“I wanted to see where you did it,” Nicole says. “Where you’ve ruined lives. Like you learned nothing from what you did to me.”
Marie flinches at the statement and lets down her guard. “That’s not true,” she says. “We only wanted to protect you.” Marie takes a step closer. “We love you.”
With her hand still hidden, I hear the sniffle, and Nicole starts to cry. I can’t even tell if she’s pretending.
“If only that were true,” she says, her voice sheer pain. It breaks my heart.
“It is true, baby,” Marie says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. I look between her and Nicole. I don’t understand their relationship, how they’re even connected, but Marie nearly crumbled at the appearance of Nicole upset. She reaches for her and wraps her arms around Nicole like a confidant. Like a mother.
I watch as Nicole brings her arms around to hug her back, and then, with sudden fierceness, she jabs the syringe needle into Marie’s backside and injects her.
Marie yelps and falls back a step. She turns around to see what happened and then looks at Nicole, who’s holding up the empty syringe. Marie glances from her to the needle tip.
“Damn it,” Marie says, almost expectantly. She doesn’t try to run—although with the amount of medication in the syringe, I’m not sure how far she’d get anyway. She walks over to the exam table and leans against it. After a moment, I watch as her muscles sag, and Deacon comes over to help her sit on the table. Marie relaxes back languidly on her arms.
“Now I want the truth,” Nicole says. “And not your version of it, Marie. The real fucking truth.”
Marie rubs her back hip where the needle stabbed her, and when she lifts her head, her eyes are glassy. She smiles sadly.
“He was proud of you,” Marie says wistfully, and behind Nicole, Deacon turns away. Of all the words she could have chosen, they react like these are the cruelest.
“Don’t try to manipulate my emotions,” Nicole says strongly, but her response proves Marie knows exactly which buttons to press.
“He remembered,” Marie says. “Of course he remembered. You were his world. In his last moments, all he wanted was you. But I told him no.”
Nicole presses her palm over her mouth as she holds back her cry. When she can, she lowers her arm, blinking back tears. “Why would you do that?” she asks Marie.
“Because he would have jeopardized everything.”
“And what’s everything?” Nicole asks.
Before answering, Marie’s eyes drift to me. “Tatum,” she says. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Nicole looks at me, taking in my appearance before turning back to Marie. “She stays,” she tells her. “Now, what’s going on? Why didn’t my father want me to know him?”
“You’re well,” she says as if it’s the explanation. “Don’t you see, both of you?” She indicates me. “You’re well. The problem the doctors never mentioned with The Program is the accepted compromise. The benefit-harm balance. They have it with every drug—a company takes an accepted loss. When a patient starts on a new medication, they’re told of the side effects. They’re briefly told of the long-term effects. But it’s more than that.
“As doctors,” Marie continues, “we understand that to cure one aspect of the body, we essentially cut off another, sometimes killing it. To cure what they thought were emotional triggers for depressive thoughts, they killed memories—removed them. That removal formed cracks in perception. Hairline fractures throughout. And now, returners are crashing back. They will all have complications.”
“You’re telling me that all of the patients from The Program are going to . . . have meltdowns?” Nicole asks, horrified.
“Yes. All of them.”
I fall back a step, realizing this includes me, and Marie looks over to me dreamily. The medication has clearly kicked in.
“You don’t have to worry, Tatum,” she calls. “You aren’t affected the same. And Wes will be fine due to his reset.” She turns back to Nicole.
“We’re curing returners,” Marie says. “That’s what we’re doing here. We plan to save them. But we haven’t quite figured out how. The brain is a fascinating organ, completely mysterious in so many ways. But we’re close this time.” She pauses. “I’m close.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’ve lied to us for the past five years,” Deacon says, his voice loud in the small room and echoing off the walls. “Why did you tell us Tom had his memory wiped? What purpose did that serve, other than to hurt Nic even more?”
