and then the horror of the stories broadcast on the news. It’s taken months of therapy—normal therapy with normal doctors—for me to stop blaming my parents. Then they had to stop blaming themselves. We’re finally in a good place, I guess.
“At least she’s trying,” James says, continuing to stare straight ahead. My parents helped him buy a small stone at the cemetery to keep his father’s remains. Although it alleviated some of his guilt, James is still haunted by the fact that his father died alone. But we all have our crosses. Now James is at my house, staying in Brady’s old room. Soon it’ll be just us, because despite how much my parents kind of annoy me, I told them I’d stay a year. I realize I’ve missed them. I missed who they could be.
The sun glitters in the sky
, but James stays quiet, maybe thinking about his dad. I don’t like when he falls silent, bothered by things I can’t remember. Sometimes he cries out in his sleep—an aftereffect of The Treatment—as a tragic memory floods back in. He’ll be quiet for a few days, but eventually we talk it out. It’s not always easy to remember—I can see that now.
“Tell me another story about us,” I whisper.
The corner of James’s mouth twitches and he flicks a glance at me. “Clean or dirty?”
I laugh. “Let’s try a clean one.”
James seems to think for a moment, and then the smile fades to something softer, sadder. “There was this one weekend where we went camping with Lacey and Miller.”
At hearing the names, I feel a sharp twist of grief. But I need to hear their stories. James checks to see if I’m okay with him going on, and I nod to let him know that I am.
“So Miller, he was crazy about Lacey—I mean, the kid thought she walked on water. So you, being the insistent little matchmaker you are, thought camping would be a perfect double date. Which could have been the case if Lacey wasn’t completely allergic to nature. She was miserable, and Miller was like, ‘Oh, you don’t like mosquitos? Me either! Oh, you think beans are gross? Me too!’ It was painful to watch! So finally I pulled the kid aside and gave him some advice.”
“Uh-oh.”
“I told him he needed to play a little harder to get. Only he didn’t quite understand the concept. He spent the rest of the night ignoring her. The next morning Lacey cornered you, crying, asking what she did wrong.”
“How did it all work out?” I ask. I can’t remember Miller, not the way James does. I never really will. But hearing about him, it makes me feel connected to myself. Miller’s like a favorite character in a childhood story.
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