The Complication (The Program #6)(78)

He’s close now, and when I meet his eyes, I nearly break apart—shattering to pieces in front of him. But I don’t want to give Derek any more power over me. I have to be stronger.

“Tate,” Wes whispers, truly concerned. “Who did this?”

“After I left the library,” I say, trying to sound calm, “I was attacked by a handler. He hit me.” My voice cracks. “He hit me and he dragged me across the floor, and . . . I was scared. I was terrified.”

Wes’s posture stiffens, but he listens silently as I tell him everything, every detail. I tell him about Melody bashing Derek with a fire extinguisher, thinking he was dead. Her telling me to act normal, even though more handlers will be looking for me soon. I tell him I need the cure to make this stop. I tell him I might get lobotomized.

Wes doesn’t say anything, but he’s shaking. And when I look at him, I see that his jaw is sharp, clenched, and his gaze darts around the park behind me.

“And Melody told you Derek was taken care of for now?” Wes asks. “He’s not in a place where I can go have a chat with him?”

“He’s gone,” I say. “But there will be others. The most important thing right now is finding this other guy, and then—”

“Which guy?” Wes says. For a second, I think he’s jealous, but his eyes narrow with realization. “Are you looking for Michael Realm?” he asks.

My heart dips, and I nod, surprised that he remembers his name. More surprised that he knows who I was looking for.

“How did you—?”

“About him,” Wes interrupts. “You know how I was texting, asking to talk, and you kept ignoring me? And then I came here looking for you?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say.

“That’s who I wanted to talk about. If you’re looking for him, I found him.”

My breath catches. “What do you mean you found him?” I ask. “Where?”

“I found his records,” he clarifies.

“You spied on him?” I ask.

“Kind of. Does it count if it was only over the Internet?”

“Yes.” I smile, and Wes laughs, nodding that I’m probably right. “And what did you find out about him?”

Wes takes a deep breath and pulls his legs under him, turning to face me. I do the same, sitting cross-legged.

“The day you saw him following us,” Wes begins, “and then told me not to worry about him”—he lifts his eyebrows, pointing out how ridiculous the request was—“I asked you his name. I went home and searched for him on social media to find out why he’d been following us. But there were no profiles. No accounts.

“Then,” Wes continues, “I thought about your revelation that you were in The Program. Pretty big deal, right? So I went onto survivor sites, dozens of them, and read through their forums.”

I love him. Just listening to him, calmly explaining how he tracked someone down to find out if he was dangerous makes me smile. It was stupid, an overreaction in most situations. But this time he was right to check. Just when I needed him.

“I kept notes,” Wes says, holding up one finger. “And I looked for similarities in stories. These people had gone through The Program and survived it. I mean, I read thousands of posts. Some of them pretty dark. But then I found one who referenced a guy named Michael.”

“It’s a common name,” I suggest.

“Yeah, but how many have a jagged pink scar across their neck?” he asks. “How many were in The Program?”

“Okay, good point.”

“Yeah,” Wes responds like I’m not getting it. “But then I found another post on a different forum. A girl who said she dated Michael in The Program and was hoping to find him to reconnect.”

“He’s fairly cute,” I say, not getting why that’s strange.

“Huh,” Wes says like that’s a fascinating observation, and then presses on. “There were several Michael was my best friend, and another I dated Michael for three weeks.”

I scrunch up my nose. “Uh . . . he would have been busy,” I say. “Where was I in these posts? Realm and I were in The Program together. I . . . I was apparently friends with him.”

Wes stares at me a long moment, his eyes intense. “That’s the thing, Tate,” he says. “Most people are only in The Program for six weeks. These posts were scattered over several years. Michael Realm was in The Program for years.”

A sense of dread winds through me. “Years?” I ask. “How? Why?”

“I couldn’t quite make sense of it at first,” Wes says. “So I pulled up public notices, articles, anything that might mention his name. I joined three different Program support groups, and in there, I found a guy who knew him. He even posted a picture. He said Michael dropped by recently with an apology and his file to give back. Michael Realm was his handler. And, Tate . . . I think he was your handler. He wasn’t in The Program. He was working for them.”

The world drops out from under me. I call up the memory again, us in the leisure room. The way Realm looked at Derek. How he sensed that I could see through their act. And it was an act because he wasn’t a patient. He was a handler. They were all handlers.

When I had coffee with Realm the other day, I confided in him about Wes, and he acted like he’d never heard it before. But if he was my handler, he knows my entire history, knows it better than I do. And if he was my handler . . . that means he helped erase me.