“Adam, everybody makes mistakes.”
“Yeah, but most of them don’t rank up there with breaking and entering.”
I want to argue, but I know it won’t work. For whatever reason, he needs to own what he’s done. Pooh-poohing it isn’t the answer. But hell, neither is wallowing in it.
“So it was stupid,” I say, throwing up my hands. “Fine. You were stupid. Now get over it. And maybe get some help for her. Have you looked into that at all?”
He scoffs, relaxing against his closed door. “Look around you, Chlo. We’re not exactly wading in cash and options.”
“But there are like twelve zillion social programs for senior citizens. So why not? Is she an illegal immigrant or something?”
“You don’t get it, do you?” He cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “I don’t have any other family.”
“I know you care about her—”
“Care about her?” Adam practically sneers at that. “Yeah, Chloe, I do. But I’m not Mother Teresa, and this isn’t just about family loyalty. If they find out how bad she’s gotten, we’ll both end up in the system.”
I shake my head, still not getting it.
He leans closer. “Nursing home for her. Foster home for me. Good-bye, Ridgeview High and its reasonably decent academic program. Hello, foster care and schools with metal detectors.”
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, the one that’s worked its way up from my chest. “You stole the medicine because you didn’t want to go into foster care.”
“Yeah. And because I didn’t want my grandmother to die. She isn’t perfect. But I’m all she’s got.”
He must take my silence for something bad because he crosses his arms over his chest and hardens his expression. “It’s not pretty, Chlo. But it is what it is. And it’s not right to drag you into it.”
“I don’t give a damn about what’s right,” I say.
I tug him hard by the lapels of his coat because he’s so tall that going up on tiptoes isn’t going to be enough.
I kiss him, and at first his lips are hard and unrelenting. I know this is some token effort at resistance, and I totally ignore it. It’s a good choice because after a few seconds, Adam’s hands drop to my shoulders and then he’s kissing me like he’s absolutely starved for it. Before long, I feel like I’m the one who needs to steal some medication.
When we finally part, his eyes are closed. His breath is coming in little shuddery bursts, and I can’t quite believe I’m the one able to reduce him to this. It’s dizzying.
“I’m trying to tell you I’m not good for you,” he breathes, voice low and husky.
“Well, I’ve never been a good listener.”
His mouth curls up in a smirk. “Cute. But, Chlo, there’s more. There are things—”
“I don’t care,” I say, shaking my head. “Nothing you say is going to make me care. Not now.”
“I think you’d care about this,” he says.
“I wouldn’t,” I say, pressing my fingers to his lips. I do it because it wouldn’t matter. Or maybe because I’m not ready to hear him tell me anything else.
I can see the pain in his eyes, but eventually he relents. He kisses the tips of my fingers before taking my hand in his own. “You really like to get your way, don’t you?”
“Oh yeah,” I say, moving in to lean against him.
Adam’s arms go around my middle, and I feel perfect. The stress and fear pours out of me, like sand through a strainer. I push my face against his chest, and his chin lands softly on my head.
“Anything else you want to get out of me?” he asks, his teasing voice rumbling against my cheek.
I sigh in his embrace, wishing that this were enough. If I stayed right here in his arms, it just might be. But there’s a whole world I have to deal with. School and parents and…
“Actually, there is one more thing I need.”
“Name it.”
“I need you to help me save Julien Miller.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I explain it all over an enormous cheese pizza. It’s the place I remembered, the one with the red pop. In between greasy bites, I fill him in on everything. Maggie and me. Blake and his stalker phone call. I include everything about Julien, and even the stuff about our resident Wicked Witch, Dr. Kirkpatrick.
Finally, I stop for breath, grabbing another piece of pizza and waiting for Adam’s response. I wait a while, but figure he’s thinking it over. I still haven’t processed it, and I’ve had two days.
But then, I wait long enough to wonder what expression he’s wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Fear? That third one feels right, but it makes no sense at all. What the hell would he be afraid of?
“So are you going to say anything?” I ask, stabbing random ice cubes with my straw.
“I’m not sure where to start,” he says, and I hear an incoming text buzz his phone.
“I guess, ‘Gee, Chloe, I don’t believe you,’ might work,” I say, but I don’t sound nearly as funny as I want to.
