The Recovery
Author: Suzanne Young
Date: 2015-02-24 02:11:06+00:00
Keywords: Mental Illness; General; Juvenile Fiction; Young Adult Fiction; Romance; Novella; Fantasy; Fiction; Short Stories; Thrillers & Suspense; Science Fiction; Dystopia; Young Adult; Suicide; Social Themes
Description: Realm hopes that with each past he helps to recover, he’ll be able to reclaim a small bit of his own in this spinoff story to Suzanne Young’s bestselling duology, The Program and The Treatment. Six months after the fall of The Program, ex-handler Michael Realm is struggling with his guilt. After all, he was instrumental in erasing the memories of several patients—including one he claimed to love. With a lifetime of regret stretched before him, Realm vows to set things right. Along with his friend (yes, friend) James Murphy, Realm will track down those he’s hurt in an attempt to give them back
Publisher: Simon and Schuster

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For my friend Michael Strother, who was there from the beginning

In loving memory of my grandmother Josephine Parzych

CHAPTER ONE

MICHAEL REALM SAT BEHIND THE wheel of the rented car and watched Dallas Stone pick up the small leather case he’d left on her front porch. Realm ducked down when Dallas turned to check the road, but he was sure she already knew it was from him. After all, he owed her a hell of a lot.

He had to admit that he liked her newly shorn hair, the blond dreads replaced with a sleek cut that she couldn’t hide behind. He didn’t want her to hide anymore. He wanted her to be happy, and so he knew that he had to return what he’d taken: her memories.

Once he thought it was safe, Realm peeked over the dashboard to see that Dallas had gone back inside. He smiled to himself—his guilt lessened only a fraction, but at least he could hate himself a little less today. He had a long list of sins to atone for. This was only his first stop.

After the fall of The Program, Realm had been able to keep a low profile, avoiding criminal charges for his time working for Arthur Pritchard, for Dr. Warren, and for the hospital. He’d done despicable things in order to fulfill his contract—unforgivable things. Sure, the punishment for breaking the rules would have led to a lobotomy, but the guilt he now lived with was overwhelming. Sometimes he was afraid it was enough to kill him.

The suicide epidemic had started only six years earlier—killing one in three teens at its height. But after The Program ended, the numbers dwindled. Maybe it was never really an epidemic in the first place. It could have been a suicide cluster like the ones before, an unexplained ripple effect on human behavior. But then Arthur Pritchard created The Program, drew worldwide attention, and made things so much worse. Realm often wondered what drove Pritchard to create his therapy in the first place. He thought it had to do with the doctor’s daughter, Virginia—at least that’s what Evelyn Valentine insinuated. But Arthur Pritchard had been lobotomized; the world would never know the truth behind his motives.

Realm wanted to hate Arthur Pritchard for what he’d done, for creating The Program in the first place. But the doctor had died shortly after his lobotomy due to complications from surgery. Realm couldn’t help but to feel sorry for him. The entire situation was a bit like Victor Frankenstein being destroyed by his own monster.

Realm’s phone vibrated in the car’s center console, startling him from his thoughts. He picked it up and saw that his sister was calling him, again. Although he loved Anna dearly, she was driving him nuts. He didn’t feel like convincing her that he was fine, so he declined the call. He would see her soon anyway. He had a flight to catch; he was heading back to Oregon.

With his phone still in hand, Realm scrolled through his contacts and dialed, annoyed to be sent to voice mail for the third time. He didn’t want to make the next leg of his journey alone, but he also knew that convincing James to come with him wouldn’t be easy. His relationship with James Murphy hadn’t been the most expected friendship. In fact, at one point he and James hated each other—mutually and exclusively. James had gone through The Program and had his entire relationship with Sloane Barstow erased. Realm may have used that to his advantage when he fell for James’s girlfriend, but he had honestly believed he was better for her. Loved her more than James ever could.

Of course, now he knew that Sloane and James were mad for each other. And so he accepted the loss. He was still determined to do right by Sloane, and helped James save her from a near-lobotomy. Turned out that James wasn’t as unbearable as Realm had first thought. In fact, he was the best friend he’d ever had.

Which meant James not answering his call was particularly annoying. Realm had the names of several people he wanted to find—Dallas was only the first. James had offered to track down the addresses of the others. In the meantime, Realm put together a file for each—memories that he could recall from their time in The Program. Stories they would have told him. It would all be in the pages—their depression and loss, their secrets and hopes. For years, he’d been the link between patients’ most hidden thoughts and the doctors who sought to erase them. He betrayed people’s trust. Even . . . mostly . . . the people he cared about. Tucked in his messenger bag, he even had a file for Sloane.

It hurt to think about her sometimes, but unlike the others, it wasn’t just his guilt that affected him. There were few things more painful than unrequited love, but the worst part was that he had been so close. Sloane had cared about him. Trusted him with her life. But he’d ruined it when he injected her with a sedative—handed her and her past over to The Program. And she wasn’t the first, or the last, person he’d done that to.

Realm ran his hand roughly through his messy hair. He’d stopped dyeing it, returning it to chocolate brown—which he hadn’t worn in years. He liked it. And maybe a part of him knew that Dallas would like it too. Not that she was ever going to see it.

Realm lowered his eyes, reminded of a time before he’d gotten sick. Before he ruined Dallas’s life. He remembered that day, sophomore year, when he was heading to the locker room still wearing his green lacrosse uniform. The team would be disbanded by the end of the season due to fears of overstressing students with competition—one of the many reasons given for the increasing epidemic—but at that time, suicide had barely touched Realm’s world.

He’d just started down the white-tiled corridor toward the locker room, when he noticed a pretty blonde leaning against the wall, texting on her phone. Dallas Stone—he’d seen her before. She cheered for the basketball team, but he’d never spoken to her beyond a simple “What’s up?” at a party or two. She didn’t look at him, so he kept walking, maybe wanting her to notice him a little. He swung his lacrosse stick around his fingers, but instead of coming off as smooth, the stick slipped out of his hand and clattered to the floor near Dallas’s feet. She jumped, and glanced up, her eyes wide as she stared at him.

Realm’s face burned with embarrassment, and he apologized. Dallas watched him a second longer, and then she smiled. That smile, the gap in her teeth, her red lipstick—to this day, Realm was sure he’d never felt that kind of attraction to anyone. She was fucking gorgeous.

“Hope you’re better than that on the field,” she said, leaning down to pick up the stick. She held it out to him.

“Only a little,” he said, taking it from her hand. “Have you seen a game?”

Dallas shook her head, her long blond hair falling over her shoulders. “Not my sport,” she said, scanning his uniform. She turned back to her phone, and Realm felt his heart dip at her disinterest. He held up the stick, gesturing good-bye, and walked away.

Dallas Stone was at the next game. And the next. By the third time, Realm couldn’t stop thinking about her. He found her waiting for him in the corridor on the way to the locker room. That night they hooked up in the backseat of his dad’s Jeep Cherokee, and in the months that followed, they grew closer. They were serious.

Nothing that good could last, though—not when Realm was involved.

Realm swallowed hard, shame darkening his spirit as he sat behind the steering wheel of his rental car, staring at Dallas’s house. He turned over the ignition, starting the car. He had time to kill before his flight back to Oregon, so he decided to head to a local coffee shop where he could at least wallow with a hazelnut latte. He was glad he was facing his problems, but there was one person he could never escape—himself.

CHAPTER TWO

THE SMALL CAFÉ WAS CROWDED with college students and Realm had to find a table near the back once he picked up his order. He watched the people, surprised by the carefree way they were behaving. Some of them even wore black. Just last year, this wouldn’t have happened. Everyone was terrified of The Program—new facilities opening up all over the country, and internationally. The threat of being picked up for behavior modification was always looming. Everyone had to lie—to the world and to themselves.

Realm sipped from his latte. There was a shift of fabric, an army-green blur, and then someone sat in the chair next to him. Realm stilled, staring at her. Dallas didn’t smile or look happy to see him.

“Almost didn’t recognize you,” she said in her raspy voice, studying him and making Realm uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “Brown has always looked better on you.” She motioned to his hair and Realm ran his fingers through it self-consciously. He didn’t know what to say.

“Where’d you get those photos you left me?” Dallas asked. “Were they yours?”

Realm swallowed hard, and sipped again from his drink to cover his nervousness. “Yeah,” he said. “Valentine had been keeping them for me—memories I didn’t want to get rid of.” He paused. “Memories of you.”

Dallas’s eyes flashed, and she sat back in the chair and looked away, laughing to herself. “Sure, Realm,” she said. “And so why give them to me now? Why open that wound?”

“I was trying to stitch it closed,” he replied quietly.

Dallas flinched, but she didn’t look at him.

“And the note on the postcard?” she asked carefully.

Realm couldn’t stand the bit of hope in her voice—the hope about the two of them. Dallas knew they had been a couple before The Program. She knew that he’d turned her in because he was cruel and absorbed in his own self-hatred. And, of course, she could remember their time after—the push and pull. The harsh words he would say to keep her from falling in love with him again. But Dallas’s heart wouldn’t let her forget how much she loved him, though. She would always feel it. Realm should have let that keep him away, but he didn’t. Now he knew better. He had to be better.

“I wanted you to realize that you mattered,” Realm said, feeling his cheeks warm with humiliation, confrontation. “I’ve done some fucked-up things, Dallas,” he said. “Especially to you. I’ve said terrible things because I was selfish. I hurt you.” He looked over at her, finally catching her eyes. “I hurt you on purpose. And for that, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You deserved better than me. You always have.”

Dallas’s bottom lip quivered, but she quickly bit down on it, hoping to hide her emotion. Realm wanted to reach for her then, hold her like he used to. When they were both well, and then later, when they were both scared.

He wanted Dallas to run her fingers through his hair, whispering that he’d be okay. His parents had died in a car accident, one that left him in the care of his sister. An accident that started his spiral. He had Dallas, though. She was kind and loving; she took care of him. But he was drowning and he pulled her down with him. He destroyed that loving girl and broke her into a million pieces. That shame would never go away.

Dallas began to tug on her lower lip with her fingers, thinking things over. She lowered her hand, tilting her head as she held his gaze. “I could forgive you, you know,” she said quietly. “I could forgive everything.”

It hurt. It hurt to hear her, see her. Know that she meant it. Realm took in a shaky breath, trying to stay composed. “I know you could,” he said. “Because you’re a good person, Dal. But you shouldn’t. Some things are unforgivable.”

“And what if I want to forgive you?” she asked. She laid her hand on the table in front of him, fingers spread. Realm wasn’t sure if she remembered or if it was in the notes he’d left for her, but when they dated, Dallas would hold out her hand just like that before they did anything scary. When they needed to be brave.

Realm’s eyes burned with tears, guilt—but also nostalgia. Longing. He would give anything to go back and do it all differently.

He reached to slide his palm against Dallas’s, hearing her breath catch when he did. The warmth and softness of her skin drawing him closer. He squeezed his fingers between hers, and for a moment—it was like they’d both found peace. A connection. Intimacy.

Realm had almost loved Dallas once. Almost. And because of that, he would never let her love him again. He closed his eyes.

“Good-bye, Dallas,” he whispered. Next to him, she sniffled, and then she took her hand from his and pulled him into a hug, burying her face in his neck as she clung to him. Realm didn’t hug her back. He couldn’t. But he sat there, noting the sweet smell of her hair. The familiar way she felt against him.

“Thank you,” she murmured. She was gone in an instant, hurrying away with her head down. Realm swayed and put his hand over his heart, watching after her. A sharp pain from knowing that you want something you don’t deserve. That you can never have again.

He turned to stare down at his latte, wiping hard at his cheeks as the tears started to fall. He didn’t push away the pain. It was his and he would own it. He wouldn’t bury it again.

Realm waited a bit longer in the café, and after checking the time on his phone, he left and walked back to his rental car, heading for the airport.

CHAPTER THREE

THE ESCALADE WAS IN LONG-TERM parking when Realm landed at the Portland International Airport. He’d fallen asleep on the flight, and was still slightly groggy when his phone vibrated in pocket as he crossed the parking lot. He checked the caller ID and climbed inside the SUV.

“About time,” he said when he answered. “I’ve left messages.”

“Good for you,” James responded, the sound of running water in the background. “And now I’m calling you back. That’s how this system works, Michael.”

“Ah . . .” Realm said. “I see you’re in a friendly mood.”

James laughed. “I’m washing dishes. Let’s just say household chores put me in a sour mood.” There was a rustle and James’s voice was quieter off the line. “You sure?” he asked. The water stopped. “Okay,” James said to Realm. “Guilt trip achieved. Now, are you back in Oregon or are you still making poor decisions in Florida?”

“I’m in the airport parking lot,” Realm replied. “My sister’s staying at my house for a few weeks while she searches for a place. I should probably check in with her.”

“Fine, but then we go,” James said. “It’s a long drive to Weed. We should probably get a head start.”

“Weed, California?” Realm asked. “Did you find an address for Ally?”

“Mm-hmm,” James said. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Realm smiled. “Naw, I knew you would. I just didn’t think she’d go back there.”

“Well, as usual, you’re wrong about girls,” James said. “I’ll pack a bag now. Sloane’s out, but I’ll let her parents know.”

“Uh . . .” Realm didn’t want to get involved in James and Sloane’s relationship (again), but he knew immediately that James leaving town without his girlfriend knowing wouldn’t exactly go over well.

