The Treatment (The Program #2)(43)

“I met him at the Suicide Club. He looked like everyone else . . . but he knew my name before I told him. At first I thought maybe he was a handler, like the embedded ones Arthur Pritchard told me about. But when we stopped at the gas station on the way here, he showed up. I was terrified. He gave me this card, said he was a reporter for the New York Times following my and James’s story. He wants information on The Program. I think he can see what they’re really doing to us.” Realm runs his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up when he drops his arm. “I don’t like it,” he says. “We shouldn’t talk to anyone outside of the rebels. At least not yet.

He could be working for The Program.”

“I guess.” I sit back in the pillows, thinking it over. “But we didn’t believe Arthur, and he was picked up by The Program.” I turn to Realm. “Do you really think they’ll erase him?” Realm considers my question for a long moment. “There’s a chance this is just a stunt to draw us out,” he says. “I mean, he’s the creator of The Program. Could they really do that to him?”

“I hope not,” I murmur. If I could rewind, I’d talk to Arthur longer, find out what else he had to say. If I could rewind time, I’d do so many things differently. My bottom lip quivers and I bite down on it. “Tell me James is okay,” I whisper.

“I can’t. But if James loves you, he’ll find you.” Realm turns to me. “I found you.”

James does love me, even though Realm always tries to dis-pute that fact. But it’s now been two days since James left—two days without a word from him. He was so angry the last time I saw him. I hope he knows how sorry I am. At that thought, I reach to click off the light, submerging the room in darkness. I lie back on the bed, curling up in the loneliness.

“Sloane,” Realm says, his voice low. “Remember in The Program, when you would sneak into my room with me?” he asks. “We’d snuggle. Platonically, of course.” I used to spend time in Realm’s room, talking—although I don’t know exactly what we talked about anymore. I do remember what it felt like to let him stroke my hair, to let him whisper his stories near my ear.

“It was nice,” Realm says. “Holding you.” I close my eyes, squeezing them tight, as if I can block out how I’ve missed him. Once upon a time Realm was everything to me. It hurts to remember that—because now I’m not sure if that was the real Realm. “It was nice,” I say softly.

“If you . . .” He pauses, and I hear his throat click as he swallows. “If you wanted to sleep here with me, I wouldn’t mind. I won’t try anything either.”

“I can’t,” I say simply. Even if I didn’t know about Realm and The Treatment, I still wouldn’t run to him now. I learned my lesson at his house that stormy night. I love James. It’s not fair to pretend otherwise.

“The offer stands, Sloane,” Realm says. “I’ll always be here for you.”

Chapter Five

IT’S THE NEXT DAY WHEN WE ARRIVE AT A SMALL

farmhouse outside of Lake Tahoe—and like Dallas said, it’s in the middle of nowhere. It’s also beautiful. Trees encase the entire property, and the small, shabby farmhouse has a charm all its own. From the peeling white siding to the enormous and invit-ing wrap-around porch—it makes me think of a life I would have liked to have with James. Just us in the country, maybe some dogs running around. But I’m here with a group of rebels instead. Things don’t always work out the way we plan.

I don’t have much to carry as I make my way inside. It’s a little dusty, and I cough the minute Cas pushes the door open.

But I like it. I like how peaceful it is.

“This belonged to the grandparents of another rebel,” Dallas says, and then lowers her eyes. “But she was taken back to The Program a few months ago. Haven’t seen her since. So it’s ours now.” She drops her bag at her feet. “We shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“It’s a nice place,” I say, pausing to look at the framed pictures on the wall. There’s an older couple, very 1970s with pais-ley and butterfly collars. I touch the image, reminded of my own grandparents, who passed away when I was little. Their picture hung on my wall at home.

My home. I may never see it again. I shake off the impending grief and instead walk around to explore the place, needing the distraction. I find a small room, no bigger than a walk in closet with a twin bed and nothing else. I decide that I like it. The window looks out over the expansive yard, a small creek cutting through the grass. I can imagine that in the mornings there might be a deer, or even bunnies, frolicking.

I smile to myself and sit on the mattress, bouncing to make the springs creak.

“Hey.” Cas peeks his head in my room. He looks pretty wrecked after driving all this way, and I’m sure I don’t look much better. His longish hair is in tangles, dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved since we left. I wonder how long Cas has been this ragged, threadbare. Maybe I was too busy to notice.

“I called dibs on the shower,” he says, “but if you want it first, I’ll give you this one chivalrous pass.” I grin. “No, you clearly need it more than I do.” He puts his hand over his heart.

“Ouch. Well, don’t plan on having any hot water.”