Nicole rolls her shoulders, the words themselves causing her tension. Marie’s face tightens, and I can visibly see her fighting to not talk. For a moment, I don’t think she will—sure this secret is buried deeper than any medication can get to.
“We were trying to keep you away from The Program. From Arthur Pritchard. And . . . your father didn’t want you to know,” Marie says finally. She closes her eyes, and then her entire body moves in a wave, and she looks up again. “He didn’t want you to know that you’re not the only one.”
“Not the only what?” Nicole asks.
“You’re not the only replacement.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEACON SHOOTS FORWARD AND TAKES Nicole’s arm. I look over and realize she’s swaying, her eyes fluttering. “What do you mean?” Nicole asks Marie, her voice horrified. I don’t understand what they’re talking about, what “replacements” are.
Tears form and spill over onto Marie’s cheeks, but she keeps talking. Her words are soft and dreamlike. “The grief department has secrets,” she whispers. “And Tom—he knew you wouldn’t forgive them.” She looks at Deacon. “Either of you.”
“Tell me what you did,” Nicole demands.
“I will,” Marie breathes out. “But first, you have to understand—what we’ve seen, your father and I . . . the depths of grief. The absolute misery of loss.” She puts her hand over her heart. “We knew what it meant to lose everything. We only wanted to stop it.”
“What did you do?” Nicole asks, louder.
“The grieving families,” Marie starts, “the parents . . . sometimes they didn’t want to give the closers back. Especially the young ones.”
As Marie speaks, I watch the color drain from Deacon’s face; Nicole’s lips part as she sucks in a staggered breath.
“And so,” Marie says, “we had another service, for those who needed it.”
“Needed it or could afford it?” Deacon asks in a growl.
“Let’s say both,” Marie responds. “Those families who couldn’t cope were given an option. Some chose to keep the replacement.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, stepping forward. A pit has opened in my stomach. “What the fuck kind of business did you run?”
“As my closers can tell you,” Marie says, motioning to Nicole and Deacon, “their colleagues didn’t come from good homes. They were orphaned or wards of the state, for the most part. Their job required them to step into a family situation and help the parents cope with grief. And then, once the loop was closed, they’d leave. But on occasion, a family asked for more time. And then more. If it was deemed a good fit, we let the closer stay indefinitely and adjusted the paperwork.”
“What do you mean ‘adjusted the paperwork’?” I ask.
“The death certificates,” Marie says. “In some cases, we were able to vacate them. And the closer took over the identity of the dead.”
Holy shit. I can barely breathe—this might be the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard.
“I was six years old,” Nicole says from next to me. “You stole my life at six years old. Are you telling me you did the same thing to other kids?”
Marie watches her for a long moment. “We sent in closers, and if it was determined they could stay, then . . .” Marie fights the next words, but the truth serum must win out. “Then they were delivered to Arthur Pritchard for programming.”
There’s the name again—Arthur Pritchard. My heart is beating so
fast that it makes my stomach churn. I’m stunned silent, helpless to listen.
“You rewrote their lives,” Nicole says, her voice cracking. “You rewired their memories. You killed them.”
“We gave them lives.”
“Those weren’t their lives!”
Next to Nicole, Deacon continues to stare at Marie, unmoving. He finally licks his lips to speak. “Who else?” he asks weakly, as if he’s scared of the answer. “Who else did you do this to?”
“Not you, Deacon,” Marie says. “Although there were many times we wished we could have improved your situation at home.”
Deacon scoffs at the suggestion, telling her that no matter where he came from, he didn’t want to be a replacement. Nicole still stares in shock. Marie glances at her and smiles.
“There is some good news,” she offers.
Nicole reaches out instinctively to put her hand on Deacon, keeping him from stepping forward out of anger.
“And what could that possibly be?” Nicole asks.
“It’s given us a blueprint,” Marie says. “Those of you who were delivered as permanent replacements were the first steps in finding a cure. Because the crashbacks—the devastating ones—don’t affect the replacements who’ve returned. The memories smooth themselves out, a fail-safe.”