“Don’t worry about it,” James said, anticipating Realm’s reaction. “Just hurry up.” The line went dead.

Realm waited a beat, confused. It wasn’t like James to avoid Sloane. They’d both been through hell to get back to each other. He hated to admit it, but Realm felt a twinge of hope. He quickly squashed it, though, and shifted the SUV into gear.

He hadn’t seen Sloane in weeks, and even then it’d been little more than a greeting. He made her uncomfortable, uneasy. And that made him feel like shit. So he tried to avoid being around her when he could. He didn’t blame her, of course. He’d lied to her. Manipulated her. The only reason she was around him at all was thanks to her boyfriend. Realm doubted she’d come anywhere near him otherwise.

Months earlier, Realm had told James he was a handler. They were both on the run, holed up in a seedy motel, making plans. Up until that day, Realm had hated James. Resented him for filling Sloane’s heart.

But Realm was there the day the handlers showed up at the farmhouse to take the rebels into custody. When he heard the vans pull into the driveway, he darted into the woods, unable to warn the others. He hid in the trees, seeing everything.

He watched as James swallowed the only remaining pill of the Treatment—one Realm had given to Sloane so she could remember. Now James would have to carry the memories for both of them. And to his horror, Realm saw Roger—his old friend-turned-psychopath. Roger who had assaulted girls under the guise of a handler, abusing his power. Realm had snapped his arm once, and if he could have, he would have snapped his neck.

Realm saw Dallas fall apart, break open completely in the parking lot with the handlers. She stabbed Roger; she was like a wild animal trapped inside a fragile body.

Realm almost ran out then, but he knew it would be a bad move. The Program would take him, too. Instead, he scanned the handlers, looking for one that might be sympathetic to his cause. He found Asa—a friend . . . sort of. Realm was his handler in The Program. He’d helped Asa when he was first brought in as a patient. He also helped erase him. Eventually, Asa lost the urge to slit his wrists again and credited Realm with saving his life. Of course, he found out later that Realm was working for The Program, but Asa forgave him, and soon he became a handler too.

That afternoon at the farmhouse, Realm snuck out of the woods and got into Asa’s van, careful to avoid Roger (who was rolling around on the pavement in his own blood) and Arthur Pritchard. Realm grabbed a white coat out of the back and slicked his hair to the side. When Asa grabbed James and slid open the back door of the van, Michael didn’t say a word. Instead he met Asa’s stare, and the handler nodded and quickly got in.

It took James several miles and hundreds of curse words before he took the time to stare at his captors. And when he saw Michael Realm, he started to cry with relief. It didn’t occur to him even once that Realm was there for any other reason than to help him. He trusted him. That was the moment when Realm decided he didn’t hate James after all. It was the moment they became friends. And together, they’d gone in to save Sloane and Dallas from terrible fates in The Program, although Sloane had been doing a pretty good job of busting herself out.

But that was a difficult day. Realm had been overwhelmed when he saw Sloane for the first time in the stairwell of the facility. She was shredded, terrified. And then she turned to him, and he read on her face that she’d been told he was a handler. The betrayal and hatred in her eyes hurt worse than her slap. It destroyed him. It changed everything.

A horn beeped, and a car swerved from the lane to pass Realm on the interstate, tearing him from his memories. He was glad. His past was his least-favorite place to be.

CHAPTER FOUR

REALM STOOD ON THE FRONT lawn of Sloane’s parents’ house, waiting. He straightened up as the door opened and James came rushing out onto the porch, a backpack thrown over one shoulder. Sloane came out after him, talking fast and waving her hands. She staggered to a stop when she noticed Realm. Her lips parted, and then she nodded at him, looking painfully uncomfortable.

Damn, he hated that look. He held up his hand in a half wave, and she turned to James just as he hurried down the steps. James cut across the grass, his blond hair grown out, his face clean-shaven. He was still shockingly handsome, and if Realm didn’t like him so much, he would have thought he was a dick for having it so easy.

“Sorry,” James murmured to him as he passed on the way to the car.

Realm furrowed his brow. “About wh—”

“James,” Sloane called, jogging down the porch stairs. It was clear she was pissed, and Realm’s gut twisted with worry that he’d be the one she blamed. “James, I swear to God . . .” she warned.

James stopped, and turned slowly. “What, baby?” he asked sweetly. “It’s only for a week.”

Sloane scoffed. “I don’t care that you’re going. Do what you want. But you sent me a text message.” She took out her phone and waggled it. “Did you think I wouldn’t want to ask you about it?”

James pulled his bag from his shoulder and dropped it onto the grass. He walked back over to meet Sloane near the stairs. They were turned to each other, possibly arguing, but Realm could only see the way James would touch her, sliding his hand onto her neck and into her hair. The way his kissed the top of head in apology even as she was still talking.

Despite the argument, they were happy together. There was no hope for him in this scenario. There never truly was. Realm lowered his eyes, unable to watch any more. It hurt like hell.

There was movement, a hug, a kiss. “When I get back,” James called to Sloane in a flirtatious warning. Realm lifted his head to see James pointing at her, and Sloane laughing and slapping his hand away playfully.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him. And then, like she’d just remembered Realm was standing there, she turned to him. His entire body wilted under her gaze. In her eyes he saw guilt and anger. A bit of pity.

“Be safe, Realm,” she told him quietly. Realm forced a polite smile and nodded. Sloane waved good-bye to James, and turned to walk up the stairs toward the house.

James blew out an exhausted breath and buried his hands in his pockets. He came to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Realm, and they both watched the house as Sloane disappeared inside.

“I didn’t know she’d be home,” James said.

“I see she still hates my guts,” Realm replied.

“She hates them a little less.” James looked sideways, and Realm snorted a laugh.

“That’s progress, I guess.”

“Yeah. Now how did it go with Dallas?” James asked.

“She forgives me.”

“Good.”

“Bad. She shouldn’t.”

“You know,” James said, “you’re not nearly as awful as you think you are.”

“No,” Realm said. “I’m worse.”

James’s expression weakened, but Realm continued to stare straight ahead at the empty front porch. James opened his mouth to say something, but ultimately, he snapped it shut and put his hand on Realm’s shoulder, and squeezed it before walking to the SUV and climbing in the passenger side.

CHAPTER FIVE

REALM PARKED THE ESCALADE IN the small parking lot and stared at the brightly painted building. James took out a list, reading over a note he’d written himself, and nodded ahead.

“This is where she works,” he said, picking up his coffee from the cup holder and taking a sip. He winced and scrunched his nose. “Terrible.” He set the drink back down.

Now that they were at the diner, Realm wasn’t sure he was ready to go inside and find Ally to talk to her. He glanced at the messenger bag with her file, his heart in his throat. Could he really face her and tell her what he’d done? James had tracked her down to her workplace, surely that was a bad idea. Maybe they could wait . . . .

“Look,” James said, reading his hesitance. “We should just go inside. We’ve driven all this way. And . . .” He paused, tilting his head, and Realm’s spirit lifted, thankful that he wasn’t doing this alone. “Honestly,” James continued, “my coffee’s cold and really gross. I’d love a fresh cup.”

Realm laughed. “For a moment,” he told James, “I thought you were going to say something heartfelt.”

James stared back at him like that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Sure, Michael. You’re saving lives, setting right the wrongs of society, an angel among—”

“Yeah, I get it,” Realm said, unbuckling his seat belt.

“So we’re going in, yes?” James asked.

Realm lifted one shoulder in indifference and James grinned and got out of the SUV. Realm grabbed the messenger bag with the files, his heart thumping a little harder, and followed James to the entrance.

The bells on the glass door jingled as James walked in. Like usual, he didn’t look the slightest bit nervous—a show of easy confidence perfected to avoid The Program had now become a part of his personality.

There was a handwritten note in chalk at the hostess booth that told them to seat themselves, so James grabbed two menus and headed to a table near the back. A few old men sitting at the counter gave them a passing glance before returning to their hotcakes. The diner reeked of grease and syrup, but it wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

James sat down and began to immediately peruse the menu. As covertly as possible, Realm shifted his gaze around the room, searching for a blond-haired girl. It’d been over a year since he’d seen Allison Monroe—a patient he gotten to know in The Program. She’d told him her secrets, the ones she fought to keep hidden from the doctors. Realm had earned her trust, asked questions, and then relayed the information to the doctors for erasure.

Realm swallowed hard, sickness bubbling in his stomach. He wasn’t sure he could face her. He looked over and found James watching him with a solemn expression. The confidence remained.

“You can do this,” he said. “You’ve got this, Michael.”

Realm’s heart ached a little, but this time it was because someone believed in him. James was the only person who trusted him at all anymore. But he had no business being here. He should be home with Sloane, doing happy shit.

“Thank you,” Realm said.

“Don’t mention it.” James went back to scanning his menu, avoiding any genuine conversation that might follow. An older woman came over to the table, holding a steaming pot of black coffee. She flipped over the cups in front of them, and James nodded enthusiastically when she began to pour. She smiled warmly at him. After she filled Realm’s cup, she told them their server would be over to take their order.

James began to sip immediately from his coffee, moaning out his appreciation, and Realm grabbed two sugars and a container of creamer. He glanced over at James, still feeling guilty for bringing him here. Then again, James didn’t do anything he didn’t want to. He was here because he actually cared. Realm didn’t think he deserved that kind of loyalty. Not from him.

“It’s weird that we’re friends,” Realm said. “Especially after everything that happened.”

James took another sip from his coffee, looking thoughtful. “No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t think it’s that weird. I actually think it shows what awesome people we are.” Realm laughed. “There’s no conflict. You don’t hate me for loving Sloane,” James continued. “And I don’t hate you for loving my girlfriend, since she loves me more.”

“That’s big of you.”

“Of course, if roles were reversed,” James said with a smile, “I’d hate your fucking guts. But otherwise I think everyone deserves to have friends.” James shrugged. “Although I make friends pretty easily, so I don’t know what your problem is.”

“I’ve known a lot of people,” Realm said. “Not many friends, though. Guess that happens when you’re a liar, huh.”

“We’re all liars,” James replied. “You’re not that special.”

Realm and James stared at each other a moment, and then Realm nodded and looked down. He knew James forgave him for everything, that he didn’t even hold a grudge. There was no way he could hate a person like that.

The door to the kitchen swung open and a girl started toward them, pulling out a small notepad from her apron. Realm recognized her immediately, but she was distracted, caught up in her work.

Realm smiled; Ally looked well. Her blond hair was pulled into a neat ponytail; the circles under her eyes were gone; the hollows in her cheeks had filled in. She looked alive. He wanted to call to her, but found his voice gone. He felt James’s stare from across the table, but Realm was frozen in place. He didn’t even know where to start.

“Talk to her . . . .” James sang out quietly as he sipped from his coffee.

But then, before he could, Ally looked up. “Can I take your—” Her gaze fell on Realm and she took in a sharp breath and fell back a step. “Oh my God,” she said. “Realm?” Her face lit up. Damn, it hurt to know that in a minute he’d take that expression away.

Realm got to his feet, and Ally rushed forward into his arms, pressing her cheek against his chest. Awkwardly Realm set his hands on her shoulders and told her it was good to see her. He pulled back to look down, feeling a familiar rush of affection. Although he hadn’t fallen for her, not the way he had with Sloane, Ally had been his friend. He cared for her.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, beaming. “Let me grab Tonya—I told her all about you.” But before she could rush away, Realm reached out to take her arm.

“Ally,” he said quietly, startling her. “I need to talk to you. It’s . . . about The Program.”

Her expression grew serious. “Why would you want to talk about that?” she asked. “They’re gone. They’re done, Realm. They can’t hurt us anymore.”

He smiled sadly. “That’s true. But . . . I owe you an apology. If we can just talk—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said immediately. “You saved my life. Without you I wouldn’t have made it through those weeks. Whatever happened to me—you’re the one who kept me going. I know that for sure.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Realm said, letting his hand fall from her arm. “You just can’t remember.”

Something in his voice must have alarmed her, because Ally crossed her arms over her chest, red blooming on her cheeks. “What’s this about?” she asked, and looked over at James. Surprised, James lifted up his hands in surrender.

“I have nothing to do with this,” he said. “Ignore me. I’m totally not here.” He picked up his cup and sipped from it, avoiding her gaze.

Realm took a step closer to Ally and motioned for her to sit at another table. She scanned the room quickly for the other waitress, and when she didn’t see her, she followed Realm’s direction.

The vinyl booth squeaked as Ally moved in. Realm sat next to her, wanting to keep his voice quiet. He’d never been so scared to talk before.

“In The Program,” he started, his hands shaking in his lap, “I wasn’t . . . completely honest with you.” Realm saw the uncertainty in Ally’s eyes—she wanted to believe this wasn’t going to be bad news, but her intuition was telling her different.

“Why did you come here?” she asked in a small voice.

“Because I was a handler,” Realm said. “I was your handler, Ally.”

She stared at him a long moment, the color draining from her cheeks. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. She didn’t argue the point, not even when the tears welled up and spilled onto her cheeks.

She knew, Realm thought. On some level she knew I’d been too good to be true. Ally continued to cry, and Realm glanced up and found James looking concerned. Realm was hoping for something a little more helpful. He turned back to Ally, tempted to put his arm around her but knowing ultimately that it would be wrong. He wasn’t allowed to manipulate her anymore—not with his words, not with physical comfort. He’d come here to tell her.

