6

I sat in Dr. Lowell’s drab waiting room, thumbing through an old Us Weekly.

Tack had gone home. He’d promised to come by my trailer after the Announcement, whatever the verdict might be. I’d watched him hurry away down the sidewalk, scanning cross streets, still jittery about what we’d done to Ethan’s Jeep.

I could scarcely believe it.

Slouching in one of Lowell’s uncomfortable lobby chairs—sixty minutes after the fireball, my initial rage having long since burned off—I was growing more and more stunned by my actions. What had I been thinking? Blow up his freaking car? That’s juvenile-prison-level madness.

What would my mother say? What would Tack’s father do?

I shivered, and not from the arctic-level temperature Lowell maintained in the building. Destroying Ethan’s Wrangler was the most reckless thing I’d ever done. I truly, deeply, seriously hoped Tack and I hadn’t been seen. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.

We TORCHED his JEEP. In the high school parking lot!

Was I as crazy as everyone thought?

A door opened, and Dr. Lowell stuck his head out. He didn’t have a secretary or assistant of any kind. I guess he didn’t have enough clients to justify the expense.

“Ah! Min. Right on time.”

Smiling, he eased the door open and swept a hand inside. Beneath a thatch of red hair were flinty green eyes and a smooth, pale face dotted with freckles. Lowell wore his typically inoffensive, shrink-on-the-job garb—corduroy pants and a light blue sweater.

“Please come in. Would you like a soda? Water?”

“I’m fine.” Same offer, same response. Every time.

Lowell nodded amicably. “Okay, then. Please sit wherever you like.”

I took the same spot as always, a leather fainting couch beneath the windows overlooking the lake. As far from him as I could manage in the snug, wood-paneled office.

On script, Lowell spun a recliner to face me and sank into its depths. A notebook sat on a table to his right, untouched. He never wrote anything during our sessions, though a few times, returning soon afterward for a forgotten jacket or misplaced backpack, I’d caught him scribbling away like mad in its pages.

Lowell had seemed almost embarrassed on those occasions—quickly locating my belongings, asking if I needed anything else, then ushering me out with a hearty grin—as if I’d caught him doing something naughty. Who knows? Maybe I had.

I slumped down, eyes traveling the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, displaying various scientific tomes, objects full of psychological importance, and pictures of Lowell on his travels. He didn’t seem to have a family—no shots of a loving wife or kids, not even a slobbering Doberman. Landscape art filled in the blanks, bland and forgettable, probably rated “not likely to incite violence” by the Idaho State Board of Psychiatry.

A bulky, antique-looking wooden cabinet sat in the corner—banded with bronze, lacquered to a shine, and never opened during my visits. A MacBook Air was the only thing on his desktop.

“So,” Lowell began, hands folded, one foot resting on the opposite knee as he fixed me with his patented “I’m your friend” look. At first he’d tried to get me to call him Gerald, but I’d flatly refused. “How has your week been since our last visit?”

Visit. Always a visit, and never a session. My shrink didn’t want me to feel forced to be there, even though I was.

I shrugged. “Fine. Principal Myers said you wanted to meet today instead of Wednesday.”

“Sunday was your birthday,” he supplied, his relaxed bearing not shifting an inch. Dr. Lowell had a gift for stillness, to the point it was unnerving. “We always meet the day after your birthdays, just in case you feel a need to talk. To share.”

“I’m good.” Glancing out the window. “Nothing to report.”

Gunshots echoed in my head. I felt the sting of white-hot slugs tearing into me.

I drew my knees up to my chest. Could feel Lowell’s eyes. Observing. Assessing. Taking my measure.

A glance at the clock. Forty-five minutes to go.

He didn’t miss my reluctance. “Min,” he said softly, his voice heavy with compassion, “I hope I don’t need to remind you that you can trust me. Anything we say in this room will never be shared outside of it. I’m here to help. If something is bothering you, talking about it in a safe environment will almost certainly make you feel better. I promise.”

Is that what this is? A “safe environment”?

I didn’t know what to say. So, a lie. “Yeah. But nothing happened.”

My response sounded unconvincing, even to me. Too strident, as if by overselling a denial I’d confirmed the opposite.

“I’m not entirely persuaded, Min.” Dr. Lowell’s tone remained light and conversational, almost apologetic. “I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Not a question, so I didn’t answer. Though my flaming cheeks might’ve spoken for me.

Uncrossing his legs, my psychiatrist leaned forward, his face growing serious. A twinge of frustration had crept into his eyes.

“We’ve been having these visits for six years now, Min.” His voice was calm, but carried an undercurrent I couldn’t decipher. “I like to think I’ve gotten to know you well.” He paused, as if considering, creating an awkward moment I did nothing to disturb. Finally, “I sense that you’re holding back today. I’d like to know why.”

I hugged my knees closer, stalling for time. In all our “visits,” I couldn’t recall Lowell ever pushing me like this before. He rarely pried, and never directly called me out. I was always allowed to steer the conversation, or at least given the illusion of such control.

Say something, at least.