“Yeah, but . . . how many of your replacements went into The Program?” Deacon asks, shaking his head like he doesn’t get it. Marie stills.
“We’ve only found one so far. It’s why she’s so important.”
And suddenly a cold chill runs down my back. No, I think. No. “Marie,” I call weakly.
She doesn’t turn to me right away, even though I know she heard me. And it’s as if the floor is beginning to crack open, ready to suck me into a pit of despair.
“Marie?” I call louder, my cry already breaking my voice.
She slowly turns to me. “I’m sorry, honey,” she says.
“No,” I shake my head, tears streaming freely. “What are you saying?”
She measures her words, and I wonder if the truth serum is wearing off. Part of me hopes it already has and that this is a lie, but it’s too soon.
“Tatum Masterson was taken out of state by her mother,” Marie says. “That part’s true. But when Athena was located, Tatum Masterson was gone. She had drowned when she was five years old, and your grandparents—they were beside themselves with grief. Unimaginable grief, Tatum.”
“Don’t call me that,” I murmur, the entire scene going blurry. I feel Nicole look over at me sympathetically; she knows exactly how I’m feeling.
“You are Tatum,” Marie says. “That precious baby, she didn’t even have time to start her life. You’ve lived it for her. She was ripped unfairly from this world, and it was an absolute tragedy. But then there was another child for them. There was you.”
“Why not adopt me, then? Why make me a replacement?” I demand.
“Because that doesn’t stop the grief—not for your grandparents. They loved Tatum. They love you even more now. Your mother promised to leave in order to avoid neglect charges—promised to keep the secret. She hasn’t been a problem since. And your grandparents, they’ve raised you with all the love in the world. It worked out. Don’t you see, Tatum? You’re a miracle.”
“You stole me,” I say, and Nicole puts her arm around me. “You stole my life.”
“You were no one, and we gave you a family,” she says. “Arthur took away your pain, helped you accept your new life. And whatever he did to you, to the others—it’s saving your life now. You’ll never fully crash back.”
“Why should we believe that?” Nicole asks Marie fiercely. “You didn’t save all your closers. You couldn’t save them from the epidemic—unless you’ve forgotten about Reed.”
“Oh, I’ve never forgotten about Reed Castle,” she says, smiling to herself. “And my and your father’s assessment stands. The procedure that Arthur Pritchard did to adjust your memories is the same one we’re trying to duplicate now. It could have worked in The Program, but after the epidemic took hold, regulations were loosened. Procedures were rushed. The corporation did this. And you can hate me and resent me all you want, but the fact remains: We’re here to save lives.”
“How can you even say that?” I ask. “How many have you ruined?”
“All returners will crash,” Marie repeats, leaning back on the table. “The Adjustment is the only way to stop it. We need the missing piece in order to prevent a massive tragedy.”
“You’ve controlled my whole life,” I say.
“We protected you.”
“And Wes? Why did Dr. McKee tell me to stay away from him? Why make me think I might kill him?”
“Because you and Weston . . .” Marie shakes her head, smiling softly. “You feel too strongly. Too deeply. It cuts through everything, even our Adjustments, we realized. After that, we decided it was best for you to stay apart. We were afraid you would remember. Crash back. We did it to keep you healthy.”
“At his expense?” I ask.
“Yes,” Marie admits.
“You’re a psychopath,” Deacon cuts in. “You—”
“Don’t,” Nicole whispers to him. Deacon glances at her, a flash of betrayal, and then he carefully untangles himself from her grip and moves to the other side of the room, far away from Marie. Nicole turns her attention back to Marie.
“I’ve had time to get used to what you and my father did,” Nicole tells her. “But it doesn’t mean I’m any less angry.”
“I know,” Marie responds.
