The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(79)

I don’t let any of my fear show as we walk onto the front porch, and I shut the door behind us. Arthur pauses at the top at the stairs, looking around like he’s taking in the scenery. He slides his cool hand over mine, holding me in place. I consider asking him about his daughter—what role Virginia Pritchard has played in all of this. But something in his demeanor tells me it would be dangerous to do so. That this entire conversation would become more dangerous. I swallow hard and look sideways at him.

“So what happens now?” I ask, waiting for the inevitable.

“Well,” he reasons, “it depends. Are you competent enough to finish this assignment?”

There’s a sting at his words. “I am,” I say, wishing his cold hand wasn’t over mine so I could move away from him. We’d seem like old friends if my parents were to look out the window, but there’s a tension between us that’s palpable.

“May I ask where you’ve been for the last fifteen hours, Miss McKee?” He stares at the flower bed in the yard, admiring it.

“No offense,” I say, turning to him, “but it’s none of your business.”

He chuckles as if I’ve just made a highbrow joke. His grip on my hand tightens. “Yes, I suppose it isn’t. I just don’t like when my closers lose contact.” He turns to me, his lips pursed. “I worry about them.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m not your closer.”

“All of you are mine.” He pats my hand and then lets go, starts down the stairs without me. He slips his hands into the pockets of his coat and turns to look over his shoulder. “By the way,” he asks. “Have you spoken to Deacon Hatcher lately?”

“No,” I say, like I’m surprised he asked. He studies me for a moment, and then nods thoughtfully. Inside, my stomach is in knots, and I wonder if he can read my lie. “Well, then,” Arthur says pleasantly, “good luck on your assignment, Qu—” He stops and snaps his fingers. “Catalina,” he finishes. And then he turns on his loafers and walks to the white Lexus parked in the driveway.

I stand there, stunned, as I watch him drive off. First of all, Arthur Pritchard just came out to my assignment and basically told me to pull my shit together. But more alarming, why did he mention Deacon? How did he even remember his name? They only met once for an evaluation, and Deacon told me he was a stuffy old dude. He left out the part where the good doctor is intimating and creepy. Thanks, Deacon.

Does Arthur Pritchard know where I was? Has he been watching me? Paranoia chills my skin, and I wrap my arms around myself and look at the street. The idea of being spied on is suffocating, and I have to try hard to shake it off. I’m on an assignment. I have to keep my head.

I won’t think about Deacon, or even Arthur Prichard. I came back to Lake Oswego for a reason. I need to set this right. I turn toward the house, gathering up my courage, and then I go back inside and find my parents waiting for me on the couch.

I’m a nervous wreck as I go to sit across from them in the seat Arthur Pritchard just vacated. I feel like I’m on a job interview, a really screwed-up one, and I fold my hands neatly in my lap. I’m still wearing my contacts from yesterday, and my eyes are itchy. My freckles are visible, but at this point I’m not sure that matters. I look at my mother, guilt gnawing at my insides. The normally neat house has items out of place, the normal routine of chores ignored.

“I really am sorry for what happened last night,” I say, sounding like her daughter. “I’ve never . . . I didn’t mean to freak out. I sincerely apologize.”

“No need,” she says kindly, waving away my sentiment. She turns to her husband, and he nods as if he knows what she’s about to say. My mother looks at me again. “You don’t have to pretend anymore,” she tells me. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

I don’t respond at first, mostly to make sure I understand. Part of my job is to let patients lead their own recovery. Now I need to ascertain if she’s saying what I think she is. If this assignment has just ended.

“I’m the one who should apologize. Dr. Pritchard asked us not to talk about it”—she lowers her voice as if he’s still listening—“but I feel terrible for not warning you. You should have been prepared.”

I narrow my eyes as I concentrate on her words. She’s referring to me as a closer, not as her daughter. I’ve never had a client end the assignment first. It’s not against the rules . . . it’s just unexpected. It also hurts a little in an entirely selfish way. “What do you mean?” I ask her, Catalina’s voice falling away. “Prepared for what?”

She folds her hands in front of her lips, gathering her composure. “Catalina was sick . . . before she died,” she says. “The counselors don’t want us to dwell on it—they even had us sign a confidentiality agreement to not discuss it—but they should have told you. Last night, you reminded me so much of her. It was terrifying, and I didn’t know what to do. I called everyone at the department. This morning, Dr. Pritchard showed up and said it had nothing to do with this case—that breakdowns were a common occurrence for . . . people like you.”

On the inside, I bristle at the words “people like you,” but I don’t let it show. Just yesterday I thought I could have a life with this family, be a part of it. I see now that it could have never worked—no matter how much I wanted it to. With a bit of sadness, I let go of the illusion completely. These are no longer my parents. This is no longer my life. These people want to talk to me. Marie can’t fault me for that.