The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(40)

The band finishes setting up, and when they start to play, Deacon takes a walk through the crowd, closer to the stage, so that he can look around. I wait, fading into the background so I can observe without being noticed. About halfway through the band’s first song, I find Angie.

She looks unsteady as she runs her hand along the brick wall, making her way toward the music. Her behavior garners looks, and a few people whisper as she passes.

She’s alone, I note. In her posture and expression, I can see she’s alone in every sense of the word. Even her broad smile at a passing guy is a mask. Her eyes are darker, her skin sallow in the places that makeup doesn’t cover. She looks unwell.

I bite on my thumbnail and look around for Deacon, hoping he’ll get back here before she disappears into the crowd again. Instead my gaze falls on Isaac, sitting on a stool at the bar. People are reaching around him, holding out money for the bartender, taking drinks before a new crush of people filters in. But Isaac’s in slow motion, stagnant in the madness around him. He sips a cup of ice water, staring at nothing. Sympathy floods my chest. Without thinking, I take a step forward into the light so I can watch him a little more closely. Watch him ignore the entire world as he drowns in his grief.

“What the hell are you doing here?” a voice calls sharply, cruelly. Startled, I spin and find my sister a few steps in front of me. Her eyes are blazing; red flares on her cheeks. Her body sways with anger, and I try to move back, but it’s too late for me to fade away now.

“Angela, I—”

“How dare you come here!” she says, her tone unhinged. “How dare you!” Her mouth is pulled tight in an ugly scowl. Several people around her have turned to stare, but I don’t acknowledge them; I don’t even turn to see if Isaac has noticed. I have to defuse this situation. The crowd in this room has quieted, and the echoing music from the band is hollow around me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice not nearly as close to her sister’s now. I’m trying to calm her, and to do that, I need to be less aggressive. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

She laughs, a sad laugh of disbelief. “You’re playing my dead sister,” she says, earning even more looks. “What makes you think I’d have anything to do with you? You’re a monster.”

Heat crawls over my cheeks, but I try to exude calm. “I know you’re upset,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “But if I could just talk to you about your parents. I really want—”

“I don’t give a shit what you want!” she shouts, and now it feels like the entire bar is watching us. Where the hell is Deacon?

“Maybe if we go outside,” I start, but before I finish my thought, there is a blur of movement. Angie grabs the drink from the guy nearest her and then hurls the liquid at me, splashing my face and clothes in cold, red liquid. I scream and fall back a step, completely shocked and dazed. I swipe my hands over my eyes, the alcohol burning my skin.

“I don’t want your help,” my sister growls. “I don’t ever want to see you again.” She turns and walks away, the guy calling after her that she owes him a drink. There is laughter, a couple of curses about how they shouldn’t let underage people in the bar because they always ruin the night. But mostly it’s the judgmental stares of the people who know what I do now. They know I’m a closer; they’ve put together why I’m here. And they hate me for it.

Sickness washes over me, and I try to back into the corner, shivering and sticky. Then suddenly, out of the crowd, Deacon appears, his posture hardened. He reaches past a couple of guys at the bar and grabs the stack of napkins without missing a step. When he reaches me, he takes my arm, not saying a word, and turns us toward the door.

I can feel the bouncer’s stare as we walk past him, and I’m not even out from under the awning when I start to cry. Humiliated, degraded. I take Deacon’s hand and let him lead me back to the car.

CHAPTER FOUR

DEACON DOESN’T ACKNOWLEDGE MY TEARS. The rain has picked up, but I don’t flip my hood. I let it wash over me, wash off the drink my sister threw in my face, wash off my shame. When we get to the car, Deacon hands me the damp napkins and unlocks the passenger side, helping me in. He closes the door, and pauses to look back at the building, as if he’s considering going back in to fight for me. But there’s no one to fight. He rounds the car, tossing a concerned glance at me through the windshield, before climbing in and slamming his door.

We sit quietly with the sound of rain splattering on the glass. Deacon doesn’t start the car, even though it’s cold. He doesn’t do anything. Which is exactly what I need him to do in this moment.

Back when we were partners, I was slow to let Deacon in—at least on a personal level. I may have liked him, but I didn’t let him know. I definitely didn’t want him to like me, either. It seemed like it’d make things more complicated. Then one night, we found ourselves parked outside the house of his assignment. He would do that sometimes: convince the clients to go out, to reconnect. I think it was more so that he could get a break from them. Get a break from the job.

This one night, he asked me to bring him food. He complained the family was vegetarian and that if he didn’t get a hamburger soon, he might die from starvation. I had nothing better to do, so I agreed. I picked up takeout and met him outside the house, surprised when he got in instead of taking the bag back inside. He said he wanted the company.