Suspicious Minds (Stranger Things Novels #1)(7)

Terry and Becky’s dad had served in World War II, and he had seen some terrible things there. He never talked about them in front of the girls, but Terry had heard him wake up with a shout one night and snuck out to see what was wrong. She’d ended up crouched by her parents’ bedroom door in her nightgown, eavesdropping. Her dad had told her mom about a camp they’d helped bring people out of, at the end. “Their own people, crammed together like sardines, thin as skeletons…and those were the ones who lived.” He had dreams, he said, dreams where he worked at the camp and didn’t do anything to stop it.

“You’d never do anything like that,” her mom had reassured him. “It’s not in you.”

“I’d like to think not,” he said, “but I know a lot of the men who worked there must have felt the same way before the war. A lot of their wives, too. It could happen here. That’s what wakes me up.”

“No, it couldn’t,” her mom had said.

“I like that you think that, honey.”

“I don’t know if I could stand life if I didn’t. I can’t even understand how hard that must be, Bill.”

Terry had felt such love for them both in that moment. Her dad, who’d had to witness such horrors that he questioned even himself. Her mom believing in him, when he wasn’t sure. Her dad always watched the news, every single night, and told them how important it was to stay involved. What a gift the right to vote was. How they should always be on alert, that you never knew if it would be your turn to make sure freedom was preserved.

Terry had taken those lessons seriously; Becky and her mom had always thought too seriously. But her dad had been proud of her.

And so here she was. Excitement and nerves coiled together, tight as springs inside her, as she read on. She hesitated when she got to the end.

Then she signed her real name. Stacey didn’t want to be mixed up in this, so Terry would have to go forward as herself. Somehow.

“Stacey Sullivan?” The man in the door called.

After this last moment of impersonating her friend, anyway.

Ken gave her a look. “Is that you?”

Interesting that he phrased it as a question.

“Uh, yes,” Terry said, and leaped to her feet.

It was only then that she noticed the man who’d called her name was a different person from before. He was lean and handsome, with a shock of neatly styled brown hair and a mostly unlined face. But when his attention settled on her, she felt like her temperature dropped several degrees.

He smiled, a crinkle of the eyes at the edges. “Miss Sullivan?”

You’re just nervous.

Terry rushed forward, almost dropping her release forms because of course she did. She resettled her purse over her arm and clutched the papers tight against her. “Present.”

He motioned for her to step past him. “We’re down at the end. Last door on the right.”

The door to a large, cluttered room stood open. An exam table waited a few feet inside. She lingered by it as she took in the rest of the space. Very psych department leftovers—two gurneys and posters with diagrams and strange equipment with wires and tubes. Tables and stacks of notebooks. A microscope that didn’t look used shoved in a corner. She spotted a model of a brain, divided into pale pink sections that could be taken apart or put together.

“Sit,” the man said, waving his hand to the exam table. He had a tone of authority, like he was used to giving commands.

Terry hesitated, then perched on the edge of the table. Her feet dangled, a reminder she wasn’t on solid ground.

The man stood looking at her. Finally, when the silence began to get awkward, he asked, “And you are?”

Before she could decide how to answer, he continued, “I know you’re not Stacey Sullivan.”

Shit. That was quick.

“How?” The question slipped out.

“According to the notes made by the university staffer who provided her name, Stacey Sullivan has curly black hair. She’s five-three. Brown eyes. Average IQ.”

Terry was offended on Stacey’s behalf.

“You,” the man continued, “are five-eight with dark blond hair and blue eyes. My assessment of your intelligence depends on why you’re here claiming to be Miss Sullivan, but I’m going to guess it’s above average. So, who are you?”

His tone was casual. However Terry had expected this to go, this wasn’t it.

“Well, you’re not Stacey’s lab rat either,” Terry said, realizing it was true. Not only was this scene completely different from Stacey’s story, but no one would describe this man that way. “The guy who gave her drugs that made her feel weird last week. The reason she didn’t come back. So, who are you?”

She wondered if he’d answer.

He shook his head in something that might be amusement. “I’m Dr. Martin Brenner. That was a university psychologist working on a subcontract. They have a habit of botching the procedures. That’s why we’re taking this work over.” He paused. “Your turn.”

Fair enough.

“I’m Terry Ives, Stacey’s roommate,” she said.

“And so I have no idea if you meet any of the screening criteria set out for this experiment,” Dr. Brenner said.

“I talked to some of the others outside—they answered a newspaper ad. How strict can it be?”