CHAPTER SEVEN
WE SIT IN THE PARKING lot of the Adjustment office, neither of us speaking. I turn off the engine, and Nathan unbuckles his seat belt. He puts his hands on the dashboard and stares ahead at the office before turning to me.
“They’re going to lie,” he says steadily.
“I know.”
“We can’t let them get away with any of it,” he adds. “Remember, they manipulate people for a living. We won’t give them a chance to do that to us.” He pauses. “Again.”
“Thanks,” I say, and slap his thigh. “And I’m prepared this time. I got proof from Michael Realm, remember?”
“I do.”
“Realm confirmed my worst suspicions. I’ll make Dr. McKee and Marie freely admit they’ve lied, and after that . . . I’ll dive into all the other shit, I guess.”
“There is definitely a lot of it to wade through,” Nathan says.
I want to understand what happened in The Program. How did I block the memory of me and Wes? How did Wes? There has to be an answer. And it has to mean something.
“Well,” Nathan says with a cleansing breath. “I’m already sick of this Michael Realm guy, but okay—we’ll start with the Program questions. Just be prepared for the answers.”
I watch Nathan a long moment. “Is that even possible?” I ask.
“No,” he murmurs, and grabs the door handle before climbing out of the Jeep.
We both cross to the front of the building just as the sun passes behind the clouds, setting the scene in a weighted gray color—ominous. I’m scared of what comes next.
“They kept me a secret,” I say, as if just realizing the madness of all of this. “They adjusted me, and then pretended to have never met me. There must be a reason.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he replies.
“Maybe . . .” I pause. “Or maybe we should just come back at night and go through their files,” I offer.
Nathan’s face is unreadable for a moment. “That is . . . ,” he starts, before creasing his brow, “easily the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. I mean—it has exactly zero chance of working.”
I laugh, appreciating his sense of humor right now.
“But if you decide to break and enter,” he adds, “I’ll go with you. You know, just to make sure they don’t strap you down and erase your mind.”
“You’re the best,” I say.
He turns to face the frosted-glass door. “Let’s do this,” he murmurs, and pulls it open, both of us exchanging a surprised glance to find it’s not locked.
Nathan and I walk inside and ease the door shut behind us. There’s no receptionist like there used to be. No art on the walls. There’s only an empty desk and several chairs stacked up beside it. The door to the back offices is closed—the place where they took my false memories and implanted them into Wes’s brain, creating a situation we couldn’t come back from. It was their fault he had to be reset again. It was their fault because they knew I’d been in The Program, and they adjusted him anyway.
So why did they trust my memories? They should have known better.
“Do we wait for someone to come out?” I ask, looking at Nathan. He snorts a laugh.
“Absolutely not,” he says simply, and opens the door to the back offices.
My pulse spikes, and I follow closely behind him. There is a soft murmur of voices coming from the end of the hallway, and Nathan and I continue in that direction.
Dr. McKee’s office door is shut, but whatever meeting is going on is behind a different closed door. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the treatment room—where they give the Adjustments. My stomach feels sick. Are they performing an Adjustment right now? After everything that happened, they should be shut down.
Nathan must sense my growing fury, because he reaches out to touch my hand. But I won’t let them hurt anyone else—risk any more lives.
I pull away from Nathan and rush forward, grabbing the handle of the treatment room door and busting in. I startle the people inside, and Dr. McKee lets out a little yelp. Marie clutches her chest. And sitting between them, casually swinging her legs over the edge of her chair, is Jana Simms.
There is no procedure happening, although there are files laid out on the table, a scan pulled up on the computer screen that they seem to have been discussing. Jana is the only one who doesn’t flinch, but I watch as the color drains from her face. Her eyes drift past me to Nathan. I feel his presence behind me, hanging just inside the door.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in a voice so intimate you would think it was just the two of them. Before Jana can answer, Marie gets to her feet and crosses her arms over her chest.
“No, Nathan,” Marie says. “What are you doing here? Did you break in?”
“The door was open,” he responds, hostile. He looks past her. “Jana,” he calls, waiting for an answer.
At first, I’m worried that Jana is here for an Adjustment, and it doesn’t make any sense. She doesn’t need one. But as I look around the room, I notice the files and notes, pens out. She has a coffee near her, an old sandwich wrapper. She’s been here awhile. She . . . belongs here.
Jana isn’t here as a patient. It must hit Nathan at the same moment, because he curses under his breath.
“Who are you?” he demands.
“Nathan, calm down,” Jana says, keeping her voice steady. But her eyes are too wide. Too innocent. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, you have no idea what I’m thinking,” he says coldly. “But the past couple days are starting to make some sense.”
I look from Nathan to Jana, the tension ratcheting up. Nathan was suspicious, and it turns out he had a right to be. It also means Jana did know the truth about me. She must have if she’s involved with these doctors.
“This is a private facility,” Dr. McKee says, as if he’s never met us before. I turn on him fiercely, and I watch his pretend professionalism falter.
“Who are you?” Nathan asks Jana again, but this time his voice is pleading.
“Jana,” Marie says in warning. But Jana looks over her shoulder at her, her expression miserable, and shakes her head.
“That’s not my name,” Jana says. Marie closes her eyes, frustrated, and Jana turns back to Nathan. “My name is Melody,” she says to him. “I used to . . . I used to be a handler. I used to be a lot of things.”
I’m not sure what Nathan thought she was going to say—I don’t even know what I thought—but he rocks back on his heels. I put my palm on his back, reminding him that I’m here for him.
