The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(94)

I head directly for his room and flip on the light. He’s not here. The bed is neatly made as always, all of his items arranged on his dresser and desk. I’m so upset, I can barely think. I immediately pull the drawers out of his dresser, letting them fall to the floor with a clatter. I bend down and sort through his things, throwing his clothing aside, and I look for anything he might have hidden. I check underneath the drawers, in his closet and his desk. I look everywhere, but I find nothing.

Nothing. No papers at all. I still, thinking about that. My father’s entire life revolves around keeping files. And yet there isn’t one paper out of place here. Not one piece of information that he’s left unchecked.

“He’s too careful,” I murmur to myself, spinning to exit the room. He’d never leave evidence, not something I could find. There’s nothing here.

I stand there for a moment, my resolve slipping. I step toward his bed and run my hand over his pillow, my eyes filling with tears. It smells like home in here. Like love and safety. He’s my dad.

I sniffle and snatch back my hand as if I’ve been burned. He’s a liar. He’s a stranger who kept me.

“No,” I say out loud, shaking my head. “No, I don’t belong here anymore.” Without a backward glance, I walk out.

I get downstairs and start to pace, knowing I’ll have to confront him. There’s no other option. I grab a kitchen chair and drag it into the living room, letting it scrape the gloss-finished wood floor. I set it in front of the couch, not wanting the comfort of a sofa—false comfort, I remind myself.

I’m sure Deacon has contacted my father, so my dad has probably left work and is on his way now. I’ll go upstairs to pack my bag—one that will have to carry everything I need. Because once this is over, I’m never coming back.

* * *

I was eleven years old when my father told me I’d have to sign another contract. I’d completed my first three years, and more than anything I wanted to be a regular kid. Sixth grade was supposed to be my time to do that. He’d promised me that every time I begged to quit.

“The McKees are not quitters, Quinlan,” he said sternly. “We’ve taken an oath to help these people, given them our word. Would you really want them to suffer for your selfishness? I can’t believe I raised you this way.”

I was ashamed, lowering my eyes to my now-cold dinner. He’s right, I thought. I am selfish.

“If your mother was here,” he said, taking a sip of his iced tea, “she’d be very disappointed in you.”

My heart broke, and I covered my face and started to cry. I missed my mother, even though I couldn’t remember her. My father told me that was normal, that I’d been a little girl when she died. But all the other kids, they had a mom to braid their hair and make them lunch. I wanted a mom too, and I promised that if I ever got one, I’d be so good to her. I’d never cause her trouble. So the idea that I had disappointed my mother absolutely broke me down.

“It’s okay,” my father murmured, coming to kneel next to my chair. He pulled my hands away from my face, and his eyes were so sad. I sniffled, and he reached to touch lovingly at my cheek. “You look just like her sometimes,” he said dreamily. “It’s like she never left at all.”

In that moment I hugged him, telling him how sorry I was. That I would sign the contract if he thought I should. That I wouldn’t disappoint anyone again.

I swipe my finger under my eyes now, sitting in my living room. It’s dark outside, but I don’t turn on the light. My anger has bubbled over, and this memory only helps cement the fact that my life is a lie. I realize now, especially after all the time I’ve spent with grieving parents: He wasn’t saying I looked just like my mother that Saturday night. He was saying I looked just like Quinlan McKee. His daughter.

My back aches, and to distract myself I twist my torso a few times to loosen it up. I sit back in the chair and prop my black boots up on the coffee table. It’s been over a half hour since I left Marie’s. I know my father will be here any second.

After packing, I took the time to strip my emotions—to try to lose myself so I could become numb enough to handle this. Brave enough. Strong enough so that he won’t be able to manipulate me. That’s the thing that Deacon doesn’t realize. Looking back now, my father has always been able to bend me to his will. Make me believe that I want to be a closer, that I want to help these people. But really, he studied me. Knew me well enough to push the right buttons to get the reaction he wanted.

It’s probably why he hated Deacon so much when we broke up. He saw that Deacon had the power to affect me too. My father had lost a bit of his hold on me. Could have been why he let Deacon out of his contract early, in the hopes of keeping us apart.

My father didn’t count on the fact that I have power over myself. I’ve been doing this long enough to understand my emotions now, to be fully self-aware. He won’t get inside my head again. I won’t let him.

Headlights illuminate the windows, and I sit up with a start as a car pulls into my driveway. My heart beats frantically, but I take a breath, reminding myself that I have to keep cool. I can’t show him any weakness.

The front door opens, and my father rushes in, stopping when his shoes crunch on shards of broken glass. “Quinlan!” he yells, stricken with worry.

I don’t move. I sit half in the dark, staring straight at him. He sets his briefcase near the door and shrugs out of his coat, examining the mess of frames on the floor. He glances toward the staircase.