“I was an embedded handler,” Realm went on quietly. “I’d been hired by The Program to help with difficult patients, the ones who posed the most risk. Before they brought you in, I was briefed on your situation, had a file to study. When you showed up, all I had to be was a good guy—get you to trust me. I told the doctors the secrets you’d only shared with me. I was there to ensure they got everything. And they did. I gave them all of you.”

Ally shook her head like she was trying to block out the words. Realm wanted to take away her pain with a simple lie or two, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that anymore. Ally looked up at him suddenly. “I told you about my sister, didn’t I?” she asked in a cracked voice. “That’s why I can’t remember what happened to her.”

Realm nodded, remembering the nights Ally would cry to him about Marley—the sister who had taken her own life in the weeks before Ally broke down. She’d told Realm about Marley’s spiral into darkness, how she’d tried to help. How she held her sister’s hand when she died in the hospital after lapsing into a coma. The Program erased all of that. Michael Realm helped them erase all of that.

Ally began to sob openly, earning stares from the men at the counter. James shifted uncomfortably and drained the rest of his coffee before pulling out cash to lay on the table in case they needed a quick exit.

“They told me she’d gotten pneumonia,” Ally said. “But I knew they were lying to me. Saw it on my parents’ faces. I didn’t understand; I thought I was going crazy.”

“It was a heart attack,” Realm said, staring down at the table. “She’d overdosed, and by the time you found her, there was . . .”

“I found her?” Ally cried out. “No. No . . .” Allison covered her face with her palms, leaning forward as her shoulders racked with sobs. “What have you done?” she murmured. “What did you do to me?”

Realm couldn’t take anymore—he wasn’t strong enough. This was breaking him, too, giving back all of this pain. Maybe he was wrong to have come here at all. “I’m sorry,” Realm said. “If I could—”

Ally looked at him fiercely, black mascara streaked down her face. “I trusted you,” she snapped. “I thought you were my friend. I thought—” But she fell apart again. Realm swayed with her grief, and slid out of the booth. James’s eyes were downcast as Realm returned to the table and grabbed the messenger bag.

“Meet you in the car,” James muttered, and got up. The other waitress came into the dining room, pausing near the men at the counter as James walked out.

Realm returned to the table with Ally. She was wiping her cheeks, looking sick. Wrecked. She wouldn’t even turn in Realm’s direction. He reached inside the bag at his side and pulled out the file with Ally’s name on the tab. He’d made a few extra notes, the things he could remember, both positive and negative. She deserved the truth. It was the only thing he had to offer.

He set the file on the table and slid it toward her. Ally stared down at it, sniffling back her tears. “This is me, isn’t it?” she asked, not lifting her gaze. “This is who I used to be. This is what they did to me.” She looked up. “What you helped them do.”

The disgust in her eyes was a dagger in his heart. “Yes.”

Ally swallowed hard and ran her finger over the cover. She was quiet for a painfully long time. “Get out,” she said. “Go away, Michael Realm. I never want to see you again.”

Realm tightened his jaw, trying to keep himself from breaking down. Without another word, he walked toward the door. The other people in the restaurant glared at him, even though he was sure they didn’t know the extent of his deceit. The waitress rushed past him to Ally’s side and he heard his old friend’s sobs as he reached the glass door and walked outside.

CHAPTER SIX

REALM WAS GRATEFUL TO SEE James in the driver’s seat of the Escalade. He climbed inside, and James backed up the SUV and drove them toward the motel they’d reserved for the night. The air in the car was thick with regret and guilt. Realm tried to be strong, he tried so fucking hard, but the tears came anyway. He hung his head and quietly let them bleed out. And when he was done, James didn’t bring it up. Instead he stopped at a fast-food drive-through and ordered six apple pies.

They arrived at the Sunset Grove Motel, a spectacularly sketchy place on the outskirts of town. The plan was to leave early in the morning and head deeper into California. The next stop was a small town near Sacramento, but Realm was spent. He needed to regroup, accept his guilt, and move on. Easier imagined than done.

Both guys got out of the SUV and glanced around, unimpressed, at the two-story building. Iron railings lined the outdoor walkway of the second floor, and the building’s sky-blue paint was peeling off in chunks. The sign itself was bright orange, the only likeness to a sunset in the place.

“Charming,” James said, taking out his wallet. “I’ll grab the room, you get the bags,” he said. Realm nodded and James started toward the office lobby.

Realm stretched his arms over his head, cracking his neck to the left and then the right. He walked to the back of the Escalade and opened the trunk. He slid on James’s backpack and then looped his duffel bag straps onto his forearm before grabbing the messenger bag. He slammed the trunk shut, and when he turned, he noticed a girl two cars down leaning against the hood of a Honda, texting on her phone.

She was out of place at the motel just as much as he and James were. She was pretty, with long legs and jet-black hair that fell to the middle of her back. She had a flannel tied around her waist, one boot up on the bumper of the car. The girl turned to him as if she could feel him staring and Realm nearly dropped his bags, trying to hide the fact that he was. He circled to the front of his SUV, wishing James would hurry. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead, avoiding the urge to look the girl’s way. Of course, the moments dragged on. What the hell was James doing?

“The computers are down,” the girl called, startling Realm. He turned to her, lifting his eyebrows as if surprised to see her there.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Cash only because the computers are down. I had to call a friend to bring me money; the dick in there wouldn’t take my card. Guess that’s what I get for staying at a place with negative stars on Yelp.”

Realm smiled, setting down his bags now that he knew he’d be there for a bit. James had money, but Realm couldn’t imagine him giving it up without an argument. The girl went back to her phone, and Realm studied her until she looked over. He smiled.

“I’m Michael Realm,” he said. “But most people just call me Realm.”

“Thanks for oversharing.” Her thumbs moved over her the letters on her phone again.

Realm ran his hand through his hair, completely shut down, but not surprised. Another few minutes passed, and he heard the girl exhale loudly.

“Are you an asshole, Michael?” she asked.

He laughed. “What?”

“An asshole. Because you look like a really nice guy, and I’ve found they make the biggest closet assholes.”

Realm thought for a moment, and then shrugged. “Yeah, actually. I guess I kind of am.”

“Totally called it,” she said. But she smiled, and Realm guessed she was mostly joking—the sort of joking used to avoid getting to know people. A tactic he’d seen with patients in The Program.

Thumping bass from a car stereo filtered into the air just as a yellow Mustang came into view on the road. When it pulled into the lot, the girl cast a backward glance at Realm, and then approached the driver’s side of the car. The guy behind the wheel was talking, his face pulled into a sneer.

Just then, to Realm’s relief, James came out of the office, looking annoyed. He motioned toward the stairs and Realm picked up the bags to follow. He met him on the landing, and saw James check him over and then look at the girl.

“Making friends?” he asked with a smirk.

“You know me,” Realm said. “Always looking for another bad decision to make.”

James laughed and they walked down to room 237. He slipped the keycard into the lock and pushed the door open with his foot, taking a tentative look around before turning back to Realm. “I talked the guy into giving us the best room. And if this is it, we would have been screwed otherwise. Thank God I’m so persuasive.”

Realm moved past him into the room. Of course, he’d been right; the place was a dump. Yellow, floral-patterned wallpaper that was probably once white. Navy-blue bedsheets with threads snagged and hanging out. “At least it doesn’t smell,” Realm said, testing out the bed and deciding that it was passable. It was only for a night.

Realm noticed when the bass from the Mustang’s stereo faded, driving off the premises. He wondered briefly about the girl, but once James shut the door and took up space on the other twin bed, Realm forgot about her and thought about tomorrow.

“Is it worth it?” he asked James. “What I’m doing to them . . . is it worth it?”

“Yes,” James said without hesitation. “You owe them the truth. And the more you give them, the less you have to carry.”

Realm considered the statement, and although he was still raw from his interaction with Ally, deep down, he did feel slightly better. Lighter. He had a long way to go, but he was starting to see that this would help him. This would help him forgive himself.

•  •  •

It was the middle of the night when Realm heard a rustling sound, a sniffle. He was drawn awake. Alarmed, he turned and found James awake in bed, the lights from the neon sign of the motel filtering in through the thin curtains and falling over his face.

“James?” Realm asked, sitting up. “You okay?” Across the room, James was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. Realm wondered if he’d had another nightmare, something that plagued him from time to time since taking the Treatment. Memories that would haunt him.

“No,” James replied, his voice scratchy. “I can’t stop thinking.”

“You know better,” Realm said, trying to lighten the moment. But then James shifted his eyes to look at Realm and it silenced him.

“I love her, you know,” James said, sounding far too vulnerable, too sad.

“Yeah, I know,” Realm said. Normally he’d want to avoid a conversation about Sloane, but it was clear James needed to talk. “She loves you, too,” Realm offered with a slight twist in his gut.

James shook his head. “It’s not the same,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“The way she loves me,” James said. “It’s not the same as it was before. I remember everything. I know exactly what we had. It was never about her brother, about Brady’s death.” James took in a shaky breath, and continued. “She’s the only girl I’ve ever loved. The only one I ever will. But no matter how many times I tell her, she’ll never really get it. She’ll never know how much I fucking love her.”

Realm felt a lump form in his throat. “You’re wrong,” he told James. “I was there. I saw her in The Program. You’ll never know how much she loved you,” Realm said. “She fought like hell to hold on to you. She would have done anything. Anything at all.”

James closed his eyes, misery passing over his features. “We have years,” he said. “Years of memories. But now they’re just mine. And sometimes it hurts too much. I would give anything for her to just tell me she understands. But she doesn’t understand—not like she used to. Sloane can’t feel it the way that I do. She’ll never love me the same.”

Realm knew that James was right. Sloane’s memories of their life together were gone, and they would never come back. In The Program, she fought hard against the doctors, nurses, and handlers—but in the end, The Program won.

“It’s my fault,” Realm whispered. “I helped take you away. She told me everything about you, James. How much she couldn’t imagine life without you. How she didn’t want one. I got the information and I fed it to the doctor. I erased you. You should hate me,” Realm said, his guilt bubbling up to the surface.

“Shut up,” James murmured, using the pillow to wipe his face. “Just shut up, Michael.” And with that, James turned toward the wall. Ending the conversation.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SQUEAKING OF THE SHOWER knob turning on woke Realm up. He looked and found James’s bed empty. Guilt stuck to his skin, and Realm stood and pulled on a clean hoodie before going in search of coffee—a peace offering he could bring to James.

Realm went outside, surprised that the morning was cool and crisp, the sun hidden behind the clouds. He took the stairs and when he got to the lobby, he was grateful to see a coffeemaker on the small desk against the wall. The manager nodded to him as he entered, but didn’t speak. He was clicking around on his computer, uninterested in the patrons who might wander in at seven in the morning.

The door opened and Realm turned to find the girl from yesterday, her dark hair gathered in a high bun, her makeup smeared from sleep. When she saw Realm, she smiled, but quickly tried to hide it. Realm turned around and began to empty the powdered creamer into his coffee, trying to dissolve the chunks.

“Good morning, Michael,” the girl said, reaching in front of him to grab a fresh cup. She smelled lightly of cigarettes and spicy perfume. “You’re up early,” she said, her body still close to his.

“As are you,” Realm replied. He took a sip from his coffee and tried not to wince at the bitter taste. He grabbed another cup and waited for the girl to finish filling hers before pouring one for James.

“Job interview,” the girl said, tearing open four packets of sugar at once and dumping them into her coffee. She looked at Realm and grinned. “No way in hell they’re going to hire me, though.”

“I could be your reference.”

The girl laughed, and stuck out her hand for him to shake. She had rings on nearly every finger, a brightly colored tattoo wrapped around her wrist. “I’m Corrine,” she said. “Sorry if I was harsh yesterday. Having to call my ex-boyfriend for money isn’t my idea of fun. I mean, he owed it to me. But still. Cold turkey is always best after a breakup, agree?”

“If only it were that easy.”

“Right?” Corrine smiled and stared down into her coffee, not in a rush to leave. When she looked at him again, she stared at him until Realm shifted his stance, trying to get out of her line of vision. “Sorry,” she said, realizing what she was doing. “I was just thinking . . . You were in The Program, weren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re a product of The Program? Did you try to kill yourself? I see your . . . uh . . .” She motioned on her own neck to the scar on his. Realm had almost forgotten it was there.

“Yeah,” he said self-consciously. “I was in The Program a while back.”

“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. You don’t really look like them. You’re too . . .” She shrugged. “Melancholy.”

Realm took another sip of his coffee, although this time its bitterness couldn’t compete with his own. “Not exactly the trait I’m most proud of,” he responded.

Corrine watched him a second longer, and then took a sip. “You don’t seem so bad to me, Michael Realm. I kind of like it.”

His heart beat a little faster. “And what about you? Are you a product of our flawed mental health system?”

“No,” she said. “I graduated the year before The Program was created.” She lowered her eyes. “But my little brother went through the system two years ago. My parents sent him to live with our aunt in Oregon and The Program picked him up.”

Realm’s stomach twisted, the worry that he possibly knew her brother spiking fear. “I’m sorry,” Realm said. Corrine turned to him, surprised.

“Why?” she asked. “He didn’t die. In fact, he’s back in L.A., finishing up his associate’s degree. He just got engaged”—she held up her hand—“which if you ask me is way too young to commit, but whatever. His life.”

