The Complication (The Program #6)(104)

“We’ll apply it to Michael Realm. See if it works. And then move on to James and then returners. It’s our only hope at this point.” She presses her lips together. “But I can’t guarantee that it won’t harm you,” she says. “Going back to those dark memories is dangerous.”

My breath catches, and she holds up her hand apologetically. “I’m not trying to scare you,” she says. “I’m trying to be up front.”

But I’m worried she hasn’t researched enough. Hasn’t done enough to prevent a catastrophe.

“Michael Realm dies if this doesn’t work,” I tell her.

“Michael Realm dies if we don’t try,” she adds.

I can’t be responsible for his death. Although I wasn’t the one who took his memories, gave him a Treatment pill, or caused his crashbacks—I have to weigh if it’s worth giving him this. Will I risk my life for his?

But I know that Realm already risked his for me when we were in The Program. He helped get me out. He promised I’d be happy again.

“I’ll do it,” I say. Wes shifts in his chair, nervous, worried, maybe a little disappointed now that he’s clear on all that’s at stake.

We could walk out that door and start over, but I know that neither of us would actually do that.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


I DIDN’T KNOW SEARCHING MY memory would be a spectator sport. Marie has me on the couch as she sits next to me in a chair. Sloane propped up my head with a pillow, while Wes sits at the other end of the couch for emotional support.

Marie takes her time attaching sticky tabs and wires to my head, and then she removes a crude-looking metal crown from her bag. She tells me it was the prototype for the Adjustment, built by Dr. McKee himself, and sets it aside.

Her hand is under my shirt, attaching wires to my chest, and I glance around the room, a little self-conscious.

James sits at the kitchen table, his head down on his folded arms as he watches us. He continues to check on Realm in the bedroom, his concern giving way to panic. He also seems to be getting worse himself, and Sloane casts a cautious glance in his direction. At one point, James puckers his lips subtly to offer her a kiss, and she smiles and turns back to Marie.

The only option is for this to work. For all of us.

Marie takes out a syringe, and I gulp, a twitch of nervousness when she touches my arm.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Truth serum,” she responds. I dart a look at Wes and then back to Marie.

“For what?”

“It’s a high dose.” She pauses. “Extremely high. We have to find the point where Arthur Pritchard weaved you in. We can’t make a mistake.”

“But you know—”

“We have the basic idea, but we need the clearest memory we can get. Understand, you’re about to crash back . . . hard. You’ll relive the memories, Tatum,” she says. “I hope you don’t get lost in them.”

Although I expect this memory to be shocking, or sad, I don’t get the grimness in her expression. Before I can think too much, she inserts the needle, and I feel the burn race up my vein. I wince, and Wes slides his hand onto my ankle.

Marie removes the syringe, covering the needle tip, and slips it into her bag. She places the metal crown on my head, brushing my hair away from my face. The dose was definitely strong, because I feel the first wave of warmth splash through my chest.

Things blur before getting clearer, still frayed at the edges. I sense it immediately: I can no longer lie. Not even to myself.

James coughs at the kitchen table, and the sound of it is heavy and dry. Sloane gets up and goes over to him. She stands behind his chair as he tries to catch his breath. He swallows hard and looks up at her. Her expression shatters—all pretense of bravery gone—and he nods her toward him.

“Come here,” he murmurs, and she wraps her arms around him, and he reaches up to rest his hand in her hair.

I hear James whisper that he’ll be okay. He’ll never leave her.

And I wonder if anyone has ever been more in love than Sloane and James. What would that be like, to have your fates be so completely and utterly intertwined? I glance at Wes, finding him watching with anticipation, worry.

Warmth spreads over my skin, crawls up and seizes the back of my neck like a grip. I love Weston Ambrose, and he loves me. I stare over at him, the edges of my vision shading in, and Wes smiles encouragingly.

“It’s your dimples,” I say out loud, making Marie look at me. Wes smiles wider.

“What is?” he asks, his thumb tracing along my ankle.

“The feature I love best,” I say. “You asked me once, and the answer is your dimples, every time.”

He has no idea what I’m talking about, but he nods anyway like he does.

“I see the medication is working,” Marie says to no one in particular, and takes out her laptop, her fingers clicking quickly on the keys. There is a buzz in my head, and it startles me.

“Sorry,” she says. “Checking the connection.” She taps a few more times, and then she adjusts her chair next to me, computer balanced on her lap. “Are you ready, Tatum?” she asks.

Sloane comes in from the kitchen, watching us intently, counting on me to be the cure. Her eyes plead with me to not fail.