Adam pushes away his plate and leans back in the booth. His phone buzzes again, and he presses something to silence it, looking aggravated. “Well, I don’t think you can help Julien. Schizophrenia doesn’t go away, Chlo. And it’s not anthrax. You can’t use it like a weapon.”
“Maybe that’s true, but how do we know it’s schizophrenia? How do we know it’s not one of the weird hypno-things Dr. Kirkpatrick did in our groups?”
“Because I was in the group. It’s not like she was stretching us out on couches and making us count backward.”
I nod slowly, rubbing my hands clean with the napkin. “You don’t believe me. Message received.”
“This isn’t a matter of me not believing you, Chloe. I know the lady. She’s a little fixated on breathing deep, sure, but she’s not the second coming of Charles Manson.”
“Well, gosh, I hope she knows she can call on you for a character witness.”
His expression changes. He looks tense again. Nervous, maybe. God, that can’t even be right. If he is nervous, it’s because I’m being a complete nut job. I sigh and lace my fingers with his over the table. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not fair. I just want answers.”
“I know. But I don’t want to see you invent what you can’t discover.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means to be careful not to go accusing innocent people because you’re desperate to find a reason for all of this.”
“There is a reason for all of this, Adam. And Julien thinks I know what that reason is.”
“Julien is a schizophrenic who probably believes a lot of things, Chlo.”
“You’re starting to sound like Maggie.”
He looks down at his hands. “Is there any chance that’s because we’re both right?”
No. Ridiculous or not, I’m absolutely certain that Julien is not just schizophrenic. But knowing it isn’t enough. I need proof.
***
“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice,” I say, settling myself onto Dr. Kirkpatrick’s couch.
Dr. Kirkpatrick smiles and opens her notepad. “I’m happy I had an opening. You seemed very upset on the phone.”
Good. That’s exactly what I was aiming for. And if I have any luck, my mom will be home in time to see the frantic, handwritten note I left on the kitchen table. I’m pretty desperate for all of my stars to align today because this is the biggest thing I’ve ever tried to pull off. Ever.
“I went to California with Maggie,” I say, though I have a horrible feeling she already knows that much. Something tells me she knows all kinds of things I wish she didn’t.
“That’s a big change from our last meeting. The two of you weren’t speaking then.”
“Well, I was trying to mend the bridge, but now I don’t think it worked, and I just don’t know what to do.”
How the hell she’s buying this is beyond me. It must be the nerves I’ve got from being here to begin with. Still, she sco
ots forward in her chair and asks me at least a dozen probing questions to help me gather a better understanding of the situation.
I’m barely responding. It probably looks thoughtful, but really I just can’t stop watching the clock. I have fourteen minutes left. Why the hell hasn’t my mom found the note? She was on her way home. Which means she would have had plenty of time to fly over here.
Surely she would have at least called, right? When your daughter leaves a full page of drama, closed with “If you want to know what’s going on with me, you can call my psychiatrist. She knows how bad it really is.”
“Chloe, I must say, you seem very distant.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but I can’t manage anything else. I’ve gone totally blank.
God, I don’t know who I’m kidding. This is a ridiculous plan, and it’s never going to work.
I hear the doorbell chime, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to grin. Instead, I sniff and look down at my hands. I should probably say something. What the hell was she saying to me?
“I just want things to be normal,” I say, hoping it will pass.
Outside, I hear my mother’s voice. Even muffled through the walls, I can hear the commanding tone she’s using. I’ve been on the other side of that tone, so my heart bleeds for the poor little receptionist dealing with this.
Dr. Kirkpatrick’s eyes flick to the door, a frown creasing her mouth briefly before she looks back to me. “Perhaps it’s time for you to redefine normal, to come to the understanding of how things are now.”
“I just don’t know why they can’t be the same.”
“There are times when change is inevitable.”
“I don’t want to change!”
I sound like a whiny two-year-old, but I don’t care. Her eyes are on the door again, where my mom’s voice is escalating into something truly scene-worthy. The receptionist is firing back, but my mother is a force to be reckoned with.
I screw up my face in a worried frown. “Is everything okay out there?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
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.”
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.”
Six Months Later Page 20