Realm noted the easy way she spoke about the aftermath of The Program. “So he’s okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Corrine said. “I mean, at first he was boring, dull as hell, but he adjusted. He doesn’t remember much, but I don’t know, maybe that’s not a bad thing.” She shrugged and took a sip from her coffee. “I just want him alive. So although that Program shit was scary . . . it worked, right? For a time, it worked. I’m grateful.”

Realm couldn’t respond. He’d spent so long hating and resenting The Program, his part in it, that he’d forgotten that in the end, people survived. Even though the cost was high, they lived.

The door to the lobby swung open, sucking the warm air out of the room. James stood there with his and Realm’s bags, his jaw tight and his hair still wet from the shower. When he noticed Realm, he cut across the room and stopped in front of him.

“Let’s go,” he said, not acknowledging Corrine. Realm stared at him and then took a calm sip from his drink.

“James,” he said casually. “This is Corrine. Corrine, this is James.”

James glanced at her and nodded, cold and unapproachable. It was clear he had something to say to Realm—leftover animosity from the night before. Corrine shifted her eyes to Realm and snorted a laugh.

“I’m serious,” James said. “Let’s go. It’s a long drive.”

Realm waved him away, letting him know he’d be there in a minute. James’s expression tightened, probably annoyed at being blown off, and he walked back to the door.

“Now, he,” Corrine said, gesturing toward James’s back, “looks like a real asshole.”

Realm smiled. “Yeah, and he’s the nice one. Go figure.”

Corrine looked doubtful, but eventually she turned to Realm. “So . . .” she said with a grin. “Do . . . you want my number?”

Realm was attracted to her; she was cool. But in her dark eyes he saw vulnerability—learned to read that kind of weakness while in The Program. Corrine was going through something, whether it was about her ex-boyfriend or her lackluster job prospects, he wasn’t sure. But Realm had promised that he wouldn’t take advantage of another person again. He couldn’t. “I don’t think so,” he said, holding her eyes.

Corrine pouted her lips slightly, and then smiled. “Too bad,” she said. “Under different circumstances, maybe?” she asked.

Realm nodded with a slight sting of regret. “Definitely,” he said. He grabbed the cup of coffee from the counter that he’d poured for James and started toward the door. And just before he left, Corrine called his name. He turned, alive under her attention.

“Be kind to yourself, Michael,” she said. “You’re the one who has to live with you.”

He smiled sadly, sure this girl could see through him, know the hurt he fought against every day. “I’m trying,” he said. And then he went outside to find James.

CHAPTER EIGHT

REALM SAT DOWN IN THE passenger seat of the SUV, ready to have it out with James. Finish the conversation so they could move on. He swallowed hard and turned to find James with his head down, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry,” James said, surprising him. “I’m sorry I told you to shut up last night.”

Realm was quiet for a moment, confused. Was . . . was James apologizing to him? After everything Realm had done, did James Murphy seriously just apologize and make his guilt even worse?

“James, don’t—”

“I’m not saying what you did was right,” James clarified, looking sideways at him. “Not at all. But you’re trying to be better, Michael. You’re taking responsibility, giving people back their memories as you stand in to take their abuse. The Program erased them,” he said. “Not you.”

Realm wanted to argue, tell James he was wrong—that he was to blame. It was his fault. But . . . maybe a part of him wanted to believe he was still a good person. “Thank you,” he said, lowering his eyes.

James nodded, and started the Escalade. The sun had come out from behind the clouds, warming up the car interior. “Now,” James said. “Take out the paper and see who we have next.”

“Right . . .” Still caught off guard, Realm fumbled with the coffee cups, getting them in the holders before checking the list James had left on the dash. “Looks like we have Anthony Winters in Sacramento,” Realm said. He paused, and then ran his hand through his hair, looking nervous.

James watched him, and then shifted the SUV into gear. “I feel I should ask,” he said nonchalantly. “Am I going to have to fight today? If so, I should probably stretch.”

“No,” Realm said, sitting back and clicking on his seat belt. “Anthony’s a good guy. He’ll probably only punch me in the face.”

“Then I can’t wait to meet him,” James said, and smiled.

•  •  •

The air had warmed considerably when they arrived in Sacramento. The address James had found was to Anthony’s house. From what James could tell, he lived alone while attending school at a technical college nearby. They located the small stucco house and parked at the curb, Realm trying to gather his bravery in the passenger seat.

“Do you want me to go with you?” James asked.

“No, I have to do this myself.”

“Thank God,” James muttered, and turned on the stereo.

Realm laughed although the nerves were twisting his gut into knots. He grabbed the messenger bag and got out. He climbed the porch steps and knocked on the front door. The porch was barren save a wooden rocking chair that looked like it’d been rescued from the curb. Realm swallowed hard, a small hope that Anthony wasn’t home clinging to his conscience. The door swung open.

Anthony stood there wearing an oversize Forty-Niners jersey; a skinny black kid with a shaved head and dark eyes. He was one of the first patients that Realm had helped—funny, charismatic. Or least he was once they started to erase the fact that both of his brothers had killed themselves in the three months before he was admitted to The Program.

It took Anthony a minute as he scanned Realm questioningly, and then his mouth fell open. “Oh, shit!” he said, slapping his fist into his palm. “Michael Realm?” He reached in and gave Realm a sideways hug, patting his back hard. “What the hell are you doing here? Come in, come in.” He opened the door wider and Realm walked inside, his hands clutching the strap of the messenger bag on his shoulder.

“How are you, Anthony?” he asked.

“Good, man. I’d be better if the Forty-Niners didn’t suck this season, but whatever.” He grinned and walked past Realm into the kitchen, where he opened the fridge. “Drink?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” Realm said. “I can’t stay.”

“Oh, shoot,” Anthony said, coming back into the room. He sat on the arm of the leather sofa. “You’ve got that serious look. What’s wrong? You in trouble again?”

Realm laughed. When they were in The Program, Realm was still new and he had it out with the handlers a few times. Roger wasn’t the first asshole to try to take advantage of patients; he was just the first one to take it that far. Realm tried to make sure that didn’t happen, but he also had to cover his own status as a handler. Sometimes his payback looked more like aggression, a flipped tray here, a stray punch there—the doctors always understood. And to the patients, it made him into a bit of a hero. Of course, Realm could now see the manipulation in that. But he did have good intentions. At least that was what he tried to tell himself.

“I’m not in trouble,” Realm said, sitting in the chair across from Anthony. “But . . . I am here to talk to you about The Program.” Anthony flinched, but quickly regained his composure.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s up?”

Realm didn’t want to say any more. He wanted to walk out the door, run away. But he was here because he couldn’t live with what he’d done. He had to face this.

“I was a handler, Anthony. I was your handler in The Program.”

Anthony furrowed his brow, staring back at Realm in confusion. He licked his lips and leaned forward, trying to work out what that meant. Realm took a breath and continued.

“I was embedded, and I was assigned to patients who were high-risk, who they thought would fight. I was assigned to you.”

Anthony straightened. “And what exactly did you do as my handler, Realm?” he asked in a strained voice.

“I gathered information, clarified memories. And then I fed them to the doctors to make sure they targeted the right things.” Realm stopped, lowering his eyes. He had a flash of a memory.

One night when they were playing cards, Anthony told him about his brother Josiah. He said that Realm reminded him of his brother because he was everyone’s friend. But then Anthony broke down, cried right there at the table. Josiah had poisoned himself with QuikDeath. He’d begged Anthony to do the same before The Program got to him.

“But I wasn’t brave enough,” Anthony had told him. “I was a fucking failure because I couldn’t be big and bad like my older brother. He tried to save me from this. And now nothing will ever be the same. The Program will take it all.”

He was right. They did.

Realm wouldn’t keep any more secrets. He sat in Anthony’s living room and told him everything, every detail he could remember. His old friend listened, eventually sliding down to sit on the couch cushions, holding back any tears that threatened to fall. And when Realm was done, Anthony kept his eyes downcast, unable to look at him at all.

“I . . . um . . . I brought you a file,” Realm said, standing up and reaching into the messenger bag. “It covers everything I know.” Anthony made no move to take the file, so Realm set it on the coffee table. “I should go,” he said, but Anthony stood quickly.

“Why did you do this?” he asked. “What if you made me sick again?”

Realm had considered that possibility before setting out on this mission. But the truth was, he didn’t believe the knowledge would harm them. The Program’s pressure fed the epidemic—not the memories. And even if he was wrong, telling someone their memory was far different from them experiencing it. The threat was no longer there. “I’m here because you deserve to know who you were,” Realm said. “And because . . . I wanted you to know how sorry I am. Truly.”

Realm started toward the door and he heard Anthony behind him. When he turned, Anthony Winters pulled him into a hug, tight and full of hurt, but a hug nonetheless.

“Thank you,” Anthony whispered. “Thank you for giving me back my brothers.”

Realm’s breath caught, the forgiveness in Anthony’s voice overwhelming him. He hugged him back, and then Realm walked out the door and into the sun, tears stinging his eyes. He hurried to the SUV and got in, sniffling and wiping his nose. James turned to him.

“I’m glad it went well,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Realm replied, looking out the window. “Me too.”

CHAPTER NINE

THERE WERE STILL THREE PEOPLE on the list, but James hadn’t been able to track them yet. He and Realm decided to head back to Oregon, even though Realm was eager to get this part of his life over with.

“We could stay longer,” James offered while the Escalade climbed the Siskiyou Mountains toward home. “I can call Sloane later and tell her—”

“Why?” Realm asked, looking sideways at him. “Why would you do that?” Although James had told him a little about his fears with Sloane not remembering, Realm couldn’t understand why he wasn’t trying harder. Why he would stay away.

James didn’t talk for a moment, his jaw working as he considered his words. “Because she deserves better than me,” he said finally.

“You’re kidding, right?” Realm asked.

“No.”

Realm was completely caught off guard, and glanced at the woods on the side of the interstate, trying to figure out James’s thought process. He couldn’t. “Okay,” Realm said, turning to him. “I’ll admit this is a bit of a conflict of interest,” he said, “considering I thought I was the right person for her for a long time. But I was wrong. Why in the world would you ever think you weren’t good enough? You’re annoyingly good.”

“See,” James said, tapping his temple, “I remember that’s not true. After Miller died . . . I failed her. I promised to keep us both safe, but instead, she had to keep me safe. She gave up everything to try to save me. She fought so fucking hard, Michael. I remember how she begged me to come back. But I was too weak. If I would have been stronger, she would have never gone into The Program in the first place. Don’t you understand?” He looked at Realm, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m the reason she was erased. Not you.”

James turned back to the road, and Realm stared at him in disbelief. Then he laughed, startling James into looking at him again. “Damn,” Realm said. “We are both pathetic.”

“What?” James asked.

“We blame ourselves for everything. Jesus. Do you really think it was your fault? Your best friend killed himself and you grieved—yet the entire Program is your fault? Sloane’s therapy was your fault? Wait, did you cause global warming? You’re an asshole.”

James’s mouth flinched with a smile, but he shook his head. “Don’t make jokes right now. I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

“Obviously. But I’m going to be real here,” Realm said. “You need to go back to your girlfriend. You said she fought for you, but you must have forgotten the part where you fought for her, too. Where you spent years making sure neither of you got flagged. How you lied in The Program for as long as you could to protect her. How you threatened to kick my ass for being rude to her, even though you had no idea she was your girlfriend.” Realm groaned, and leaned his head back against the seat. “And do you remember when the Treatment kicked in?” Realm asked.

James flinched. “Of course.”

“You could have died,” Realm said simply. They had never talked about the days following James’s escape from the handlers, how difficult they had been. That very night at the motel—one that Asa had secured before leaving to return to The Program—James’s memories had started to flood back.

Within moments, James was curled up on the ratty carpet, crying for Brady and Miller. For Sloane. This was the side effect of the Treatment they had been warned about. All the memories crashing back at once, some out of order. Some too dark to handle.

But Realm had been through it before. He’d survived the Treatment, and although he wasn’t a fan of James, he saved him. Like when James remembered how he’d carved Miller’s name into his arm, the absolute grief of it all.

James started screaming and Realm was worried they’d be discovered. He wrestled James into the small bathroom and pushed him into the tub before turning on the cold water. The shock worked to get him through that moment. James looked up from the tub, wet and teary-eyed. “We have to save Sloane,” he said desperately.

The attacks continued, again and again. But each time that James made it through, Realm found himself respecting him more. Admiring his determination. Eventually, Realm joked that when he grew up, he wanted to be just like James.

“But you didn’t die,” Realm said, looking over to where James sat behind the steering wheel. “You’re a nice guy, James. What you’re doing right now, ‘Sloane deserves better,’” he mimicked. “Total nice-guy move. Stop it. You make the rest of us look bad.”

James glanced over. “Says the person who’s seeking out former patients to give them back their memories. Yeah, you’re terrible, Michael.”

Realm smiled, the combination of Anthony’s forgiveness and James’s comment hitting him in the right way, making it a good day. He hoped the first of many, or at least a few.

“All right, fine,” James said. “We’ll spend the night in Ashland, and then . . . then tomorrow I’ll go home. But I’m telling Sloane it was your idea.”

“Maybe she’ll hate me a little less.” Realm was struck with a bit of sadness at the reminder of her feelings.

