The Treatment (The Program #2)(62)

“Why did you bring me here?” I murmur, staring again at the backs of heads, the slumped shoulders, the empty souls.

“There’s someone here I thought you should see.” James. I try and leap from the chair, searching for him, but I am immediately pulled back by the restraints as they bite into my skin. Please, no. Please.

Asa bends down, his cheek close to mine as he reaches past me, pointing to one chair across the room. From the profile I can see it’s an old man, and I sputter out a relieved cry because it’s not James. The handler turns, the bristle of his scruff tick-ling my skin.

“They’ve crushed the rebellion,” he whispers. “But James and Michael Realm got away, and now any hope of ending The Program lies with you and your friends. I wanted you to know how little time you have left to figure out how.” James is okay. Oh my God, James got away. But my solace is short-lived as I stare straight ahead at the man in the chair. I recognize him. “Arthur?” I ask, my voice cracking over his name.

Asa stands and pushes me closer to the doctor. I’m in disbelief as I study him, his gray beard, his wrinkled skin. He has a patch over his eye and there’s a thin line of drool from his lip to the chest of his gray scrubs.

I start to cry. “Arthur?” I call again, hoping he’ll just snap out of it and look at me. But he doesn’t react at all. He stares at nothing, seeing nothing. Knowing nothing. Arthur Pritchard is dead and his body is left behind to rot. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” I whimper. “I’m sorry they did this to you.” I flex my fingers as if I can reach out and touch him, but Asa backs the chair away.

“We have to go,” he says solemnly. I watch Arthur the entire way to the door, wishing I would have done everything differently. Because what hope do I have now? What hope could I possibly have when The Program has lobotomized its creator?

Chapter Three

ASA SAYS NOTHING AS HE PARKS MY WHEELCHAIR

in the center of Dr. Beckett’s office, leaving me there alone. My entire body is shaking, horrified by the image of Arthur Pritchard emptied out. He’s no longer a factor in our future. He has none.

That’s going to be me in a week unless I figure out what to do.

Is that what happened to Lacey? Was she like Arthur? Is she empty? Fresh tears threaten to brim over, but I sniffle and try to blink them away. My wrists are still tied down, so I won’t have a way to wipe my face before Dr. Beckett arrives. I need a plan.

And I need one fast.

The door opens behind me, and I take a deep breath and wait as the doctor comes to the other side of his desk, studying me as he walks. He looks the same as he did before, except now that I know the extent of The Program, I’m truly afraid of him.

“Hello, Sloane,” he says good-naturedly. “How did your talk with Dallas go?”

Dallas. She probably has less time than I do. Who knows, they could have lobotomized her already this morning. “It went well,” I say, offering a pressed-lip smile. “She’s sick, but not beyond your help.”

Dr. Beckett nods to himself, taking a seat as he seems to think over my words. “Is that your expert opinion?” I don’t like his sarcasm, but I hold back. “I’m not an expert, but I’ve seen depression. I know Dallas wants to live, deep down. I think you can save her.”

“Interesting.” The doctor opens my file again, his pen scratching quickly onto the white papers clipped down. “You seemed to have had quite a change of heart since yesterday.

What can I attribute this miraculous reversal to?”

“Nurse Kell,” I lie. “She told me why she asked to be my nurse and why she’s part of The Program. What can I say? It resonated.”

Beckett laughs and pushes his papers away from him. “That so? Well, Sloane,” he says, “you’ll excuse me if I don’t buy into your change right away. Authentic or not, we take therapy very seriously and we can’t just accept your word for it. We have to continue, and the way I see it, you have two choices: You can voluntarily give up your memories, or we can take them. Now, I know that neither may seem like a good option, but I promise you—the first one is better.”

He’s right. I might have thought his threat empty, or at least had some reason to think I could outsmart him, if I hadn’t seen for myself. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get out of here,” I tell the doctor. “On that you have my word.”

“I’m so very happy to hear that. Because we need your help tracking down Michael Realm.”

“W-what?” I stammer. He can’t expect me to give up Realm—even if I did know where he was, he’s with James. I have to protect them.

“Yes, Michael is a friend of yours from your time in The Program. Actually”—he smiles—“it says here it was a little more serious than that. Seems Mr. Realm has gone off the grid since then, but he’s not really allowed to do that, you see. He’s under contract.”

An icy shiver trickles down my spine. “What do you mean

‘contract’?”

Dr. Beckett seems taken aback. “You don’t know? He didn’t tell you while you were together on the run?” When I don’t answer, partly because I don’t want to admit being with Realm, and partly because I think I know what the doctor is about to say. Somehow—I know.