Six Months Later

by Natalie D. Richards

  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.”

  But it’s not okay. Something’s seriously screwed up with him. And I have no freaking idea what it is or why he’s acting like this. I mean, shouldn’t I be the one who’s wigged out right now?

  This isn’t the time for this. There are bigger fish to fry—hell, there’s a freaking white shark in my skillet.

  Adam pulls into the parking lot, and I spot Dr. Kirkpatrick’s car. “There. That one. I’m pretty sure that’s hers.”

  “Does anyone else work here?”

  “A receptionist, but she leaves after she checks the last patient in for the day.”

  “What about the last patient?”

  “Sessions end at ten before the hour, so we should be good. She’s probably doing paperwork.”

  Adam doesn’t park in the lot. He parks one street over, where his car won’t be as noticeable. I look down at the manila folder in my trembling hands and wish I hadn’t agreed to this.

  I should have gone to the police. Crap, what if she calls the police?

  I push the thoughts away and follow Adam into the office. The electric door chime sends a burst of adrenaline dancing through me.

  “Dr. Kirkpatrick?” Adam calls out.

  No answer. I clear my throat and gesture at the cracked door to her office. We step closer, still hearing nothing. I don’t like it. The quiet sends cold, needling fingers up my arms and neck. I begin to shiver, though I’m not cold.

  “Dr. Kirkpatrick?” Adam knocks on the door, and it groans open farther under his taps. He pushes through the gaping crack and sucks in a gasp.

  “What is it?” I move around him so I can see.

  I wish I hadn’t.

  Dr. Kirkpatrick is slumped over the desk. There’s a giant red-black puddle beneath her, all over the pretty desk planner. Some small, detached part of me understands this is blood.

  The rest of me demands it to be something else. That much blood would mean she’s—no. She can’t be.

  But she’s not moving at all. I take a breath and smell an unmistakable coppery tang in the air. And the truth whooshes through me like a hurricane.

  Dr. Kirkpatrick is dead.

  “Oh my God.” My voice splits. Cracks into pieces. “Oh my God, Adam, we have to call nine one one.”

  He’s standing there, not merely shocked and sickened like I am, but almost catatonic. As if he can’t even believe what he’s seeing. And who could blame him? Because no one should believe this. No one should even see this.

  There’s a purse on the floor beside her desk. Her purse, I assume. The contents are spilled out across the carpet, her wallet conspicuously missing.

  Is this why she was killed? For a wallet? A wave of nausea rolls through me, so I turn away from the scene. From the body. Shit, there’s a body.

  What do I do? What do I do?

  I stumble backward, pulling out my phone. Suddenly, Adam comes to life, snagging it from my fingers. “No. Someone else has to call it in.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  He takes me by the arm and moves fast, rushing us back out of the office and into the fading sunlight. He takes a moment to rub the door handle with his sleeve. I want to argue and pull away, but the truth is, I hardly feel present at all. A little bubble of shock is holding me away, numbing my senses.

  “We have to call the police,” I say again, but my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

  He keeps walking, dropping my arm and assuming I’ll follow. And I do. Because I don’t know what else to do. This is way, way outside the realm of things I know what to do with.

  I feel sick and heavy. I’m not just shaking—I’m practically convulsing.

  Adam pulls out his own phone and starts texting. Furiously.

  “You’re texting the police?” Is that even possible?

  He looks around, eyes frantic and face pale. “Get in the car, Chloe.”

  “Somebody robbed her! Somebody—” I trail off, bracing myself to say the word. “Somebody killed her.”

  “Nobody robbed her.”

  “I saw her purse on the floor—”

  “Nobody robbed her,” Adam says, and the certainty in his tone chills me.

  What chills me more is that I know damn well he’s right. This wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment crime. There’s nothing random about this.

  My face is hot and my jaw aches, and I have to stop thinking. The pieces are locking together too fast, and the picture that’s forming scares me to death.

  I get in the car because if I don’t, I will fall down. I will fall down right here. And I can’t be here anymore, not knowing there’s a body and so much blood inside—oh God, I might be sick.

  Adam starts the engine, and I jump at the sound. Then there’s another sound, one that makes my ribs ache and my throat close up. Sirens. Two police cars race past, flashing blue and red as they fly into the parking lot.

  Adam swears under his breath, easing the Camaro away from the curb.

  “Did you call them?” Somehow I know he didn’t. I don’t know why I’m even asking.