“She still cares about you, otherwise she couldn’t hate you at all,” James said evenly. “She’ll forgive you.”

Realm thought about the file in his bag, the one with Sloane’s name on it. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit that giving it to her had been his end goal, the last piece in his guilt puzzle. But now he realized it wasn’t about him. He’d give James the file to bring to her. Realm didn’t need or deserve her gratitude. Those were her thoughts, her memories. He wouldn’t take credit for giving them back.

The SUV cleared the mountains, and Realm leaned his elbow on the door. “I could really go for an apple pie,” he mumbled.

•  •  •

The hotel was a step up from the Sunset Grove. The halls were indoors and the lobby promised a continental breakfast with waffles in the morning. Once upstairs, Realm gave James the folder and asked him to give it to Sloane. He agreed, and Realm wasn’t surprised when James put it away without reading it.

He admired him, and not just because of his relationship with Sloane. James always did what he thought was right, even if meant losing himself. Even if it meant looking like an asshole. Realm’s biggest regret was agreeing to the handler contract. If James had been offered the same thing, Realm was sure he would have figured a way out without being lobotomized.

But James wasn’t offered a contract. Instead, he’d taken the Treatment and would have his own responsibilities to carry for the rest of his life. But Realm was certain he’d figure out how, and that Sloane would be there to help him.

Realm closed his eyes on the hotel room bed, pushing away the sadness that came with thinking of Sloane. And instead he tried to be happy for James, for Anthony and Ally. For Dallas. He even tried to find a little bit of happiness for himself.

CHAPTER TEN

REALM WOKE TO THE SOUND of a vacuum in a neighboring room. He groaned and turned to look at the clock on the side table, noting it was after nine. “James, get up,” he said, and swung his legs out from under the sheets. There was no answer.

“James.” He turned to the other bed, but found it empty. Realm ran his hand through his hair, and then he noticed that James’s backpack was gone. Realm jumped up and crossed the room, his heart thumping.

There was a note scratched on the hotel stationery next to the bed. Realm’s pulse quieted, his initial fear a side effect of The Program. He was sure he’d never stop checking over his shoulder, even though there was no longer anyone pursuing them.

Realm picked up the note and dropped onto the bed to read it.

Michael,

Sorry, I hate good-byes. I’m catching a bus back home, but you need to finish your list. Not for them, for you. You deserve to be happy. And if you don’t believe it, imagine me standing there telling you you’re being a dipshit.

I’m proud of you. See you soon.

—J

Realm smiled to himself and folded the note. He brought it over to his duffel bag and stashed it inside. He took in a heavy breath and scanned the empty room, fighting the loneliness that wanted to sink in. There were three more people on the list. After that—maybe he could return home, start over. Maybe then he’d be proud of himself.

Realm showered and got dressed, packing up his things and checking over the list: Drea, Asa, and Tabitha. He had an idea of where to start looking for them. He’d keep searching until he found them.

After breakfast, Realm checked out of the hotel and walked across the parking lot, the sun shining and a soft breeze to cut the heat. A perfect day. Realm threw his bags in the back of the Escalade and got in the driver’s seat.

The passenger door opened, startling him, and Realm turned quickly. Dallas Stone dropped onto the seat and slammed the door shut. Realm sucked in a breath, not only stunned to see her again, but also completely confused as to how she got there.

“James called me in Florida yesterday,” she said, hitching up one eyebrow. “He gave me this address and told me he didn’t want you to be alone. I asked him why the hell he was calling me.”

“What?” Realm said, his surprise turning to annoyance. “James called? Dallas, I—”

“Save it,” she replied. “James was right. You shouldn’t be alone. I didn’t want you to be alone. And before you start arguing, I’ve already ran through all of your excuses on the way here. None of them are good enough. Here’s the thing, Realm. If you’re going on this recovery tour, I’m going with you. I have my own guilt to face.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Realm said without hesitation.

Dallas smiled. “Don’t be sweet,” she teased. “It won’t get you out of this. You need a partner and I’m great at tracking people. Better than James Murphy, at least.”

“James is pretty good.”

“I’m better.”

Realm smiled to himself and ran his gaze over Dallas, noticing her knee-high boots, her off-the-shoulder T-shirt. She would certainly be a distraction. But more important, he didn’t want to drag her into this; he didn’t want to lead her on, either. He’d done that too many times before, unable to stay away even when he should have.

“You can’t come with me, Dal,” he said quietly. “It’s not fair to you.”

“So we can’t be friends?” she challenged. “What if I were Sloane? Wouldn’t you give just about anything for her to be your friend again? Do you really think it’s any different for me? Stop doing what you think is best for me, Realm. I’m a big girl. I make my own decisions. And one of them is that I don’t think you’re as terrible as you imagine you are. So I’m going to be your friend. And we’re going to change some lives. That’s the kind of recovery I’m looking for.”

He knew she was right—that he would want Sloane to be his friend, just like Dallas wanted to be his. He wasn’t sure someone could be friends with a person who loved them. But more than that, Realm wondered how he’d stop himself from loving her back.

He looked at her, and her mouth pulled into a wide smile. That disarming smile that hooked him the first day she talked to him on the way to the locker room. No, he couldn’t push her away anymore. He didn’t want to.

“Fine,” Realm said, starting the SUV.

“Good,” Dallas replied easily. They were both quiet for a long moment, and then Dallas turned to stare straight ahead. “Hey,” she said. “What was that nickname you had for me when we were dating?”

A flash of embarrassment crossed Realm’s features and he lowered his eyes. “Sweetness,” he said quietly. It was an endearment he’d later used when talking to Sloane.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Dallas said with a nod. She turned to him and grinned. “Don’t ever fucking call me that again.”

Realm choked out a laugh, and agreed. He’d forgotten how much he adored Dallas’s bluntness. How much he adored her.

“It’s getting late,” he said, glancing at the sky. “We should head out. Can you grab my bag in the back? There’s a list in there and we need to find where Asa is staying.”

“Nope,” she said. “The first one is mine.” Dallas took out her phone and clicked into the notes. “There’s someone we have to go see.”

Realm narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“We’re going to see about Casanova Gutierrez.”

Realm’s mouth flinched with a smile, the idea of seeing their old friend Cas a welcome change, even if that bastard nearly got them killed. But Realm knew he’d forgive him, just like Dallas had. He’d been a product of the system of fear The Program had created.

Not everyone could understand the mistakes they had all made—how The Program had changed them, cured them, ruined them. But Realm had learned that nothing lasted forever, not even his self-hatred.

Because there was hope. In forgiveness he’d begun to find himself again, and he didn’t want to stop. He put the SUV into gear, his foot on the brake, and turned to find Dallas watching him. Realm nodded to her, a silent agreement that they were in this together.

Dallas held out her hand, fingers spread. Realm looked down and a memory flooded him; it wasn’t tragic or even perfect. He thought about the first time he saw Dallas after receiving the Treatment. Realm had hunted her down and found her with a group of rebels—including Cas. Dallas didn’t know him, but then again, she felt like she did.

“So what’s your deal, Michael Realm?” she had asked late one night as the two sat on the back porch. A storm was brewing, clouding the stars above the field with gray. “I don’t think I’m being subtle,” she said, turning to him and grinning. Realm felt it in his heart, that blast of affection he knew he didn’t deserve.

“I’m not the right guy for you, Dal,” he said, running his eyes over her. Noting how thin she’d become, but still so fucking gorgeous.

“That so?” Dallas replied, setting her hand on the porch step between them to lean closer, studying him like she was trying to discern if it was true. “Well, then, I guess I like the wrong kind of guy.” Her lips pulled into a wide smile and Realm toppled back into her world for the night, forgetting his good intentions, only to be gone in the morning.

He should have said no. But at the time, there had been no one since Dallas. He wasn’t sure there ever would be. They were magnets, drawn back together—somehow still a match even after everything that had happened.

And maybe that was what Michael Realm realized now, sitting in the parking lot of another hotel. His guilt had made him keep Dallas at a distance, hurting her in favor of loving her back the way she deserved. He always knew she deserved better. But . . . for the first time since before The Program, Realm thought that there was a chance for him. To redeem, to recover, to be the right guy.

Realm took a deep breath and slid his palm against Dallas’s, feeling the heat of her skin against his. Realm turned toward the road ahead, ready to start a new journey—thinking that he couldn’t change the past, couldn’t predict the future. He only had now.

And that sometimes . . . the only real thing was now.

Read on for a glimpse at the brand new story from Suzanne Young set in the world of THE PROGRAM:

CHAPTER ONE

IT’S TIME TO SAY GOOD-BYE. I sit in the armchair closest to the door and fold my hands politely in my lap. The room is too warm. Too quiet. My mother enters from the kitchen, her left eye swollen and bruised, small scratches carved into her cheeks. She limps to the plaid sofa, waving off help when I offer, and eases onto the patterned cushion next to my father. I shoot him an uncomfortable glance, but he doesn’t lift his head; tears drip onto his gray slacks, and I turn away.

I begin to gnaw on the inside of my lower lip, waiting in silence as they consider their words. This intervention-style farewell is hardly the format I imagined, but the moment belongs to them, so I don’t interfere. I cast a longing look to where my worn backpack waits near the door. Aaron had better not be late picking me up this time.

“Are you sure you can’t stay another night?” my father asks, gripping his wife’s hand hard enough to turn his knuckles white. They both stare at me pleadingly, but I don’t give them false hope. I won’t be that cruel.

“Sorry, but no,” I say kindly. “This is where we say good-bye.”

My mother pulls her hand from my father’s, curling it into a fist at her mouth. She chokes back a sob, and I watch as the stitched wound on her cheek crinkles her skin.

I reach for my own tears, trying to appear sympathetic. You’ll never see your parents again, I think. Isn’t that sad? But all I can muster is a bit of blurry vision. It seems a little heartless, even to me, that I can’t mourn their loss. But I’ve only known these people for two days. Besides, the clips on my hair extensions are driving my scalp mad. I reach a fingernail in between my red strands and scratch.

My mother takes a deep breath and then begins her rehearsed good-bye. “Emily,” she says in a shaky voice. “When you died, my life ended too.” A tear rolls slowly down her cheek, slipping into her dimple before falling away. “I couldn’t see beyond my grief,” she continues. “The counselors told me I had to, but I could only replay those last minutes in the car. This horrible loop of pain—” She chokes up, and my father reaches to rub her back soothingly. I don’t interrupt. “And then you were gone,” my mother whispers, looking at me. “I loved you more than anything, but you were torn away. I tried . . . I tried so hard, but I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry, Emily.”

I’m a barely passable version of Emily—different eyes, smaller chin. But my mother is grieving, and through her tears I’m sure she thinks I look identical to her dead daughter. And maybe that resemblance pains her even more when we’re this close.

“I love you too, Mom,” I say automatically, and flick my gaze to my father. “And thank you, Dad, for all you’ve done for me. I was very happy. No matter what, I’ll always be with you”—I put my hand on my chest—“in your hearts.”

The words are dry in my mouth, but I stick to the script when I can’t personalize my speech in some other way. Ultimately, this is what they wanted to hear—or rather, what they needed to hear to have closure. They wanted me to know I was loved.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t ruin the moment to check it. We’re past deadline and it has grown dark outside, but I won’t leave until I’m sure my parents will get through this. I wait a beat, and my mother sniffles and wipes her face with her palms.

“I miss you, Emily,” she says, and her voice cracks over my name. “I miss you every day.” The first tears prick my eyes, the honesty in her emotions penetrating the wall I’ve carefully built. I smile at her, hoping it lessens her ache.

“I know you loved me,” I say, going off script. “But, Mom . . . this wasn’t your fault. It was an accident—a terrible, tragic accident. Please don’t blame yourself anymore. I forgive you.”

My mother claps both hands over her mouth, relief hemorrhaging as her shoulders shake with her sobs. This is it—her closure. She needed relief from her guilt. My father climbs to his feet and motions toward the door. I stand to follow him, but pause and look back at my mother.

“I’m safe now,” I continue. “Nothing can ever hurt me again. Not one thing.” I turn to leave the room, my voice barely audible over her cries. “Good-bye, Mom.”

My assignment is complete.

I follow my father to the front door, and when we reach the entryway, I rummage through the shredded middle pocket of my backpack and pull out a sweatshirt. I yank the Rolling Stones T-shirt off over my tank top and hand it to my dad . . . or, rather, Alan Pinnacle.

For the past two days, I’ve been wearing his daughter’s favorite clothes, eating her favorite foods, sleeping in her bed. I’m the Goldilocks the bears took in to replace the one they lost, even if it was only to say good-bye.

Alan looks down at Emily’s black shirt and pushes it in my direction. “Keep it,” he says, staring at the fabric like it’s precious. I widen my eyes and take a step back.

“But it’s not mine,” I say quietly. “It belonged to your daughter.” Sometimes parents become confused, and part of my job is to keep them grounded in reality. Martha sits on the couch, staring toward the window with a calmed expression, but I worry that Alan is having an emotional breakdown.

“You’re right,” he says sadly. “But Emily isn’t coming home.” He holds up the shirt. “If this is still being worn, in a way, her spirit will be out there. She’ll still be part of the world.”

“I really shouldn’t,” I say, although if I’m honest, that T-shirt was my favorite part of this assignment. But we’re not supposed to keep artifacts of the dead. It opens up the possibility of lawsuits against the entire grief department, claims of unprofessionalism.