“Foster was right,” Nathan says. “I should have known; he’s always right. He didn’t trust you, and he told me you were hiding something. But I defended you.” Nathan’s voice crackles with hurt. “I fucking defended you.”
“That’s enough,” Dr. McKee says, coming over to put his hand on Jana’s shoulder. Melody. “You need to leave,” he tells us. “This is a private facility.” He shifts his eyes over to me, and there is a moment of apology there. I pounce.
“We’re not leaving,” I say. “You owe me an explanation. And she”—I jab my finger in Melody’s direction—“owes Nathan a little clarification.”
Marie’s hard stance behind Dr. McKee eases. “It’s time to tell her, Tom,” she says, surprising me. “She already knows anyway.”
Dr. McKee turns to her, and after a moment, he nods and motions toward the door.
“Let’s go into my office,” he says to me in a low voice.
I check with Nathan, and he’s a bit torn, not wanting to leave me alone.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, and look toward Melody. She stares at Nathan desperately, not even acknowledging me.
I’m burning up, ready to scream at her and ask her how she could do this to him. How she could lie to him? Ask her why? But ultimately, this is Nathan’s fight. He gets to decide what he forgives—if he forgives.
Nathan swallows hard, seeing the anger in my expression, and tells me to go ahead with Dr. McKee. He turns back to Melody, his jaw set hard, pink high on his cheeks like he might cry but is trying to tough it out.
Melody, on the other hand, is dragged down. Devastated. She stares at him intensely like she can explain everything. Well, she’d better have a good excuse, then.
I follow Dr. McKee and Marie out into the hall, the three of us submerged in heavy quiet as we walk. The doctor leads us to his office and goes inside. Marie stays in the doorway, watching me as I move past her and take a seat in the chair in front of the desk. I don’t even realize I’m sitting until I look at them, both standing by the file cabinet. It was an automatic response to entering the office.
Dr. McKee presses his lips together, making them go white. Nathan said the doctors manipulate people for a living, but I have to concede that Dr. McKee doesn’t seem all that good at it. It’s probably a ruse, but he seems defeated. A little regretful. And if I’m being honest, he looks older than he did last time I saw him. Maybe his guilt is aging him.
For her part, Marie studies me from the doorway, giving nothing away.
“Well?” I ask them both, unable to take the suspense anymore. “Are you ready to admit that I was a patient of The Program and the Adjustment?”
“Yes,” Dr. McKee says immediately, and it’s a punch straight to my chest. The easy answer steals my fight, and I blink a few times, trying to solidify my resolve.
“Okay,” I say, my voice smaller. “So do you want to start, then? Because I’d really love to know why everyone lied to me.”
Dr. McKee slips his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, measuring his words. He comes over to the desk and leans against it, facing me.
“Tatum,” he says kindly. “I’ve known your grandmother for years.”
I look at Marie, expecting her to contradict this, but she stands stoically at the side of the room. I worry suddenly that Dr. McKee is a better liar than I’ve given him credit for. I can’t see where this response is leading, though.
“I don’t believe you,” I tell him.
“I’ve worked on and off with your grandmother through the hospital,” he says. “She used to assist me and my work with the grief department.”
“The what?” I ask.
“Grief department. It was a company that helped grieving families. Marie and I used to run it, under the supervision of Arthur Pritchard.”
There’s a nagging in my brain, something familiar, although I can’t quite place the name. Dr. McKee breathes out heavily.
“Arthur went on to create The Program,” he adds.
I jump up from my chair. “So you are part of The Program?” I ask, taking a step back from him. “And you’re saying my grandmother was too?”
“No,” Dr. McKee says. “My goal was to stop The Program. We”—he motions between him and Marie—“tried to prevent it. But it was beyond our control. Now, as you may have heard, last year Arthur Pritchard died from complications of violating his contract.”
I furrow my brow, not understanding what he’s getting at.
“But in the beginning, we all had good intentions,” he says. “The grief department was a force of good. I would work with hospitals to identify parents and loved ones who had been left behind by tragedy. Your grandmother helped me find those who needed help, those so devastated by grief that they were at risk of dying themselves. We would send in closers—a therapy method where an impersonator filled in for the deceased family members so that others could say good-bye. We would close the loop of grief. For nearly ten years, your grandmother helped our department change lives.”
I can’t believe my grandmother would have anything to do with a company that manipulated people. Manipulated their feelings. I must have been small when she worked with them, because I don’t remember even a hint of this. Then again, it’s hard to remember a time before the epidemic.
“When the grief department was shut down,” Dr. McKee continues, “your grandmother reached out to me. Even offered me a job within the hospital. But Marie and I were already trying to work on a cure for what The Program was doing. I told her so.”
Dr. McKee’s gaze grows sympathetic then. “And when you were taken by The Program, your grandmother called me. Begged for my help. I didn’t have much influence anymore—Arthur Pritchard was already on the outs with the company he’d created. But there was help from within—there were people there on your side.” He smiles like this should make me proud. Instead, it makes me wonder who the hell else was involved.
“So how’d I get out?” I ask, breathless.
He lowers his eyes, folding his hands in front of him. “Dr. Warren was able to facilitate your release after a few weeks, limited erasure.”
Realm was right. She did know me from The Program. It’s horrifying when I think about it; the idea of her listening to my problems while knowing more about me than I knew about myself. It was the ultimate manipulation.
“So The Program’s back?” I ask.
“Tatum,” Dr. McKee replies. “The Program never left.”