“Sorry.” Not meeting his eye. “Yesterday was boring. I hung out by myself while Mom worked, and then . . .” I trailed off, but the silence stretched, and I knew I’d have to break it this time. “I just wanted to be alone. So I was.”

His corduroy pants squeaked as he straightened. “Nothing unusual happened? No . . . bad memories? No lost time, or unexplained events?”

My feet hit the floor, defensive walls slamming into place. “No, Dr. Lowell. I didn’t have a psychotic episode yesterday. Is that what you want to know?”

Lowell leaned back in his chair. He schooled his body to stillness, but his entire being radiated . . . disappointment.

Uneasiness roiled my gut. Did he know something happened?

“Are you taking your medication?” Dr. Lowell asked abruptly.

The question caught me off guard. “What? Oh, yes.” Except for that morning. In my rush to make it to school on time, I hadn’t swallowed my little blue pill.

“You need to take it every day, Min.” As if he’d read my mind. “It doesn’t work properly otherwise.” His eyes crimped slightly at the corners. He’s angry. And hiding it.

The strange behavior made me bold. “What is the pill, Doctor?” In an inquisitive voice, wearing an expression of harmless curiosity. “I mean, what’s it made of? What’s it supposed to do?” In all our sessions, I’d never really asked before.

A slight tic, swiftly covered. But I saw.

“Neurotandal is a psychotropic compound used to treat patients who have mild-to-severe dissociative disorders of a complex nature,” he said smoothly. “But you know that. You’ve been taking this prescription since you were ten.”

I crossed my legs casually, leaning back against the wall and feigning nonchalance. We were wading into the deep end, broaching a subject that had bothered me for years. I knew I had to swim carefully.

“It’s just, I can only get the medication from you. It’s not at the pharmacy, or anywhere else I know of. I Googled it once and got zero hits, which never happens. I was just wondering . . . you know . . . why.”

Lowell answered effortlessly, as if reading from a manual. “Neurotandal is an experimental drug, which means it’s still stuck in the quagmire of FDA approval and therefore not publicly available. That’s why your mother had to provide written permission when you were little. We’d hoped that it would be right for you, and, thankfully, it has been.”

Then why do I keep seeing the black-suited man? Why do I still die?

Lowell was watching me steadily. Gauging my reaction to his words. This “visit” clearly hadn’t gone as he’d wished.

Did he sense I was covering up an attack?

He shouldn’t, because I’d done it before.

My deaths at twelve and fourteen? I’d never said a word about them. I’d had sessions just like this one after both days, but on those occasions he’d accepted my deflections. So why was today different?

Because he knows.

My instincts spoke with bone-deep certainty. I was suddenly sure Lowell knew things he shouldn’t. The notion more than unnerved me. I wanted out of his office immediately.

No. Don’t run. Set a trap instead.

“Honestly, this morning was way more eventful than yesterday.”

“Oh?” Lowell’s head tilted, warm lamplight reflecting in his eyes. “Something at home?”

Careful.

Frowning, I ran fingers through my hair. Scratched at my cheek. My very best Normal Sullen Min impersonation. “Mom barely noticed me come in, and didn’t say a word until I was halfway back out the door. Sometimes I think she’s given up on me.”

“Your mother works very hard,” Lowell said gently, “but she’s always in your corner. During stressful moments parents can be just as tongue-tied and out of answers as their children. But it doesn’t mean they’ve given up, or love them any less.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

My slipup had been plain, yet Lowell hadn’t blinked.

He didn’t ask where I was coming from. Or why I’d been out in the first place.

The omission might seem innocuous—that he’d simply misunderstood what I’d said—but I knew better. Dr. Lowell never missed things like that. Six years of therapy had left me with little doubt on that account.

My mouth went dry. The implications were staggering. I needed out of there, now, but the hour was barely halfway gone. So I gritted my teeth and mentally closed ranks, determined to give as little as possible.

The rest of the session was brutal: Lowell asked questions, I gave terse answers, and neither of us was satisfied. Finally, he glanced at his watch. “It seems we’re out of time. I look forward to seeing you on our next visit.”

I grabbed my pack and beelined for the door. Through the lobby and out onto High Street, streaking away as fast as possible without drawing eyes. I glanced down toward the lake. Flashing lights illuminated the school parking lot. I saw the town’s fire engine and two of our three squad cars. Despite everything, the sight warmed my heart.

Like punching people now, tough guy?

I was hustling home as fast as I could—satisfied or not, I didn’t want to run into Ethan any more than Tack did—when a thought surprised me so much, I stopped in my tracks.

Lowell had peppered me with questions for nearly an hour. But never, not once during the eternity I was trapped inside his domain, had he mentioned the Anvil.

I stood in the middle of a crosswalk, face scrunched in disbelief. The potential end of the freaking world isn’t on my shrink’s radar? How was that possible? That wasn’t relevant to my mental health?

A horn beeped, and I jumped. Hurried to the sidewalk. Talking to myself wouldn’t yield any answers, and I was the perpetrator of a recent felony.

I needed to get my butt off the streets.