The Treatment (The Program #2)(80)

It comes in a wave, and I’m quickly out of bed, wincing when I put pressure on my side. I check the bruise again, and James sticks out his bottom lip, seeing the colors. He comes to hug me gently. I promise I’m okay—even though it hurts like hell—and kiss his lips before leading us from the room.

We don’t have to go far. I stumble to a stop, putting my arm out to stop James from passing me. Evelyn is at her round kitchen table with a bright light pointed at her. Kellan sits close by with his cameraman, recording their interview. Realm and Asa are standing off to the side, and Realm meets my eyes before looking away. James and I stand and listen as Evelyn Valentine tells the world about The Program. She’s matter of fact, and at times maybe even a little cold, but she’s believable.

When they take five to reset the camera, I slip past them in search of Dallas and find her alone in the living room, staring at a blank television screen. Evelyn has gotten her out of the gray scrubs too, and Dallas sits in oversize Seattle Seahawks T-shirt, more out of place than I’ve ever seen her. She glances over when I sit next to her.

We don’t say anything. Her lip quivers before she smiles widely, flashing the gap in her teeth. I put my arm around her and she leans into me, sniffling back a cry as we both stare at the blank television—we’re bonded but too damaged to talk about what we went through.

“Sloane,” James calls softly. I look over to see him in the doorway, perfect—at least for me. I kiss Dallas on the cheek, making her laugh, and then get up to meet James. Dallas’s laugh isn’t a sound I thought I’d hear again, and it gives me a small sense of home. I take James’s hand and lead him back into the kitchen.

Evelyn is done with her interview, exhausted as she mumbles about making tea. I go to help her, turning the stove knob until the burner catches fire, and I set the kettle on top. There’s a touch on my elbow, startling me, and I turn to see Asa.

“I wanted to say good-bye,” he says in his quiet manner. In regular clothes I think he looks just like anybody else—average and normal. There is nothing sinister about this handler, not when his eyes are so kind.

“Good-bye?” I repeat. “But we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. I know nothing about you.”

Asa smiles, looking around sheepishly. “No offense”—he motions to the cameraman—“but I want to keep it that way.

There’s a girl back in San Diego I’d like to go check on. Then I plan to lie low while this shit hits the fan. I truly hope you all make it. I really do.”

“I know.” I lean in and hug him, careful of my injured side.

I can’t blame Asa for not wanting to get involved. If anything, it proves how smart he is. My former handler makes his rounds, carefully avoiding the reporter, and slaps hands with James and hugs Realm. And just as quickly as Asa slipped into my life—

he’s gone, having played his part in my rescue.

The night is long, and James and I opt out of a filmed interview in exchange for a written statement—mostly because we don’t want our faces out there any more than we have to.

Realm refuses to talk at all, and Kellan doesn’t even approach Dallas. He got everything he needed from us and Evelyn. The doctor isn’t kind when he thanks her, ready to leave. I see her anxiety continue to ratchet up, her expectant looks at the door, the wringing of her hands. But she doesn’t ask any of us to go—not yet.

I offer to walk Kellan out, and it’s just the two of us when we get to his car. It’s close to midnight—the stars blotted out behind the canopies of the trees. There are crickets and frogs and so many noises around us, we could never feel alone.

“I’m sorry,” Kellan says. Surprised, I look up to meet his eyes, noting again how they’re not the dark black I saw the first time I met him at the Suicide Club.

“For what?”

“Not coming sooner. James told me how close you came to—”

I swallow hard and look away, stopping his statement. “But you came,” I say, pressing my lips into a smile. “In the end, all that matters is I’m not there now.”

“We have them, you know,” he says earnestly. “I’m going to find the studies, and those combined with Evelyn’s statements, the eye witness accounts—The Program can never survive this PR mess. I assure you, Sloane. They’ll never take anything from you again.”

I hope Kellan is right, and at this point I believe in him. He chased me around the country, helped save my life—I have to believe he’s a good reporter if he can do all that. The cameraman comes out from Evelyn’s house with his gear, nodding a good-bye to me, and Kellan and I exchange one last hug. I watch as he climbs into his vehicle, ready to finish his big story. Before he pulls away, he rolls down his window.

“Sloane?” he asks. “If The Treatment was still around—if Evelyn made more . . . would you take it?” I digest his words, rocking back on my feet. The pain of my time in The Program is still so raw, and yet, I think it’s just the tip of the pain I’ve endured in the last few months. What could getting it all back bring me?

“I don’t think so,” I tell him sincerely. “Sometimes, Kellan . . .

I think the only real thing is now.”

He smiles at my answer, although his brows pull together like he’s a little confused. I wave to him and he drives away, leaving the rebels behind. Leaving us to each other.