The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(10)

He doesn’t deny it immediately, and an ache develops in my chest, spiraling down to open a hole in my gut. I clench my teeth and wait for an explanation.

“I’m protecting you,” he admits. “You’ve stopped talking to me about the assignments; I needed another safeguard.”

“You could ask,” I say. “You could just ask, Dad.”

He exhales, and looks over. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll let Marie know she can stop the questions. I was just . . . worried.”

“Well, I’m home now. So you can put your cape back in the drawer.” He chuckles, and the mood in the car warms. “And you don’t have to be so mean to Deacon,” I tell him. “He’s not a terrible influence. A bad one, sure. But not terrible.”

He glances at the time lit up on the dash. “It’s two forty-seven in the morning, Quinn. Please don’t give me indigestion before bed.”

“Gross.” We both laugh, our fight ended. By the time we get home, after an obligatory ride through the drive-through, we’re joking about Aaron’s facial hair and how my father should send him an official letter to cease and desist its growth before the next assignment.

The front porch light is blazing, the sky above us a midnight blue because of the overcast sky. I have a moment of assimilation as I pause in my foyer—the entire layout perfectly planned for reentry into my life. There are pictures of me growing up, baby blond braids and a gap-toothed smile. My mother, who I can’t remember, blows out birthday candles next to me. There’s a coat hanging on the rack above the shoe bench. It’s dark blue with flannel trim, hung there year-round even though I haven’t worn it in years. It’s always there to ground me. Mirrors on both sides of the room so I can check my reflection. I walk toward the kitchen through a tunnel of Quinlan McKees.

I kick off my shoes and then step over them, hearing my father tsk as he leans down to pick them up behind me. Now that I’m home, I can’t wait to get back to our boring old routines—the kind that remind me that I’m real. Three nights in a row of delivery pizza. Bad made-for-TV movies together on a Saturday night. The discussions of where to go on the family vacation we never have time to take. Those are the things I miss when I’m gone—the mundane. The only time we both forget that I’m a closer. I toss my crumpled white takeout bag on the kitchen table and sit down, ravenously hungry. I’m only one bite into my burrito when I notice the cup of coffee, half drunk, across from me at my father’s seat. The closed file with a pen next to it. My stomach sinks.

I spin around just as my father enters the room. His expression is solemn and he slips his hands into his pockets. I’m completely stunned. This is why he wanted me home so quickly.

“No,” I say, disbelieving. “I can’t go. It’s too soon.”

He nods in agreement, but there’s no change in his resolve. “I’m sorry, but they need you,” he responds. “You leave the day after tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FOUR

ABOUT FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, RENOWNED physician Arthur Pritchard built on the idea of role playing in trauma counseling by embedding therapists in people’s lives. He figured out that grief sometimes led to depression and thought that if he could eradicate one, he could lessen the other. Working under Dr. Pritchard, my father used the initial theories and expanded on the research. Closers were established and sold as a remedy for the brokenhearted, the cure for grief. Of course, grief isn’t curable, but it can be treated. Controlled. Eventually, my father and Marie, who was his assistant, took over the grief department entirely, selling their services to those who could afford the peace of mind. My dad set up safeguards to protect the closers, to protect me. And one of the strictest rules of all is that closers never have back-to-back assignments.

When the department was first created, closers were paid per assignment rather than on contract. As a result, many took on multiple roles to make extra cash. But then Alexander Kell happened. He leaped off the fifth-floor roof of the hospital where his mother worked. He’d recently finished three long-term jobs back-to-back, and his advisor had stuck him in therapy indefinitely to control his erratic behavior. Just before he jumped, Alexander told his mother he’d rather be dead than start over again.

The next month, Felicia Ross disappeared from her dorm room while on assignment at college. She was playing the part of an incoming freshman—the parents wanting her to attend the first day of school since their real daughter never got the chance. Felicia had only been home from her last assignment for a week when my father offered her this one. She was gone four days later, and no one has heard from her since.

As more and more closers ran off, the effect was devastating to both my father and the others in the grief department. Contracts with strict guidelines were created to keep closers from overworking. Those rules were established for our well-being, and I can’t imagine why my father would want to break them now.

I drop my burrito on its wrapper, my appetite thoroughly stomped out. He wouldn’t ask this of me if it wasn’t important, but I’m still jarred by the request. At the same time, the closer part of me is curious. I’ve been on too many assignments to count, but I’ve rarely been sent out in the same month, let alone the same week. Why now? Why her?

My father sits across from me at the table and slides the file in my direction. He takes a swig of his cold coffee without wincing. I drag the folder in front of me and scan the name on the tab.