The Complication (The Program #6)(22)

I ask Nathan and Foster if I should mention the box I found in the closet, and they both shake their heads no as the front door opens.

“Play dumb,” Foster murmurs.

My grandfather smiles widely when he sees them, welcoming and warm. “Hello, boys. I didn’t know we were having a party.” He grins at me like today never happened. It’s unsettling.

“Hey,” Foster says, holding out his hand. But Pop pauses before shaking it.

“Don’t you have mono?” he asks, making Nathan snort a laugh.

“It’s the flu,” Foster says. “But just in case, we shouldn’t kiss.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Pop says, and slaps him on the shoulder. “Nathan,” he says, in a slightly different tone. “Where were you at lunch today? Tatum’s Jeep wouldn’t start.”

Nathan swallows hard, and I see he’s having trouble playing along with my and Foster’s dumb act. “Jana wasn’t feeling well, so I took her home. Plus . . . we had to talk.”

“Oh?” my grandfather asks, as if it’s completely normal that Nathan would tell him about his love life. It’s not. Nathan never had a love life. “Sounds serious.”

“We’re working on some things,” Nathan adds, diverting his eyes.

I exchange a look with Foster, and we both must be wondering if Nathan is laying it on thick, or if he and Jana really had a “talk.” What about? Are they having problems?

Foster swallows, about to say something, but instead he starts coughing and doubles over, gripping the side of the couch. I go over to help him, and he tries to catch his breath.

“I should get home,” he says between gasps.

“Same,” Nathan adds apologetically.

“I’ll walk you guys out,” I offer, rubbing Foster’s back until he can straighten.

“Well, I’m sorry neither of you could stay for dinner,” my grandfather says, folding his arms across his chest. “Next time.”

“Absolutely,” Nathan says for both of them, and takes his house key out of his pocket. He nods good-bye to my grandfather before following behind me and Foster. When the three of us get onto the porch, I close the door and Nathan leans in.

“I’m not imagining—”

“No, it was weird,” I say, glancing back at the house. “He’s acting too normal. We should have confronted him, but . . .” I trail off. “Maybe when Gram comes home?” I say it even though I know I probably won’t have the guts to confront her yet either.

“Listen,” Foster says to me. “Leave them out of it for now. We have bigger problems.” He winces. “More immediate problems,” he corrects. “You need to watch out for Derek. We have to worry about your past, but we also have to worry about our futures. I told you before and I mean it now—I think there are handlers everywhere. We need to be careful.”

“You really think he’s a handler?” Nathan asks, scrunching up his face.

“We’ll talk about it on the way to your house,” Foster says, and then makes a kiss face to say good-bye to me. Nathan pulls me into a quick hug, whispering again that he’s sorry in my ear.

Foster and Nathan head down the steps and walk across the driveway to Nathan’s house next door. Thick clouds have gathered in the sky, gray and angry, as Foster and Nathan talk in hushed voices. I can see how much the idea of handlers worries Nathan. It worries all of us. Because handlers mean The Program isn’t dead at all. Maybe it never was.

I reach instinctively into my pocket and realize . . . my phone is gone. And then it occurs to me where I left it. On my grandparents’ dresser.





CHAPTER TEN


WHEN I COME BACK INSIDE the house, my grandfather is in the laundry room, where the sound of flowing water can be heard from the machine. I use that moment to head toward the bedrooms. I pause at the top of the stairs, listening to make sure Pop’s not following me, and then I quickly dart into his room and scan the top of the dresser.

My phone is gone.

Disoriented, I spin around to see if I placed it somewhere else. But it’s nowhere to be found. “Shit,” I whisper. I hear my grandfather’s phone ringing downstairs, but it sounds closer than the kitchen. Bottom of the stairs, maybe.

I slip out of his room and walk swiftly toward my room. I stop dead when I notice my door is ajar. It was definitely closed earlier.

I hold my breath as I push open the door. The room looks the same, the bed a mess, a few pictures stuck to the frame of my mirror. A half-filled glass of water on the nightstand.

I’m about to walk out when I notice my phone sitting next to the glass, the screen unlocked. My stomach twists into anxious knots as I pick it up. My texts are open, and I assume that they’ve all been read.

I can barely keep my breathing under control as I sit on my bed, double-checking everything I’d sent today. The only notable exchange is with Foster. If my grandfather saw that . . . what did he think? Will he bring it up, knowing that I’m scared of handlers?

I set my phone aside, my heart racing. I look at the shared wall between my and my grandparents’ room. What else was in that box? I can’t search it now, not with my grandfather here. There has to be more; there has to be a good reason they kept it in the first place.