“Please,” he murmurs. “I think she would have really liked you.”

It’s just a shirt, I think. No one’s ever been fired over a shirt. I reluctantly take the fabric from his hand, and Alan’s face twists in a flash of pain. Impulsively, I lean in and kiss his cheek.

“Emily was a lucky girl,” I whisper close to his ear. And then, without waiting to see his expression, I turn and walk out of Emily Pinnacle’s house.

•  •  •

The night air is heavy with moisture as I step onto the wooden slats of the front porch; cool rainy wind blows against my face. The headlights of a car parked down the road flick on, and my muscles relax. I’m glad I won’t be hanging around for a ride; Aaron usually sucks at being on time. I reach into my hair and begin to remove the extensions, unclipping them and then shoving them into the bag on my shoulder, where I stuffed the Rolling Stones T-shirt.

The car pulls up, and I hold my backpack over my head to protect myself from the rain. I throw one more glance back at the house, glad neither parent is looking out the window. I hate to break the illusion for them; it’s like seeing a teacher at the grocery store or a theme-park character without its oversize head.

I open the car door and drop onto the passenger seat of a shiny black Cadillac. It reeks of leather and coconut air freshener. I turn sideways, lifting my eyebrows the minute I take in Aaron’s appearance. I pretend to check my nonexistent watch. “And who are you supposed to be?” I ask.

Aaron smiles. “I’m me again,” he says. “It was a long drive. I didn’t have time to change clothes.”

This was one of those rare moments where Aaron and I were on assignment at the same time—a mostly avoided conflict. It was probably a good thing that I was running late tonight. I scan my friend’s outfit, holding back the laugh waiting in my gut. He’s wearing a dark brown corduroy jacket with a striped button-down shirt underneath. Although Aaron’s barely nineteen, he’s dressed like an eighty-year-old professor. Sensing my impending reaction, he steps on the gas pedal and speeds us down the street.

“Twenty-three-year-old law student,” he explains, turning up the volume on the stereo. “But his real love was math.” He shoots me a pointed look as if it sums up his assignment completely. “The counselors are really pushing my age, right?” he asks. “Must be this sweet beard.” He strokes his facial hair and I scrunch up my nose.

“Gross,” I say. “You’re lucky Oregon celebrates its facial hair; otherwise you’d be out of work.” Aaron’s smooth, dark skin disappears every No Shave November, but that ended five months ago. I’m partners with a Sasquatch. “When are you getting rid of that thing?” I ask.

“Um, never,” he says, like it’s the obvious answer. “I’m looking fine, girl.”

I laugh and flip down the passenger-side mirror. The light clicks on, harsh on my heavy makeup. I comb my fingers through my still-red shoulder-length strands. Emily’s hair was ridiculously long, so I had to wear itchy extensions. I’m glad to be rid of them.

“Too bad,” Aaron says, motioning to my reflection. “I liked your hair long.”

“And I like that special blazer. You sure you can’t keep it?”

“Point made,” he concedes. We’re quiet for a moment until Aaron clears his throat. “So how was it?” he asks in a therapist’s voice, even though he knows I hate talking about my assignments. “You were super vague on the phone,” he adds. “I was getting worried.”

“It was the same,” I answer. “Just like always.”

“Was it the mom?”

“Yeah,” I tell him, and look out the passenger window. “Survivor’s guilt. There was a car accident; the mother was driving. After arriving at the hospital, the mom ran from room to room, searching for her daughter. But she was DOA.” I swallow hard, burying the emotions that threaten to shake my voice. “All the mother wanted was to apologize for losing control of the car,” I continue. “Beg her daughter for forgiveness. Tell her how much she loved her. But she never got the chance. She didn’t even get to say good-bye. Martha had a hard time accepting that.”

“Martha?” Aaron repeats, and I feel him look at me. “You two on a first-name basis?”

“No,” I say. “But I’m not calling her Mom anymore, and it seems cold to call her Mrs. Pinnacle.” When I turn to Aaron, he looks doubtful. “What?” I ask. “The woman washed my underwear. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

“See, that’s the thing,” he says, holding up his finger. “You are strangers. You were temporarily playing the role of her deceased daughter, but by no means are you friends. Don’t blur the lines, Quinn.”

“I know how to do my job,” I answer dismissively. My heart beats faster.

Although all closers take on the personality of the dead person, I’m the only one who internalizes it, thinks like them. It makes me more authentic, and honestly, it’s why I’m the best. “Don’t be judgy,” I tell Aaron. “You have your process; I have mine. I’m completely detached when it’s over.”

Aaron chuckles. “You’re detached?” he asks. “Then why do you keep souvenirs?”

“I do not,” I respond, heat crawling onto my cheeks.

“I bet you have more than hair extensions in that bag.”

I look down to see the edge of the T-shirt peeking out. “Not fair,” I say. “The dad gave that to me. It doesn’t count.”

“And the earrings from Susan Bell? The flashy yet clashy belt from Audrey Whats her name? Admit it. You’re a life klepto. You keep pieces of them like some whacked-out serial killer.”

I laugh. “It’s nothing like that.”

Aaron hums out his disagreement and takes a turn onto the freeway. It’ll be at least forty-five minutes until we’re back in Corvallis. I hate the away assignments, but our town is fairly small, and we don’t have nearly as many deaths as Eugene or Portland. But being away can mess with your head. Nothing’s familiar—not the places or the people. A person could forget who they really are in a situation like that. It’s high risk, and the return is always more difficult after being cut off completely. But it’s our job.

Aaron Rios and I are closers—a remedy for grief-stricken families. We help clients who are experiencing symptoms of complicated grief through an extreme method of role-playing therapy. When a family or person experiences loss—the kind of loss they just can’t get over, the kind that eats away at their sanity—grief counselors make a recommendation. For an undisclosed sum of money, clients are given a closer to play the part of a dead person and provide them the much-needed closure they desire.

At this point I can become anyone so long as they’re a female between the ages of fifteen and twenty. I’m not an exact copy, of course, but I wear their clothes and change my hair and eye color. I study them through pictures and videos, and soon I can act like them, smell like them, be them for all intents and purposes. And when a family is hazy with grief, they tend to accept me readily.

I stay with them for a few days, but never more than a week. In that time, my loved ones get to say everything they needed to but never got the chance to, get to hear whatever they’ve told the counselors they needed to hear. I can be the perfect daughter. I can give them closure so they can heal.

I’m saving lives—even if sometimes it’s hard to remember which one is mine.

“So what have I missed?” I ask Aaron. When he called me earlier to set up my extraction, he tried to talk, to reconnect me to the outside world. But I was with the family when my phone buzzed, so I fed Aaron some bullshit excuse to get off the line. Now I’m desperate for a reminder of my real life. I rest my temple on the headrest and watch him.

“Not much.” He shrugs. “Deacon’s been texting me nonstop. Says you’re not answering your phone.”

“Well, he’s not supposed to contact me when I’m on an assignment,” I point out. Our guidelines state that we only consort with our partners or our advisors while on assignment to keep us from breaking character. But the fact is, I could have responded to Deacon’s texts. I just didn’t want to.

My eyes start to sting and I check around the front seat and find a bag of open trail mix stuffed into the cutout below the stereo; salty-looking peanuts have spilled into the cup holder. My father will kill Aaron for bringing those in here. And for dirtying up his Cadillac. We always use the same car for extractions. It serves as a reminder of our real life, something familiar to bring us home.

I hike my backpack onto my lap and start rummaging through until I find the case for my colored contacts. Although I’m not deathly allergic to nuts, they irritate my eyes and make my throat burn. Aaron’s usually pretty good about not eating them around me. I guess he forgot this time—which is understandable. Assignments tend to leave us confused. At least for a while.

“I think Deacon’s worried you’ll run away without telling him,” Aaron continues. “It makes him crazy.”

“Deacon never worries about anything,” I correct, resting my index finger on my pupil until I feel the contact cling to it. “And I don’t know why he’s asking you. If I planned to run away, you wouldn’t know either.” I remove the film and place it back inside the case before working on the other eye.

“Yeah, well, he worries about you,” Aaron mutters, clicking the windshield wipers off now that the rain has eased up. “And whether you admit it or not,” he adds, “you worry about his ass all the time too.”

“We’re friends,” I remind him, reliving the conversation we’ve had a dozen times. “Just very good friends.”

“Whatever, Quinn,” he says. “You’re hard-core and he’s badass. I get it. You’re both too tough for love.”

“Shut up.” I laugh. “You’re just mad we get along better than you and your girlfriend.”

“Damn right,” Aaron says with a defiant smirk. “It ain’t cool. You two—”

“Stooooop,” I whine, cutting him off. “Change the subject. Deacon and I are broken up. End of story.” I stuff my contact case back into my bag and drop it down by my feet. The traffic has faded from the freeway, leaving the dark road empty around us.

“I’m not saying you should hate each other,” Aaron continues. “But you shouldn’t want to bone every time you see him either.”

“You have serious problems, you know that, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, nodding dismissively. “Yeah, I’m the one with problems.” He whistles out a low sound of sympathy, looking sideways at me. “You’ve both got it bad,” he adds.

“No,” I tell him. “We’re both better off. Remind Deacon of that next time he’s checking up on me.” Aaron scoffs and swears he’s staying out of it. He won’t, of course. He thinks we’re still pining for each other. And . . . he may not be entirely wrong. But Deacon and I have a very platonic understanding.

Deacon Hatcher is my ex-boyfriend turned best friend, but more importantly, he used to be a closer. He gets it. Gets me. Deacon was my partner before Aaron, almost three years side by side until he quit working for my dad eight months ago. He quit me the same day. The breakup may have wrecked me a little. Or a lot. Deacon and I had shared everything, had a policy of total honesty, which isn’t exactly easy for people in our line of work.

I hadn’t even known he’d ended his contract with the grief department when he told me we were over, said he’d moved on. I assumed he meant with another girl, so we didn’t speak for over a month. I’d been blindsided, betrayed. Only thing left for me was closure, and I was damn good at it. I absorbed more of my assignments’ lives, their families’ love. I rebuilt my self-esteem with their help, their memories. Then my father assigned Aaron as my new partner.

The next day, Deacon showed up at my front door, saying how sorry he was. Saying how desperately he missed me. I believed him. I always believe him. But every time we get close—the very minute I fall for him again—Deacon cuts me off, backs away and leaves me brokenhearted by the absence of his affection. Whether it’s his training or his natural disposition, Deacon is charming. The kind of charming that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters. Until you don’t anymore.

I’m tired of the push and pull that continues to crack and heal over the same scar. I told Deacon that I was done letting myself be vulnerable to him, that he was ruining me. The thought seemed to devastate him. So Deacon and I agreed not to get back together, but acknowledged that we couldn’t stay away from each other either. Best friends is the compromise. It lets us go to the very edge of our want without actually going over. And that works for us. We’re totally screwed up that way.

From the center console Aaron’s phone vibrates in the cup holder. He quickly grabs it before I do, and rests it against the wheel while he reads the text. After a moment he clicks off the screen and drops his phone back into the cup holder. “Myra says hello,” he says, glancing over. “She’s super excited for you to be back.”

“I’m sure,” I say, flashing him an amused smile. Aaron’s girlfriend is barely five feet tall, with wide doelike eyes and a red-hot temper. She used to hate me—which, under normal circumstances, could be understandable. I spend a lot of time with her boyfriend. We’re over it now and the entire situation became a running joke between me and Aaron. And although Myra might still hate me a little, she’s one of my closest friends. But everything will change soon. This is Aaron’s last month as a closer—his contract ends in four weeks. After that, he and Myra are going to run off and live some deranged life in one of the Dakotas.

“Any chance I can talk you into dropping me off at home first?” I ask Aaron in a sickly sweet voice. “I’ve been dreaming about my bed for the entire weekend. Emily had a futon.”

Aaron whistles in sympathy. “Sounds tough, Quinn. But I already called Marie to let her know we’re on our way.” He smiles. “And you know how much she loves late-night debriefings.”

False. Marie absolutely hates when we come by after dark.

I exhale, dreading our next stop. I just want to go home, tell my dad good night, and then crash in my bed. Unfortunately, none of that can happen until we register our closure and confess our sins. Our advisor, Marie, has to interview us before we’re allowed to return to our regular lives. There are procedures in place to make sure we don’t take any grief home with us, take home the sadness. It’s the old saying: misery loves company. Yeah, well, grief can be contagious.

CHAPTER TWO

THE DOOR TO THE FIFTH-STORY walk-up apartment is always stuck, and Aaron has to ram his shoulder against it to get it open. He stumbles in, turning back to flash me a smile.

So strong, I mouth, making him laugh. I follow him inside, and then close and lock the door. I pause to look around. I haven’t been to Marie’s house in at least a month, but it’s just as cramped as I remember. Exactly the same. Wall-to-wall antique furniture, ornate chairs and thin-legged tables. Layers of incense hang in the air; red tapestries are tacked over the window, casting the room in soft light from the lamps. The place is shabby chic—much like its tenant.

“You’re late,” a raspy voice calls from the kitchen. I catch sight of Marie’s bare shoulder and thin long braids as she opens and closes kitchen cabinets in search of something.

