The Complication (The Program #6)(99)

The Program was never about our well-being. It was always about control.

James continues his story, amused. “We all went outside,” he says, “and by the cabin was this huge, dirt lot. Brady wanted to bat first, and you”—he laughs—“wandered to the outfield. You put your hat on backward, adorable. No fucking clue what you were doing.”

“Doesn’t sound like you were paying attention to the game,” Sloane points out.

“Oh, I wasn’t,” he admits. “So anyway, Brady gets up to bat, and I strike his ass out—no mercy.” Sloane laughs. “And then it was your turn, and you came to the plate, choked up on the bat, biting the corner of your lip in concentration,” James says. “I underhand-pass you an easy hit, and you knocked it right to me. But then your brother got pissed. Said I was cheating.”

“You were,” Sloane says.

“So? Were we in the major leagues? Was I getting endorsements? No. Well, then Brady gets up to bat, and me being me,” James says with a smirk, “I struck him out again. He threw the bat and told me to stop fucking around.”

Sloane is cracking up, and I’m smiling too. The innocence of it all. I hope that one day we can all return to a world like that.

Sloane snuggles into James. “Then what did you do?” she asks, assuming he made things worse.

“You got a few more hits,” he says, “and your brother was incensed. Told me he was going to shove the ball up my ass if I didn’t play right.”

“Graphic,” Sloane murmurs.

“So he got up to bat,” James says. “And he pointed at me and said, ‘If I hit this ball, you’re never allowed to look at her like that again.’ I told him I had no idea what he was talking about.

“And don’t you know,” James adds with a laugh. “Your brother took my worst and fucking nailed that ball. Knocked it over your cute little head and into the next lot. I was . . .” He pouts his lips, still staring into the distance. “I was pretty bummed,” he says. “And so Brady came over to me, both of us watching you chase the ball, and he threw his arm over my shoulders and said, ‘I know you’re going to anyway, so don’t look so fucking sad.’ When I turned to him, he smiled, and then he ran out to help you get the ball from next door.”

The story ends, and I watch as Sloane’s smile fades. Her eyes well up. “He knew,” she says. “About us.”

“Oh, yeah.” James brushes an absent kiss on her hair. “I think he even liked the idea, you know, once he got over the shock of his sister and his asshole friend.”

“You’re not an asshole,” she murmurs, still clinging to the memory. “Okay,” she adds, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You are, but I like that about you.”

James laughs, but before he can follow up, I hear Realm call my name from the back bedroom. Sloane and I exchange a look, and she sits up, nervous.

“I’ll check on him,” I tell her, and she nods, resting back against James.

I go to the bedroom and poke my head in, surprised to find Realm awake and staring up at the ceiling. His color has taken on a grayish tone, and I wish Marie and Wes would hurry back. Spare us one way or another. Either the cure works or it doesn’t. But no more uncertainty. We just want this nightmare to end.

I think about that, about how tragedy is more palatable in small doses. Long term, the devastation goes beyond physical. It becomes psychological. It’ll start to unwind you. It’ll destroy you strand by strand. And I’m not sure how many strings we have left.

Realm senses me and turns his eyes in my direction. My heart skips as I take in his current condition, and I sit next to him on the bed, careful not to jostle him.

“You look nice,” he says, flashing a small smile. “Healthy. Is Wes here?”

“No,” I tell him. “He’s with Marie. They’re getting some equipment. Looks like you’ll get those last few experiments after all.”

“I knew it,” he says with a smirk. But after a second, it fades into something graver.

“What?” I ask, leaning closer.

“I’m sorry you’re the cure,” he murmurs. “That you haven’t found the happy life you deserve. I promised you once—promised you’d get the chance. But I’m the worst liar of all. I’ve never helped anybody.” His voice cracks, and the sound is absolutely heartbreaking. “I’m sorry, sweetness,” he says, tears spilling onto his cheeks. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Realm reaches to touch my hand, and I look down as his fingers interlace with mine. The sensation envelops me, not with fear, but with something like realization. Like my entire body just realized something.

I look up, staring into Michael’s eyes, noting how kind they look, despite the gore. How familiar.

How deeply familiar.

There is an intense pain, a spark of blinding light. And then a memory hits me hard and fast, knocking me out of my own head.





CHAPTER TWELVE


“KNOCK, KNOCK,” REALM SAID FROM the doorway of my facility room, not actually knocking. I looked up from my bed, my slipper socks tucked underneath me, my yellow scrubs scratchy at my neck. “Am I interrupting?” he asked.

I stared at him. I hadn’t seen him for the three days, not since he was pulled from the card game, but I hadn’t wondered where he was, not really. I was too busy being medicated to near-unconsciousness. But I’d finally figured how to get the pills out of my system before they could take hold. It left me with just a bit of fuzz clinging to my consciousness.