The Complication (The Program #6)(24)

“There’s a box,” I say. “One in their closet. It has some of my baby stuff in it, but I don’t remember it. Is it possible there’s more they’re not telling me? I don’t know what to do.”

“I think you should come in tomorrow,” Dr. Warren says, a rustling of papers in the background. “I’ll clear my schedule, and we can talk this through. I’m worried, Tatum. You don’t sound like yourself. Did something else happen with Wes?”

I have a flash of annoyance. “No,” I say. “Not everything has to do with Wes. This is about my grandparents.” I look at the door again. “This is about The Program,” I add in a quieter voice.

“I understand,” Dr. Warren says. “Well, then I’ll help you. We can research together, formulate questions for your grandparents so you can confront them. This is a big deal, Tatum. And you don’t have to go through it alone.”

I consider telling her about seeing Marie today, about Michael Realm watching me, but I decide it might be better to talk in person. I feel too vulnerable here. Too exposed.

“Tatum?” Dr. Warren asks, waiting for an answer.

“I’ll come by tomorrow after school,” I say.

“Great,” Dr. Warren responds quickly. “I look forward to seeing you.”

“Same here,” I say. But before we hang up, I furrow my brow. “You’re not going to tell them, right?” I ask. “My grandparents?”

“I won’t,” Dr. Warren assures me. “I promise.”

Once the call is over, I set the phone down on the bed, feeling worse than I did before I talked to my therapist. I’ve stirred up emotions. Reignited them. Right now, Dr. Warren is my best option for help. She’ll know what to do about my grandparents. Help me sort the lies from the truth.

“Tatum,” my grandfather calls from downstairs, and I gasp at the sound of his voice. Even though he can’t see me, I quickly brush back my hair, straighten my expression.

“Yes?” I yell back.

“Can you come down, please?” There’s a hint of hostility to the question, and panic begins to build. Does he know what I just told Dr. Warren?

When I don’t answer right away, Pop calls my name again.

“Coming,” I say, my voice lower than before. I stand up, leaving my phone on the bed, and walk out of the room.

My heart pounds in my ears as I descend the stairs, scared of the impending confrontation. This might be about my phone. He’s probably going to ask why it was in his room. Ask about seeing handlers.

Pop appears in the entryway, his forehead creased with concern, and before I can ask if he’s okay, he swallows hard.

“There’s someone here to see you,” he says, and motions toward the couch.

My legs weaken when I find Weston’s mom waiting there. She spins to face me, and her expression is intense and, if I’m honest, a bit rage filled.

I flip my eyes to my grandfather, but he crosses his arms over his chest and goes to stand near the window, his back to us. He’s punishing me. I look at Dorothy Ambrose.

“Hello,” I say meekly.

She scoffs and gets to her feet. I brace myself for her verbal assault, which seems to be the only sort of communication we’ve had since the night Wes was taken to The Program.

“Dr. McKee warned you about the consequences,” she says. “But you didn’t listen. You never listen.” Her eyes, so much like Wes’s, are watering with anger.

Well, I’m not just going to admit that I did anything wrong. “What are you talking about?” I ask. My grandfather looks over his shoulder at me, disappointed.

Dorothy tightens her jaw. “Weston came home and told me about this ‘pretty girl’ he met. Said you went for a ride on his motorcycle. Skipped school. I could guess who it was.”

First, I have no idea why Wes would tell his mother anything. They weren’t even close. Unless . . . maybe they are now since he doesn’t remember that she can be a serious bitch sometimes.

“We didn’t discuss our relationship,” I say. “He has no idea. And it was Wes who asked me to lunch. It was Wes who wanted to come back here. So don’t put this all on me.”

“You should have said no.”

I laugh. “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “I love him, and you know that.”

“That’s the problem, Tatum,” she says. “You never do what’s best for him.”

“You don’t know what’s best for him,” I snap.

She shakes her head like she can’t believe how pathetic I am. It cuts me, and I take a step back from her. My grandfather turns around to look at both of us, ready to intervene in case this breaks out into a physical altercation. “You’re a kid,” Dorothy says instead.

“I’m eighteen,” I remind her—although my birthday isn’t for another two weeks.

“Don’t you understand?” she asks. “You’ve ruined his life twice, Tatum. Do you really think I’ll let you do it a third time?”

“Twice?” I say. “How did I ruin his life the first time? He left me, remember? He—”

Her face enflames like she’s about to tear into me, but my grandfather walks over and takes her by the arm, pulling her toward the door.