The Complication (The Program #6)(14)

“I needed a file,” he says, holding up the folder. He darts his gaze away, and his file seems more like an afterthought. A prop. I suspect it’s more likely that he knew I was here somehow.

Michael Realm was following me and Wes today. Maybe he wasn’t the only one watching us.

Pop and I are clearly lying to each other about our intentions, but neither of us calls the other out. I can’t believe I’m okay with this level of deceit. We’ve never done this before. At least, not that I can remember.

This is the same person who would slay the monsters under my bed when I was kid. Who would bandage my scraped knee. Who would take up my cause whenever I had a problem. How can he be the same man who would lie about something so awful?

I’ve lived with my grandparents for as long as I can remember. My mother was seventeen when she got pregnant with me, and my grandparents promised to stand by whatever she wanted to do. Athena—my mother—decided to have the baby and get married.

Unfortunately, a few weeks before I arrived, my father announced that teenage parenthood wasn’t really for him. He had plans to go to college in New York the next year, and I guess my mother and I didn’t work into that plan. He left.

I was born, and my mother dressed me up like a doll, a showpiece. I’ve seen pictures. But she had a hard time with the essentials. She’d leave the house without feeding me. Or forget to change my diaper. Frustrated, my grandmother told her she had to do better. My mother promised she would.

The next day, my mother went out and didn’t come home. She called from the road and told my grandparents she was moving to California. That it was best for me to stay with them. That this was her doing better.

My grandparents never really told me about those days, the first days. And I don’t remember them. I’m not even sure how I know the whole story. I guess I put the pieces together over time through scrapbooks and overheard conversations.

In all this time, my mother has never offered any sort of apology for abandoning me. I’m not sure she even feels guilty. She’s never once mentioned it. She’s never once said she loves me.

But she was right—it was better. Leaving me was the best thing she’s ever done for me, will ever do for me. My grandparents are my parents. They’ve raised me. We don’t deceive each other; we’re not supposed to. And yet . . . here we are.

“We should head out,” my grandfather says, startling me from my thoughts. “I have to get back to the office.”

“Yeah,” I say with a quick nod. “Let me just grab my keys.”

I walk into the living room, and as I pick up the key ring from the coffee table, I see that Pop left his phone on the side table. Without thinking, I grab it for him. But when I do, a new text pops up—a preview on his screen. I look down at it, and a chill settles in my bones.

Just keep them apart.

I recognize the phone number. It’s the Adjustment office.

My stomach sickens, and I set the phone facedown on the table, pretending not to have seen it. Now I know who sent my grandfather here. And I guess that means Michael Realm really was there to remind me to stay away from Wes.

The level of interference, spying, and deception is suffocating. It’s clear the people around me are trying to control me.

Inside, my anger builds. I’m tired of everyone meddling in my life. Everyone lying. I was stupid to even come here in the first place. The moment Nathan told me about The Program, I should have left school and gone directly to the Adjustment office. Dr. McKee and Marie Devoroux have a lot to explain.

I keep my breathing steady as I walk into the kitchen and find my grandfather standing by the door with his car keys.

“Ready to go?” he asks, and smiles warmly.

And I can barely hold it together when I smile back and say, “Yes.”

? ? ?

At the last minute, Pop remembered to grab his phone before we left the house. He doesn’t mention the text he received, and I certainly don’t bring it up. But the minute we’re done, I’m going to the Adjustment office. I’ll demand answers.

Our drive to school is quiet, and my grandfather doesn’t bring up Wes once. I wonder if he’s waiting for my grandmother—she’s the better interrogator in our house. Not that either of them have room to judge my behavior at this point. But it would almost be comforting for them to act normal. Concerned. Instead, I’m getting the silent treatment with an undercurrent of surveillance mixed in.

I think about The Program—their tactics. When handlers would come for people who’d been flagged, it wasn’t just the person they’d take. They’d finish the erasure by confiscating personal belongings. Replacing clothes. Removing pictures.

But I still have pictures of Wes. My clothes were all the same. How? The only explanation is that my grandparents saved my memories from The Program—even though they couldn’t save me.

So why keep The Program a secret? Why can’t I remember?

The lack of conversation in the car is starting to become obvious, and at one point, Pop looks sideways at me.

“About that headache,” he starts. “Did it happen after seeing Wes?”

It got worse after Nathan told me I was in The Program, but to get out of the conversation, I say, “No. Just a steady headache since this morning.”

Pop nods and tells me he’s worried. “We should let the doctor know,” he adds. I wonder which doctor he means. The nice older pediatrician I’ve seen since childhood—the one who gives me shots and physicals? Or the doctors who’ve manipulated my memories?