“Quinlan was being nice again by giving them extra time,” Aaron calls. He drops onto the worn velvet sofa and kicks off his shoes. I scowl at him for ratting me out so quickly, and remove my sneakers before Marie can yell at me for disrespecting her apartment. “She’s too kindhearted,” Aaron adds. “Tell Quinn she’s too kindhearted.” He rolls his head toward the kitchen, and Marie pokes out from behind the cabinet door.

“Stop being so nice,” Marie scolds, and then goes back to what she was doing.

“See.” Aaron holds up his finger to me in warning before working his arms out of the sleeves of his blazer. He carefully folds the fabric over the back of the couch.

I roll my eyes. “I was doing my job,” I clarify, sitting on the painted chair near the door. “Check with the Pinnacles—I’m sure I’ll get a glowing review.”

“Don’t worry,” Marie says, coming out of the kitchen, carrying a tray. “We always check.” She smiles at me and then sets the tray on the coffee table. There’s a small teapot; the smell of mint wafts up from the cups. My stomach turns. That’s not regular tea—not here. It’s a medicinal cocktail that will compel me to tell the truth once I drink it. Luckily, I have nothing to hide.

Marie hands Aaron a cup. “Guess I’m first,” he murmurs, and gulps his drink quickly. He sucks in a breath to cool down his mouth. “Nasty,” he says with a shiver, and sets the cup on the table.

“I’ll get the paperwork,” Marie announces. She walks toward the home office, her anklets jangling above her bare feet, her long braids clicking as they swish across her back. Marie Devoroux is in her late thirties with dark brown skin, piercing black eyes, and an effortless beauty that allows strangers to trust her. She’s been my advisor since the beginning. I can still remember being a little girl on her lap, telling her about Barbara Richards—a nine-year-old who cracked her skull while riding her bike. I sipped peppermint tea and told Marie how sad it made me when Barbie’s mother cried. I had a hard time adjusting to the grief in the beginning.

Marie’s a bit less patient now, especially with me. She and my father have been at odds over a case neither will talk about. I’m not sure when it started, but it’s clear Marie is on the verge of leaving the department altogether. I don’t know what the counselors will do if she does.

Marie reemerges a moment later with folders and a voice recorder. She takes a spot next to Aaron on the couch, flipping her hair over her shoulder before she sorts through the file with DEXTER REED printed on the tab.

I pick up my warm teacup, swirling around the liquid. I’m not sure I could hate the taste of mint any more than I already do. Eleven years of drinking this stuff will do that to a person. I take a tentative sip and then gag. Marie gives me a dirty look like she’s offended, and I hold up the tea in cheers before downing it, gagging again.

Aaron starts recounting his short time as the distinguished law student Dexter Reed. It took less than twenty-four hours to bring a person’s entire life to a close. Which is good, I guess. Otherwise Aaron would have been late picking me up. Again. I don’t listen to the story—although it’s not a huge deal if I do. Hearing his experience won’t make me sad, not like reenacting it can. That’s why we’re here with Marie. Closers aren’t allowed to go home until we process the grief. We take that burden from the clients, help them heal. But we can become affected, taking it on as our own pain and suffering. Our extreme method of therapy isn’t without its risks. The counselors don’t want that to happen, so we talk to advisors. God, sometimes we talk so much I want to cut out my tongue.

I smile, leaning back in the chair. The tea must already be working. Even my thoughts are honest.

Aaron’s voice drones on, and I contemplate the evening, the taste of peppermint thick on my tongue. Things could be worse, I guess. I could actually be Emily Pinnacle.

Only certain kinds of people can become closers. There are currently fifteen of us in Oregon. Different ages, races, and genders. Enough to cover the demographic more or less. We were all selected by the grief counselors because we have certain traits: adaptability, mimicking skills, and a healthy dose of detachment. We don’t feel the same way other people do—almost like we’re numb. Or at least most of us are. While the rest of the world is bent on sharing their feelings, we study them. We learn to copy behavior patterns, facial expressions. We learn how to become other people.

Over the last couple of years there’s been a societal push to restructure our mental health institutions. As a result, people have become more cognizant of their emotions. Oregon was the first state to restructure. First there were counselors in every school, but many thought the districts weren’t keeping the kids safe enough. There was kid-on-kid violence at an alarming rate and little that could be done to stop it. Some districts shut down for good in favor of homeschooling, with online therapists assigned to help students through hormones and homework. People have their counselors on speed dial. They talk about everything.

The latest news claims that society’s leveling out now—finding a perfect balance with the development of better coping mechanisms. Although not a widespread practice yet, the grief department is slowly growing, the idea of closers becoming more and more appealing to those suffering from loss. I don’t question the ethics of what we do because, ultimately, I’m helping parents come to terms with their new lives. And don’t we all deserve the chance to move on?

“Quinlan,” Marie calls, her chin lifted as she studies my expression. “Your turn.” The room tips at a slow rock, and I’m not sure how much time has passed. I glance at Aaron just as he wipes his cheeks and sniffles hard.

“Be right back,” Aaron says quietly, and leaves the room. He’s going to lie down in the spare room until I’m done, let the tea wear off. Marie told us once that advisors didn’t always use the tea—a cocktail of sodium amytal—because they trusted closers to tell the truth about their assignments. But through trial and error, counselors discovered they could make faster progress with reentry if we didn’t lie all the time. They made a policy change, altering the entire system of advisement in order to prevent mistakes, like us bringing home the sadness we were meant to alleviate.

I hate that tea. I don’t like being forced to do anything, even to tell the truth. But it’s not like I have a choice. My contract isn’t up for six more months.

“Sit,” Marie says, pulling out the file with Emily Pinnacle’s name on the tab. I move to the couch and face her. “How are you feeling?” Marie asks conversationally.

“Exhausted,” I respond. I put my arm over the back of the sofa and get comfortable. There’s no telling how long this will take. Marie opens the file and jots something down. She resets her recorder and places it on the table.

“Quinlan McKee,” she announces for the recorder, and then smiles kindly at me. “Quinn,” she says in her therapy voice. “Tell me about Emily Pinnacle.”

I furrow my brow, contemplating. “She was quiet, polite. I read through her diary three times, flipped through photo albums, and studied her social media profiles. She didn’t have a boyfriend, but she had an intense crush on Jared Bathman. She never told him,” I say. “She should have, right?” I ask. Marie hums something noncommittal, and I continue. “She was worried he wouldn’t like her back,” I say. “But the day she died, he finally talked to her at the basketball game. She was so excited. On the way home she texted her friend and told her the entire conversation. But she never made it home.” I look down into my lap, tears pricking my eyes. “It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair Emily had to die at sixteen.”

“You’re right,” Marie agrees. “It says here that her mother became very distraught after Emily’s death. The father hired us because she had become unstable, erratic. The counselors were very concerned about her well-being. What did you observe?”

“Heartbreak,” I murmur. “I saw a lot of heartbreak.”

“And how did it feel?”

“It was a deep, dark hollow in my chest. It felt like hopelessness.” I look up to meet Marie’s eyes. “I started to think that I was never going to see my parents again—her parents,” I correct. “I was scared. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to die.” Tears roll down my cheeks as grief and loss submerge me. “Now I’ll be alone forever.” I tried to keep these feelings at bay when I was Emily, but now I can’t lie. I can’t hide from myself.

Marie reaches to take my hand, squeezing to reassure me. “You will see your father tonight, Quinn. You didn’t die—Emily Pinnacle did.”

“It could have been me,” I say, shaking my head. “They all could be me.”

“No,” she says. “You’re Quinlan McKee. You live at 2055 Seneca Place in Corvallis, Oregon. You’re seventeen and you drive a beat-up old Honda that your father won’t replace.” She reaches and touches my cheek to draw me back into reality. “And you’re alive, Quinn,” she whispers. “You’re here, and you’re alive.”

I let her words soak in, thinking about my crappy car—the check-engine light that won’t shut off. After a moment I’m rooted back in place. Back in my life. I clear the tears and grab a tissue to blow my nose. When I’m cleaned up, Marie resettles on the couch.

“Do you want to tell me about the T-shirt?” she asks.

My stomach drops and I shoot a betrayed look toward the back room. “Aaron told you?” I ask, angry that he’s called me out twice since we’ve been here.

“He had to.”

It’s true. Even if my friend wanted to keep a secret, he couldn’t here. “Why were you asking about me in the first place?” I demand. “I don’t like being spied on, Marie.”

“I thought we talked about this,” she says, ignoring my comment. “Taking things—retaining possessions of the dead. It isn’t healthy and it’s against the rules.”

“Emily’s dad gave me the shirt. I didn’t steal it.” My emotions are starting to bubble up, but not the sadness I felt earlier. This is different—it’s anger, defiance.

“I didn’t say you did,” Marie clarifies. “But why would you keep Emily’s shirt? Does it hold an emotional attachment?”

My thoughts swirl as I fight the impending effect of the tea. Admitting an emotional attachment to the family could send me straight into therapy. This is why I hate talking about my feelings.

“I just really liked the shirt,” I say, relieved at the words. Relieved . . . that I just told a small lie. I don’t react, even though my heart races. It wasn’t a huge lie—but it was evasive. The truth is that everything I keep has significance, even if it’s only slight. That T-shirt reminds me of my dad, Emily’s dad, and how he bought it for me on my birthday two years ago because he loved the Rolling Stones. We have pictures of us smiling, arms over each other’s shoulders. They may not be my memories, but I like them. And I want to keep them.

Marie studies me, and for a moment I think she can tell that I’ve skirted her question. I’m not sure how I could have, though. When she’s not looking, I glance at the teapot, wondering if the dose was lighter. Or maybe just what was in my cup. Marie writes a note in my file and closes it.

“You’re cleared to return home,” she says, and gives me a closed-lip smile. “But don’t keep anything else, Quinn. It might make the counselors think you’re too emotional to handle the assignments.”

“I’m a coldhearted bitch, Marie,” I say. “Promise.”

She chuckles, and pats my knee before standing. “Oh,” she adds. “And don’t be too hard on Aaron. He didn’t want to tell me about the shirt. It’s a new line of questioning your father added in. Aaron had to tell me the truth.”

“Then why didn’t you ask me about him?” I say, confused.

“Because the questions are only about you.” Her expression is unreadable, unapproachable, and then Marie spins—her braids swinging—and walks back to her office.

•  •  •

Aaron and I are quiet as we get into the Cadillac and start toward my house, where Aaron’s car is parked. Marie’s words clog up my mind, and I wonder why my father would add in questions about me. Why he’s checking up on me. I’m also concerned. Although I didn’t lie, I wasn’t completely honest. Did Marie . . . did she do something different this time? Am I different this time?

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says in a quiet voice from the driver’s seat. He doesn’t look over, but he’s raw—a little shell-shocked from his debriefing. “I didn’t want to tell her.”

“What did she ask?”

He swallows hard, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “We went through the events like usual, but at the end she asked if I noticed anything odd when I picked you up. I didn’t know what she meant at first, but she asked if I thought you were growing too attached to the clients. I . . . I told her about the shirt.” He looks over, his dark eyes miserable. “I didn’t mean to, Quinn.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him, mostly to alleviate some of his stress. “She wasn’t even mad.”

Aaron’s eyes narrow slightly before he turns back to the road. “That’s good, I guess.” He pauses. “Did she ask about me?”

“Nope,” I say. His mouth flinches with a smile, but he quickly straightens it. Aaron doesn’t want anything to mess up his contract. In just a few weeks he’ll have his lump-sum payment, enough to start over somewhere else. He hasn’t been a closer for nearly as long as I have, but then again, my father is the head of the department, so I’ve gotten double the pressure to continue. I’m jealous that Aaron will be gone soon, living his own life. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have that, or if my father will find a way to keep extending my contract.

The typical contract is for three years’ time, although many closers sign on for a second term. Rarely beyond that, though. It’s not recommended, because the stress puts a closer at risk for a whole host of problems—like losing oneself completely. I’m on my fourth contract. Even now, I couldn’t say which of my favorite childhood memories actually happened to me. The lines blur. Occasionally, I look through old photo albums, but there are a few pictures that don’t fit with my memories, and vice versa.

One of my most confusing memories is that of my mother—her shiny dark hair and wide smile, even as she lay in a hospital bed, obviously sick. I would crawl up the white sheets to be next to her, and she’d read me a story, tell me she loved me, and kiss my hair.

But my mother had blond hair and blue eyes. She was delicate and pretty, and then she was gone. She died in a car accident, and I never saw her in the hospital, never saw her after that day. I can find no pictures of the other woman from my memory, and when I ask my father, he insists I must be remembering an assignment, even though he can’t pinpoint exactly which one.

That’s part of my problem—the lives of my assignment blend together after a while, blend with mine. That uncertainty haunts me on occasion, especially when I’m deep in my role playing and longing for a connection. Then again, they all haunt me, all the girls I’ve portrayed, so I try not to dwell on the reality too much.

My most recent contract expired when I was fifteen, but somehow my father convinced them (and me) to sign another one. He’s always logical, and it’s hard to argue with him. It’s even harder to disappoint him. In the end I’ll get four times the money, plus a bonus. He says I’ll be able to pay for college outright, be able to buy a house. He tells me I’ll be set for life. Although those things sound nice to him, I think I’d rather go to prom or something frivolous like that.