Nicole studies her and then shakes her head. “I could never tell when you were lying,” she says. “I should have learned by now. And what you’ve done to this poor girl.” She motions to me. “Is there more that you haven’t told us?”
Marie nods. “Yes,” she says. “I need your help. I need you to help me understand Arthur Pritchard’s procedure. Because if we don’t figure it out, I assure you, The Program will.”
“You really think you’re part of a cure?” Deacon asks, disgusted. Marie looks over her shoulder at him. “What you did was about control,” he says. “You control people’s grief; you control their emotions. The grief department, The Program, the Adjustment—they’re all the same. And now you want us to help you do it again? Another fucking cure?”
“Deacon,” Nicole says warningly.
“No, Nic,” he says, his face pleading. “We’re not doing this. We’re not—”
Nicole shrugs helplessly, signaling that she will help Marie, and Deacon lowers his eyes, defeated. I get the impression that Nicole has the final word on this. I, on the other hand, am still in shock. I can’t even wrap my head around what Marie’s told me. It’s not real.
I’m not real.
A stabbing pain hits between my eyes, and I wince and rub at the spot.
“You okay?” Nicole asks me, and I tell her that I am. I force myself to stand up straighter, and the severe part of the pain passes, leaving an ache. Nicole turns back to Marie.
“What do you need from us?” she asks.
“First, I have to find someone—I’ll need his expertise. And I’ll need his protection once we have the cure. I’m hoping he can fill in for Tom.” She presses her lips together sympathetically at Nicole.
“Who is it?” Nicole asks.
“My ex-husband.”
This makes Deacon look up suddenly. “You were married ?” he asks.
Marie nods that she was and smiles. “It was a long time ago,” she says. “He works for the FDA now, partnering with the CDC since the epidemic. But we started together in the grief department. His name is Luther Williamson, and I’m sure he’s somewhere in Seattle. We’ve lost touch.”
“What do you want us to do?” Deacon asks, suspicious of her intent. But he must still have some connection to her, because he waits for her direction.
“I want you and Nicole to find him—it’s what you do best. Tell Luther that I need his help finishing this. He’ll know what
to do.”
“And me?” I ask.
“Once I figure out what to look for,” she says, “we’ll need to do a procedure.” She pauses a long moment, looking me over. Deciding something. “But first,” she says finally, “I need you to bring Michael Realm to me.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I DON’T AGREE TO BRING Michael Realm to the Adjustment office, and not just because I have no idea how to get ahold of him. I asked Marie why she needed him, and her simple response was “information.”
She claimed it was for his benefit, but I don’t trust her. Besides, other than showing up unannounced at the Adjustment office, I have no idea how to reach Marie. When I brought that up, she told me that Realm will know where to find her.
Yeah, well, I’m not going to let anyone I know near Marie again, but I can at least warn Realm that she’s looking for him. And whatever this procedure is . . . I’ll decide that later. We might not even get that far.
It’s strange to watch Marie with Nicole, the tenderness between them even though Marie has done unforgivable things to her. I doubt I could ever feel that level of forgiveness. I guess I’ll find out.
Nicole gets Marie a cup of water from the sink in the treatment room and hands it to her. The doctor takes a small sip, noting that Nicole overmedicated her with the serum.
“I figured it would take an extra dose to cut through your bullshit,” Nicole says, and rolls the stool over so she can sit in front of her. I stand in the back of the room, next to Deacon, unsure where to go.
“You okay?” Deacon asks quietly, looking sideways at me.
“Definitely not,” I reply. He nods like he understands and leans against the wall, watching Nicole and Marie. He’s like Realm in that way, observant. Seeing things the rest of us don’t.
I check the time on my phone. Nathan has been gone for an hour. I text him and ask if he’s had any luck finding Melody. I don’t dare tell him about the madness happening here—not over text.
Not yet. Did Marie say anything about her? he asks.
Not really, no. When will you be back?
Do you need me now?
The Complication Page 19
