The Complication (The Program #6)(50)

Dr. McKee turns to her, and after a moment, he nods and motions toward the door.

“Let’s go into my office,” he says to me in a low voice.

I check with Nathan, and he’s a bit torn, not wanting to leave me alone.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, and look toward Melody. She stares at Nathan desperately, not even acknowledging me.

I’m burning up, ready to scream at her and ask her how she could do this to him. How she could lie to him? Ask her why? But ultimately, this is Nathan’s fight. He gets to decide what he forgives—if he forgives.

Nathan swallows hard, seeing the anger in my expression, and tells me to go ahead with Dr. McKee. He turns back to Melody, his jaw set hard, pink high on his cheeks like he might cry but is trying to tough it out.

Melody, on the other hand, is dragged down. Devastated. She stares at him intensely like she can explain everything. Well, she’d better have a good excuse, then.

I follow Dr. McKee and Marie out into the hall, the three of us submerged in heavy quiet as we walk. The doctor leads us to his office and goes inside. Marie stays in the doorway, watching me as I move past her and take a seat in the chair in front of the desk. I don’t even realize I’m sitting until I look at them, both standing by the file cabinet. It was an automatic response to entering the office.

Dr. McKee presses his lips together, making them go white. Nathan said the doctors manipulate people for a living, but I have to concede that Dr. McKee doesn’t seem all that good at it. It’s probably a ruse, but he seems defeated. A little regretful. And if I’m being honest, he looks older than he did last time I saw him. Maybe his guilt is aging him.

For her part, Marie studies me from the doorway, giving nothing away.

“Well?” I ask them both, unable to take the suspense anymore. “Are you ready to admit that I was a patient of The Program and the Adjustment?”

“Yes,” Dr. McKee says immediately, and it’s a punch straight to my chest. The easy answer steals my fight, and I blink a few times, trying to solidify my resolve.

“Okay,” I say, my voice smaller. “So do you want to start, then? Because I’d really love to know why everyone lied to me.”

Dr. McKee slips his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, measuring his words. He comes over to the desk and leans against it, facing me.

“Tatum,” he says kindly. “I’ve known your grandmother for years.”

I look at Marie, expecting her to contradict this, but she stands stoically at the side of the room. I worry suddenly that Dr. McKee is a better liar than I’ve given him credit for. I can’t see where this response is leading, though.

“I don’t believe you,” I tell him.

“I’ve worked on and off with your grandmother through the hospital,” he says. “She used to assist me and my work with the grief department.”

“The what?” I ask.

“Grief department. It was a company that helped grieving families. Marie and I used to run it, under the supervision of Arthur Pritchard.”

There’s a nagging in my brain, something familiar, although I can’t quite place the name. Dr. McKee breathes out heavily.

“Arthur went on to create The Program,” he adds.

I jump up from my chair. “So you are part of The Program?” I ask, taking a step back from him. “And you’re saying my grandmother was too?”

“No,” Dr. McKee says. “My goal was to stop The Program. We”—he motions between him and Marie—“tried to prevent it. But it was beyond our control. Now, as you may have heard, last year Arthur Pritchard died from complications of violating his contract.”

I furrow my brow, not understanding what he’s getting at.

“But in the beginning, we all had good intentions,” he says. “The grief department was a force of good. I would work with hospitals to identify parents and loved ones who had been left behind by tragedy. Your grandmother helped me find those who needed help, those so devastated by grief that they were at risk of dying themselves. We would send in closers—a therapy method where an impersonator filled in for the deceased family members so that others could say good-bye. We would close the loop of grief. For nearly ten years, your grandmother helped our department change lives.”

I can’t believe my grandmother would have anything to do with a company that manipulated people. Manipulated their feelings. I must have been small when she worked with them, because I don’t remember even a hint of this. Then again, it’s hard to remember a time before the epidemic.

“When the grief department was shut down,” Dr. McKee continues, “your grandmother reached out to me. Even offered me a job within the hospital. But Marie and I were already trying to work on a cure for what The Program was doing. I told her so.”

Dr. McKee’s gaze grows sympathetic then. “And when you were taken by The Program, your grandmother called me. Begged for my help. I didn’t have much influence anymore—Arthur Pritchard was already on the outs with the company he’d created. But there was help from within—there were people there on your side.” He smiles like this should make me proud. Instead, it makes me wonder who the hell else was involved.

“So how’d I get out?” I ask, breathless.

He lowers his eyes, folding his hands in front of him. “Dr. Warren was able to facilitate your release after a few weeks, limited erasure.”