Corvallis still has two open high schools, but I don’t attend anymore. Closure kept me away too much. Online high school just doesn’t have the same drama. The biggest scandal I’ve seen was when the servers crashed and the teachers had to reset our passwords. Deacon went to my old school until he dropped out. I never understood why he wanted to quit; I would kill to go back to regular high school.

Aaron takes the exit for my house, and I groan. I’m angry about my father checking on me, and I don’t want to show up so pissed off. “Want to swing by Deacon’s?” I ask. Aaron shakes his head.

“Myra’s waiting up for me. I can drop you there, though.”

“What about your car?” I ask.

“I’ll park the Caddy and hop in my ride before your dad can even look out the window,” he says. “Let him know the keys will be in the visor.”

I agree, and settle back against the seat when Aaron passes the turn for my house. My father is probably at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee so he won’t sleep through my arrival home, but I don’t mind making him wait a little longer. That’s what he gets for spying on me. Now that the stress of going home passes, I realize how incredibly tired I am. How drained.

Like my soul is wearing thin.

CHAPTER THREE

DEACON OWNS A LITTLE CRAFTSMAN-STYLE house close to the college. He exited his contract eight months ago, but he still got paid for his first three years. He gets nothing for the extra year he put in because he broke the second contract. He ended up putting the money down on a home, which was way more responsible of him than any of us expected. He also dropped out of high school and got his GED instead. Deacon’s parents died when he was a baby, and my father found him in foster care. An angry fourteen-year-old boy who he thought would make a perfect closer. Deacon was good, too—almost as good as me. His charisma draws people in, even if it’s only a façade.

Aaron drops me off, still quieter than usual. I know he’s feeling guilty about turning me in for the T-shirt, but I’m too tired to convince him I’m not mad about it. I get out, saying I’ll call him tomorrow, and then watch as he drives away.

A headache has started, and I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms and then climb the front porch of Deacon’s house. I knock, my backpack weighing me down. I slide it onto one shoulder. Although I’ve only been gone a weekend, I feel like I haven’t seen Deacon in months.

It’s a weird side effect of returning: It’s like I’m an actor in my own life. Like I’m not the real one. It takes about twenty-four hours to become me again.

The door partly opens, and Deacon rests his hip on the frame and looks me up and down as if he has no idea who I am. He’s wearing gray sweatpants with CORVALLIS UNION HIGH SCHOOL printed up the leg, his hair all askew. He’s shirtless, whether for effect or for comfort I’m not sure.

“I wondered if you were coming by,” he says finally, pushing open the door wider to invite me in. I touch his forearm in thanks as I pass and drop my backpack at the bottom of the staircase.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” I say, turning to him. “My father’s being a dick.”

“I’m so surprised,” he responds easily.

For the first time since leaving Marie, I’m overwhelmed by a mixture of anger and sadness. The loneliness hits, the loss. I miss the way Mr. and Mrs. Pinnacle would dote on me and call me their little girl. I miss how badly they wanted to keep me. Or maybe I just miss being part of a regular family.

Despite everything Deacon and I have been through, we still have a total honesty policy, most of it unspoken. Without a word he holds open his arms, and I step in to him, rest my cheek on his chest. His fingers slide over my arm, stroking my skin and showing me affection to help ease my ache. After a long moment, the comfort sets, and I pull away.

“Thanks,” I say, stepping back. Deacon shrugs like it’s no big deal, and I brush my hair out of my face. “Mind if I crash for a bit?” I ask him.

He smiles wryly. “Bed or couch?”

I laugh, and in answer I walk into the living room and pull the blanket off the back of the couch to spread it over the cushions. Deacon comes in and drops into the chair next to me, watching as I lie down and get settled.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “I can make you something.”

“No,” I say, tucking my hand under my cheek. This feeling of abandonment, I don’t think it happens to other closers—it didn’t happen to Deacon. But for me it’s getting harder each time. That’s why I sometimes come here before going home—even when I don’t plan to. I’m afraid for my father to see me like this. I’m afraid of what he’ll do if he does.

Deacon moves to sit on the floor next to the couch, and lays his head on the cushion next to mine. “You’ve still got red hair,” he whispers. “I like it.”

“I’m washing it out the minute I get home,” I say, staring back into his warm brown eyes. He smiles.

“You’re right. I hate it,” he agrees. “You look better as a blonde.” I smile, curling up and moving closer. “Aaron texted me earlier,” he says. “Told me you lifted a T-shirt from the family.”

Damn it, Aaron. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wouldn’t care if it was,” Deacon says. “I was just wondering about the T-shirt. Band?”

I laugh. “Yeah. Rolling Stones. One with the big tongue.”

“Nice.”

We’re quiet for a little bit and my eyes start to get heavy, even though my mind won’t stop racing. Deacon reaches over to slide a strand of hair behind my ear. “Although effective,” he says quietly, “your method of closing isn’t good for you, Quinn. You shouldn’t take it all on like that.”

“I know,” I tell him. “But what can I say? Sometimes my heart still beats.”

He smiles. “Then it’s a good thing I ripped mine out. It was a pain in the ass. Much like you. Be right back.” He stands and leaves the room. I hear him moving around in the kitchen, and then he returns with a glass of water. He holds out the drink and a tiny white pill that he says will help me sleep. I sit up and take both appreciatively.

“You should think about changing your methods,” he continues when I lie back down. “If not for you, then maybe for my peace of mind.” He covers me with the blanket and kisses my forehead. “Yell if you need me, okay? Unless you want me to stay.”

“No, you get some sleep,” I tell him. We pause for a long moment as he decides whether or not I mean it. I smile softly. “You’re a good friend,” I murmur.

This makes him chuckle because it’s our new go-to phrase whenever either of us has the inclination to discuss the possibility of hooking up. Keeps us grounded. “It’s too bad, right?” he asks, straightening up. “Bet it’s hell looking at this face all the time.” He models his jawline, narrowing his eyes.

“I can barely restrain myself most days,” I say. “But luckily, you talk. And the spell is broken.”

“Asshole,” he says with a laugh. We say good night, and then Deacon goes upstairs. I listen to the creaking floorboards above me as he walks across his room, silence when he gets into bed.

Some days I really do wish it would have worked out with us—times like now, when I’m all alone. I could lie to myself—slip into his bed tonight and pretend we’re different. But in the morning Deacon would be cold, act like it was a mistake. I’d rather not tear open that old wound. We’re better off this way, just like I told Aaron.

I close my eyes, and in the quiet I think about my future: six more months of pretending before I can live my life full-time. But even then, I have to wonder if anyone will ever want me, love me—the real me. Or if they’ll only ever want me as someone else.

•  •  •

“Quinlan,” Deacon says from somewhere close by. “Quinn—your dad’s here.”

My eyes fly open, and it takes me a minute to recognize my surroundings. The room is dim, but lights from a car in the driveway filter in from behind the blinds. I sit up and stretch. When I didn’t come home, I’m sure my dad knew exactly where to find me. Deacon certainly wouldn’t have told him. My dad kind of hates him, and the feeling is entirely mutual.

Okay, “hate” is too strong a word for their relationship. When Deacon was younger, my dad held him up as the example for all of us. But toward the end, Deacon became defiant, and ended up spending almost every return in therapy. My father thought he was becoming a liability, and then boom—Deacon had a meeting and was out of his contract early, a fact I didn’t learn until after we broke up. My father asked me to stop hanging out with him, but neither Deacon nor I liked that idea.

“Did he come to the door?” I ask, standing and folding the blanket to lay it over the back of the sofa.

“No,” Deacon responds. “But he called my phone a few times and then showed up. He beeped the horn, which I’m sure my neighbors loved.”

“You were always his favorite.”

Deacon snorts a laugh and then leaves to grab my backpack from the bottom of the stairs. I slip on my shoes, readying myself for an explanation. Although I’ve come to Deacon’s upon return before, tonight was later than usual. It’s probably two in the morning. There’s a slight twinge of guilt as I think about my father worrying. I may be angry that he was checking up on me, but I didn’t mean to hurt him. He’s my dad. I love him despite his fatherly instincts.

I walk to the front, my head still foggy from the sleeping pill, and Deacon slides my backpack over my shoulders, hugging me once from behind. “Call me tomorrow,” he says before opening the door. “Tell Dad I said hi.”

“Night,” I say, and thank him before walking out the door.

When I get on the front porch, I hold up my palm to deflect the light from the car. My dad switches to the orange glow of the parking lights and I start toward him. I can just make out his silhouette behind the wheel. I might be imagining it, but his posture looks pissed.

I have to remind myself that I’m the wronged party here—he was spying on me. But by the time I get to the car, my resolve has faded and I apologize the minute I climb into the passenger seat.

“I fell asleep,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean to stay this late.”

“I don’t think I want the details, Quinn,” he says shortly, and flicks on his lights. “Not to mention your partner left a bunch of trail mix in my car.”

I snort a laugh, but quickly cover my mouth when my father glares at me. He puts his arm around my headrest and turns to back us out of the driveway. He cuts the wheel hard before spinning around and jetting forward, squealing the tires of the car. Yeah, I’d say he’s a little pissed. And it has little to do with Aaron’s lack of consideration.

He doesn’t speak again right away, but I watch him, waiting for the lecture. His powder-blue sweater is wrinkled like he pulled it on as an afterthought while storming out the door. I wonder if he’s still wearing a pajama top underneath. His thinning hair is just the same, and his wire glasses catch the glow of the streetlights as we pass under them. His tight expression and forced silence give away his mood.

“I apologized,” I say after another agonizing moment of quiet. “Is there something you’d like to say to me, Father?”

He glances over, looking annoyed that I’d even joke around. I lift my eyebrow, letting him know I’m being entirely serious—well, except for the Father bit.

“Yes,” he says, turning away. “Stop hanging out with Deacon.”

“No deal,” I say, slapping my palm on the dashboard like I’m a game show contestant. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth does hitch up before he purposefully straightens it. I pause, the betrayal starting to thicken in my veins.

“You do owe me an apology,” I say more quietly, and lean back in the seat, turning to look out the window. “For spying on me.”

He doesn’t deny it immediately, and an ache develops in my chest, spiraling down to open a hole in my gut. I clench my teeth and wait for an explanation.

“I’m protecting you,” he admits. “You’ve stopped talking to me about the assignments; I needed another safeguard.”

“You could ask,” I say. “You could just ask, Dad.”

He exhales, and looks over. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll let Marie know she can stop the questions. I was just . . . worried.”

“Well, I’m home now. So you can put your cape back in the drawer.” He chuckles, and the mood in the car warms. “And you don’t have to be so mean to Deacon,” I tell him. “He’s not a terrible influence. A bad one, sure. But not terrible.”

He glances at the time lit up on the dash. “It’s two forty-seven in the morning, Quinn. Please don’t give me indigestion before bed.”

“Gross.” We both laugh, our fight ended. By the time we get home, after an obligatory ride through the drive-through, we’re joking about Aaron’s facial hair and how my father should send him an official letter to cease and desist its growth before the next assignment.

My front porch light is blazing, the sky above us a midnight blue because of the overcast sky. I have a moment of assimilation as I pause in my foyer—the entire layout perfectly planned for reentry into my life. There are pictures of me growing up, baby blond braids and a gap-toothed smile. My mother, who I can’t remember, blows out birthday candles next to me. There’s a coat hanging on the rack above the shoe bench. It’s dark blue with flannel trim, hung there year-round even though I haven’t worn it in years. It’s always there to ground me. Mirrors on both sides of the room so I can check my reflection. I walk toward the kitchen through a tunnel of Quinlan McKees.

I kick off my shoes and then step over them, hearing my father tsk as he leans down to pick them up behind me. Now that I’m home, I can’t wait to get back to our boring old routines—the kind that remind me that I’m real. Three nights in a row of delivery pizza. Bad made-for-TV movies together on a Saturday night. The discussions of where to go on the family vacation we never have time to take. Those are the things I miss when I’m gone—the mundane. The only time we both forget that I’m a closer. I toss my crumpled white takeout bag on the kitchen table and sit down, ravenously hungry. I’m only one bite into my burrito when I notice the cup of coffee, half drunk, across from me at my father’s seat. The closed file with a pen next to it. My stomach sinks.

I spin around just as my father enters the room. His expression is solemn and he slips his hands into his pockets. I’m completely stunned. This is why he wanted me home so soon.

“No,” I say, disbelieving. “I can’t go. It’s too soon.”

He nods in agreement, but there’s no change in his resolve. “I’m sorry, but they need you,” he responds. “You leave the day after tomorrow.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Suzanne Young is the New York Times bestselling author of the Program duology. Originally from Utica, New York, Suzanne moved to Arizona to pursue her dream of not freezing to death. She is a novelist and an English teacher, but not always in that order. Suzanne is the author of The Program, The Treatment, The Remedy, and A Need So Beautiful. You can visit her online at www.suzanne-young.blogspot.com.

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ALSO BY SUZANNE YOUNG

The Program

The Treatment

COMING SOON

The Remedy

Hotel Ruby

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SIMON PULSE

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

First Simon Pulse eBook edition February 2015
www.SimonandSchuster.com

Text copyright © 2015 by Suzanne Young

Cover photograph copyright © 2015 by Aaron Amat/Shutterstock

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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Cover designed by Russell Gordon

Interior designed by Mike Rosamilia

The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond Pro.

ISBN 978-1-4814-4900-7 (eBook)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

THE RECOVERY EXCERPT

ABOUT SUZANNE YOUNG