The Treatment (The Program #2)(17)

Once packed, we head toward the door. James staggers to a stop and picks up the note from the floor to examine it one last time. “What does this mean?” he asks. “Who’s Miller?”

“I don’t know,” I say, moving beside him to read the word again. “But it hurts.”

“I know,” James says, crushing the paper in his fist. “It’s like grief, a pain right here”—he taps his heart—“for someone I don’t know.”

But I can tell what he’s thinking—we must have known Miller.

It’s twenty minutes later when James is driving the Escalade we’d left Oregon with, Cas following in the white van. We’re picking up Dallas and the others at the Suicide Club, but as we drive, I watch the streets, hoping to catch sight of Lacey wandering or lost. I don’t want to believe she’s gone.

Lacey—snow-blond hair she dyes red just because. Lacey who ate cupcakes for lunch and questioned everything. I could have done more to help her. I could have stayed behind tonight.

But she ran away, took her stuff—where would she go? What did she remember that was so awful? I touch my chest as the hurt starts again, the name Miller haunting my thoughts.

As we pull up to the Suicide Club, the bouncer straightens, looking alarmed. He immediately takes out his phone and presses it to his ear. Cas parks and jogs over to him as James and I wait in the SUV. We’re silent. Anxiety and worry twist in my gut, and I don’t know what to do. I almost want another Bloodshot from the club.

“I’m sick of losing,” James says in a low voice. “And I’m sick of running.” He turns to me, and the fire is back in his eyes, the sadness replaced with anger. “We’re going to take down The Program, Sloane. And we’ll get Lacey back.”

“Promise?” I ask, wanting to believe his words, even though I know James doesn’t have the power to make them come true.

But I’ll believe them if he tells me. I have no other choice.

“Yeah,” he says, looking past me toward the club. “I promise.” I blink back the tears that are starting and then follow his gaze to the Suicide Club. Dallas and Cas rush out, the others, including the guy with the purple hair, close behind them. The bouncer nods as they leave, but I’m surprised to see another person, lingering near the door as he smokes a cigarette. It’s Adam—watching with careful regard. It strikes me then that he’s not like the other people from the club. And as Dallas climbs into the van, telling us to “Go, Go!” I watch as Adam turns toward me.

He smiles, and it’s not sinister, it’s not threatening. It’s almost apologetic. He lifts his hand in a wave as James peels out of the parking lot, and I know The Program can’t be far behind.

Chapter Seven

“HAVE YOU SEEN HER?” DALLAS ASKS INTO THE PHONE.

Her words are slightly slurred, but she seems pulled together otherwise. In fact, she’s taking charge in a way that makes me trust her. “Is that so?” she asks, hardening her tone. “Where?” James tightens his grip on the steering wheel, turning his knuckles white. The minute we’d pulled away from the Suicide Club, Dallas had started making calls, while Cas took the others in the van. Dallas said she had contacts within The Program and that they could tell us if Lacey had been picked up. I turn to look back just as Dallas lowers the phone. When her eyes meet mine, they’re stunned.

“She’s gone,” Dallas says.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice cracking over the words.

“She’s alive,” Dallas says as if that’s the bad news. “But she’s back in The Program. They’re saying she had a brain-function meltdown, and she’s hospitalized within their facility. They found her at a bus station, set to head back to Oregon.” She shakes her head, absorbing her words. “She must have cracked.

It happens sometimes. I’m sorry, Sloane. But . . . she’s never going to be the same. Even if they can put her pieces together again, The Program isn’t going to just let her walk out of there.

They’re going to take whatever’s left of her. They probably already have our location and are raiding the warehouse now.” Dallas reaches to rub her eyes with the heels of her hands, smudging her makeup.

“What are you saying?” I ask.

“I’m saying Lacey no longer exists. And there’s no way to bring her back.”

There’s a flurry of motion next to me and the SUV swerves.

James pounds his fist against the steering wheel. Then again.

Again.

“James, stop,” I say, reaching over to grab his arm, but he yanks it away and squeals the tires as he slams on the brakes. We all pitch forward, and behind us we hear the van skid to a stop.

James opens the driver’s door and jumps out to begin walking. I scramble behind him, confused by his behavior and horrified by the news we’ve just received. “Wait!” I yell, chasing after James. Before I reach him, he spins and startles me. He pulls at his blond hair, knotting his fingers as his face contorts with anger and misery.

“We can’t trust them,” he says, motioning toward the cars.

“We can’t trust one f**king person, Sloane. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Contacts in The Program,” he says as if the idea is ridiculous. “Are you kidding?” He reaches to take my upper arms and pull me closer. “Listen to me,” he says. “We trust only each other from here on out. I don’t give a shit what they tell us; it’s me and you. No one else. For all we know, they could have sent Lacey to The Program.”