  He pulls out without a word then fumbles his phone up to the steering wheel, texting again. He doesn’t just look scared. He looks enraged, terrified, confused: a jumble of so many things that it makes me dizzy.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask, and my chest hurts now. Really hurts. This is bad.

  He doesn’t answer, and I press a hand to my sternum, willing myself to breathe deeper. But I can’t. My breathing is too shallow, too fast. This isn’t good. It’s not good at all.

  My phone buzzes, and I yank it out. “Hello?”

  “Chloe, it’s m-me.” It’s Maggie. She’s crying. “You w-were right.”

  “Right about what?” I ask. I’m breathless and queasy, gripping my seat hard when Adam flies around a corner.

  “Get off the phone, Chloe,” Adam says. It isn’t a request.

  I flash him a glare and push closer to the passenger window. Maggie takes a shuddering breath. “I looked into the Miller family t-tree. There’s n-no history of schizophrenia in Julien’s family. You were right, Chloe. She’s in t-trouble.”

  “So am I,” I say.

  “Get off your phone,” Adam says again, almost shouting it. And then I don’t have a choice because he’s tearing it out of my fingers.

  I’m too shocked to move. To speak.

  I think of him texting at the pizza place. Checking his phone earlier tonight. And then, I remember that first night together, when we went to the tower in Corbin. When he asked me to turn mine off.

  This isn’t happening. It can’t be.

  I glance sideways at Adam as we screech to a stop at a red light. He curses again, rolling down his window. He flicks his wrist, and I jump in my seat as I hear first one phone and then the other shatter against the ground.

  “What did you do?” I ask, knowing he won’t answer.

  I feel smothered and frozen, like the sun has been snuffed out. Darkness moves over me. Inside me and through me like cold water sucking me down fast. I know what this means.

  “Adam,” I say, and I know my voice reflects every ounce of my fear. I force myself not to scream. I know if I start, I will never stop. Not ever.

  He turns right down a narrow side street near my house. He puts the car in park and covers his face with his hands. The scar on his arm glares at me, white and jagged like a cruel smile.

  “I can’t do this,” he says. He sounds small and weak and shattered.

  I want him to shut up. Right now. My fingers curl over the door handle because I want to run.

  “I don’t even know what to say or where to start, but I can’t do this to you,” he says. “No matter what they do to me, I can’t. Not anymore.”

  I feel my ears ringing and my fingers going numb. It’s like a blood pressure cuff has been strapped around my middle. Every breath is harder than the last.

  Adam faces me, his
eyes bright with the promise of tears. “You were right. Part right, anyway. Your memory loss was an accident, Chlo, but it wasn’t natural. Daniel Tanner was testing that chemical in our study group. I don’t know how or why, but he wants to sell it. And apparently we were the guinea pigs.”

  I feel like I’ve left my body. Like I’m floating somewhere outside, a million miles away from these words. I find my voice, but it is thin and small. “How? How do you know?”

  The pain in his eyes is unmistakable. “Because I work for them. Daniel hired me to monitor the group. He said he wanted peer information on the relaxation techniques.”

  “Relaxation techniques,” I deadpan, my lungs shriveling with each breath.

  “He fed me a bunch of crap about subliminal messaging and meditation, but he never—I didn’t—hell, it doesn’t even matter. He sold this whole thing. He sold it to the school board as a big community service project, and he sold it to me as my only way out of this shit-hole town and I bought it, Chloe. I bought it hook, line, and fucking sinker.”

  The pieces are sliding together. Clicking into place. Sitting across from him for that first math test. Blake’s comments in the bathroom. “I’m the boyfriend, remember?”

  Blake. Blake who kissed me—I can’t. I can’t go there.

  I shake my head, my tears hot and slick trailing down my face. How could I miss this? How?

  All of the texting makes sense...tonight before he tossed our phones. Before that, even. “You were texting Daniel tonight?”

  “Yes. I had no idea he could be capable of something like this, but I know it has to be him, that son of a bitch.”

  I shake my head, not wanting to hear any of this. Not one more word.

  “I needed money for college,” Adam says miserably. “I didn’t—no one told me about the drugs. No one told me about any of this.”

  I shove open the door, and his hand curls gently over my arm.

  “Chloe, please.”

  “Let me go!” I jerk my arm free and fling the door wide.

  “Chloe, I’m telling you this because I’m in love with you! I’ve been in love with you since the second you pulled that fire alarm, maybe since all the way back in the fourth grade.”