The Treatment (The Program #2)(22)

“Just the good parts.” She flashes her gap-toothed smile. “And sorry, Sloane. I couldn’t get my hands on yours. They’re keeping that one on lock.”

James stands frozen, as if he can’t believe this is really happening. When he takes the file from Dallas, he turns to me, wide-eyed. “Let’s check it out.”

“James”—Dallas holds up her finger—“maybe you should read it alone first.” Her gaze flicks to me for a second, and from behind me I hear Cas shift. I swallow hard.

“Thanks for the advice,” James says, and then points to the fast-food bag Dallas is holding. “That for us?” Dallas nods, and James plucks the bag from her hands and disappears inside, calling my name from the kitchen.

I climb the rest of the stairs, dread seeping from my pores.

I pause in front of Dallas when I get to the top. “What’s in his file?” I whisper. Her expression is both fascinated and smug.

“Guess you’ll see,” she says. She holds open the door for me, and I narrow my eyes at her before walking in.

“Tattoos,” James says the minute I’m through the kitchen door. He’s got a cheeseburger to his lips, the open file spread out on the table. “These scars were tattoos. Can you believe it?” He slaps the page down and pulls up his shirtsleeve to show the white lines. On the table is a photograph, and I take in a sharp gasp when I see the first name.

“Brady,” I say. Surprised, James looks down and sets the cheeseburger aside.

“I tattooed your brother’s name on my arm,” he says quietly, and looks up. “I must have cared a lot about him.” The thought brings me comfort, knowing Brady wasn’t alone even though Realm had told us as much. But I’m glad they were friends. It tells me a lot about the kind of person James must have been, and it reassures me. Maybe I never needed to be afraid of our past together.

James leans forward suddenly and pokes at the picture.

“Holy shit. Look.”

I sit next to him, and when I see it, I turn to him. “Miller.” The name Miller is the last on James’s list, but it’s not tattooed like the other names. It’s a cut, jagged and scabbed over like he . . . carved it into his arm. I grab his bicep, inspecting the space, trailing my thumb along the scars.

Miller. Miller. My eyes flutter closed, something itching behind my skull, a thought cracking through the smooth surface of my memories until it shatters open.

“Would you mind moving over?” a guy says, coming to stand next to me at the lab table. “I’m kind of an expert at this.” I glance up and back away from the Bunsen burner, which I couldn’t manage to turn on.

“Golly, gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically. “I didn’t know they were sending in the professionals.”

The guy’s mouth twitches with a smile as he reaches to turn the gas all the way up, the hissing barely audible over the sound of the other student conversations in the chemistry room. “Name’s Miller, by the way,” he says. “In case you want to write a thank-you letter.”

“I’m drafting it in my mind as we speak. Um . . . are you sure the gas should be turned up that high?” I look around the room, but my teacher seems preoccupied with his computer screen.

“Miller,” I say, feeling funny using his name when we’ve only just met. “Please don’t burn up my homework.” He turns to me, the igniter dangling from his fingers. “Are you kidding?” he asks. “I could do this with one hand tied—” He clicks the igniter and the minute there’s a spark, all I hear is a giant whoosh before a bright-blue flame explodes over the Bunsen burner. I yelp and Miller drops the igniter, sending more sparks over the lab table, igniting the homework I’d just specifically told him not to burn up!

The girl at the lab table in front of us looks back and then points a panicked finger at our now-flaming table. Miller reaches quickly to turn down the Bunsen burner, and then, with complete calm, he picks up my half-empty can of Diet Pepsi and douses the fire, putting it out with an unceremonious sizzle.

“Well, shit,” he says, staring down at the soggy, smoking, with-ered paper. “That didn’t go the way I planned it in my head.”

I put my hand on my hip and turn to glare at him. But the minute his dark brown gaze meets mine, we both start laughing.

Miller. I open my eyes, feeling the tears rush over my cheeks. What happened to Miller?

“I remember him,” I whisper. “I have a memory of him.” James grips my forearm, squeezing tight, even though I’m sure he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I shouldn’t have this memory. Is this recall? Will I end up like Lacey, broken and crashing? My heart is pounding so fast, I’m afraid it might just quit. “I think Miller was my friend, and I remember him.” James gathers me into a hug. “What have they done to us?” he whispers, mostly to himself. I replay the memory over and over like a sad song on repeat, familiar and comforting even though it’s scratchy and painful. “Look at me,” James says, pulling back to examine my face. “Headache?”

I shake my head, and he takes another second to make sure I don’t spontaneously combust. He waits while I tell him the memory, smiling likes it’s a good story and not some forgotten piece of my past. When I’m done talking, I’m calmer.