The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(38)

I just really hope I don’t have to.

CHAPTER THREE

DINNER WITH MY PARENTS IS actually nice. My father even smiles at me once when I mention how much my arm hurts, but that I’m pretty sure my draft letter to the MLB will arrive within the week. We have roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. My mother talks about her friend Maryanne again, and my dad tells us about a new project he’ll be starting at work on Monday. For an entire hour, I forget I’m on assignment. For an entire hour, I have a family—a mother and a father who share a meal with me. Me and my real dad never do that. We never have time.

My parents say good night around ten, but by now my anxiety has reasserted itself. When I finally get to my room, I stuff a pillow under my covers. I’m pretty sure that’s never worked in fooling a parent, not ever, but I’m not sure what else to do. Locking the door would be a dead giveaway.

I pull on a pair of soft jeans and do a couple of lunges to loosen them up. My T-shirt from this morning is over the back of my desk chair, and I slip it over my head and spritz on some body spray. There’s a still a little time before Deacon’s supposed to arrive, so I check my e-mails and am disappointed to find I was indeed taken off the e-mail chain. There’s a vague sense of being left out, but I quickly remind myself that I was never really invited in the first place. I close the computer and take out my phone. I click through to find Aaron’s last message.

CALL ME, I type. I don’t ask Aaron where the hell he is, or why he didn’t tell me, just in case someone else is monitoring his line. I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble. When he doesn’t respond, I tuck my phone away and shut off my overhead light. I ease open my window and sit on the sill, watching the street for Deacon.

I’m scared about tonight. Afraid I’m making a mistake. But there have been too many anomalies with this case already. I need actual research. Answers. It’s like everyone keeps telling me lies—starting with why Arthur Pritchard sent me on this assignment in the first place.

The minutes slowly tick by, and I listen for any sound coming from the hallway. Both my parents have gone to bed, and I don’t hear anything beyond the humming of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Finally a car drives up and parks in the shadows between lampposts before clicking off its lights. I quickly grab the hoodie from my desk chair and look at the doorway, listening. When I hear nothing, I push open my window the rest of the way and climb through. I ease it down, but not entirely, and then dash across the lawn toward the car.

I climb in the passenger side of my Honda, and then Deacon pulls away from the curb quickly in case one of my parents happens to look out the window. He doesn’t turn the headlights on until we round the corner and are out of view. The minute he does, we both exhale and look at each other.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Deacon while on assignment—not since we were partners. His eyes rake over me, pausing at my hair before he turns to face the windshield once again.

“You cut your hair,” he says.

I pull at the strands in the back of my hair, embarrassed of the change, which must seem extreme. It feels extreme now that I’m away from my assignment. “Yeah . . . it was just easier.”

He darts a look between me and the road. “Looks nice,” he says simply. I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. The moment fades, and then it’s just us in the car, all of our baggage stowed away.

“Now, who exactly are we observing tonight?” he asks, taking a turn onto the freeway. Outside, the dark sky has a hint of gray from cloud cover; the first ominous drops of rain hit the windshield.

“My sister,” I tell him. “Her name’s Angie.”

Deacon turns to me. “What? You didn’t mention there would be a sister.”

“That’s because she’s not part of this assignment.” I look at him seriously. “But she should have been. I’m not sure why the counselors didn’t flag her, or at least ask her to remain in the house to support her parents. How am I supposed to position their lives without all the pieces?” I ask. “The minute Angie comes home, if she comes home, the family dynamics will change. That could throw off the entire recovery process.”

“Reasonable argument,” Deacon says slowly, thinking it over. “And you’ve talked to this girl?”

“Sort of,” I say. “She hates me, wishes I was dead instead of her sister.”

“So you’ve made progress.”

I laugh, and when I look down, I notice a bag of Skittles in the center cup holder. Deacon smiles when I turn to him. “Like old times,” he says.

I’m not expecting his comment to hit me the way it does: a mix of nostalgia and longing around the thought of Deacon. Then again, maybe I’m just craving a connection. “Have you turned up anything on Virginia yet?” I ask, trying to refocus on the assignment.

“No, but I just started looking,” Deacon says. “If she exists, I’ll find her.”

We spend the rest of the drive going over my assignment so far. I tell him about the haircut with my mother and playing baseball with my dad. I even reenact the confrontation with my sister. Neither of us mentions Isaac.

On Mississippi Avenue, I see a small brick building with the word WAREHOUSE embossed in iron above its door. People are standing around outside, smoking and hanging out under the awning. The rain has softened into a drizzle as Deacon pulls into the back lot and finds a spot near the chain-link fence. He was right—this place is kind of seedy. When Deacon looks at me, I smile. It also looks kind of fun.