The Treatment (The Program #2)(82)

Coleman is accused of soliciting sex from underage patients in exchange for memories, and is facing up to sixty years in prison if convicted.

The scandal originally broke after a taped interview with the late Dr. Evelyn Valentine (a former employee) was leaked. She confirmed The Program’s knowledge of a study indicating their role in the epidemic, substantiating claims of a cover-up.

Since the closure, all patients have returned home and will be provided with follow-up care.

But, as of now, the long-term effects of The Program remain to be seen.

—Reported by Kellan Thomas

Chapter Eleven—six months later

I ROLL DOWN MY WINDOW TO LET THE WARM AIR

blow through my hair. James switches between radio stations, but all we hear are updates: The Program is dead, doctors and nurses testify in front of Congress about the lobotomies, the drop in suicides. Kellan Thomas is a household name—the rogue reporter who got the scoop of the century. He found the studies, and his interview with Dr. Evelyn Valentine was broadcast on every major news outlet. He never even used the story he collected from me and James.

The epidemic continues, but shortly after The Program received a cease and desist order while under federal investiga-tion, the outbreak calmed—much like Evelyn had thought it would. Suicide hasn’t vanished, not entirely, but every month brings better statistics, and hopes are high.

James’s phone vibrates in the center console, and I look down just as he reaches to click ignore. Michael Realm. After all that’s happened, James and Realm have forged a friendship I try not to get between. I’ve never been able to trust Realm again, and I don’t know if I ever will. But my boyfriend is allowed to be friends with whomever he chooses—even if said friend once had me erased.

“I thought he was out of town,” I say. “Wasn’t he making some bad choices down in Florida?”

James pulls the car over to park in front of a pasture with cows milling about so he can quickly type out a return text. “I hate when you use your disapproving voice,” he tells me. When I don’t laugh, he sets down the phone and tugs me closer, resting his forehead against mine. “Be nice.”

“Shut up,” I mumble.

James smiles and then leans back to watch me. “That’s not very nice. Come on, baby. Life is good.” He runs his fingers between mine over and over as he talks. “We’re good. I don’t want to ruin it with talk of Michael Realm.”

“Says the person who’s now his best friend forever.”

“Not true.” Tingles races up my arm at James’s touch, warming my body. “What I am is grateful,” he says. “He got me out of The Program; he helped me get to you. He was grilled by those investigators and he didn’t once mention our names. We owe him. Not to mention that, without him, you would have ended up lobotomized—”

I pull my hand from his and cross my arms over my chest.

“Yeah, I got it,” I say, still uncomfortable talking about my last hours in The Program. Even when I was questioned by authorities, I told them I was too drugged to remember the final details, the escape. I told them to defer to Program records, which I knew had probably been destroyed by then.

James is quiet for a moment, letting my anger pass as it always does. Then he starts in on my new favorite pastime since escaping the control of The Program: recall.

“There was this one night,” he says in that far-off voice he reserves for memories, “where you and Brady were about ready to throw down. I told you both you were being stubborn, but I was, of course, ignored.” He rolls his eyes, but I’m smiling, the thought of my brother settling over me like a blanket.

“What were we fighting about?” I ask.

“What else? Me. You didn’t want me to stay the night because Lacey was coming over, and you said I was too obnoxious to play nice with others. Brady said Lacey was a lawsuit waiting to happen and that I was the safer bet. It got kind of ugly.”

“Who won?”

James laughs. “Me, of course.”

I lower my arms, grinning at the way the memory plays across my head. I don’t remember any of it, but I love when James tells me the stories. I love that he has them. “And how did you pull that off?” I ask.

He licks his lips, leaning a little closer. “I promised to be sweet. I may have had a little twinkle in my eye when I said it.”

“Hm,” I say, reaching to take the fabric of his T-shirt in my hand to pull him closer. “I know that look. So, what? I just gave in? That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It wasn’t at all like you,” he whispers, pausing just as his lips brush against mine. “That’s how I knew you loved me. And that’s why I started leaving you notes. I told myself I wanted you to talk me out of it, but really, I just wanted you to talk to me.”

I kiss him; it’s playful and easy—we have time now. There’s no one after us. We’re free.

My phone rings from my back pocket, and James groans, trying to grab it from my hand when I take it out. He’s still kissing me as we both fumble for the phone, and when I finally pull away to check it, I see it’s my mom. “She has impeccable timing,” James says, and then drops back into the driver’s seat with one last mischievous glance in my direction.

I laugh and answer. “Hi, Mom.” James shifts the car into gear, leaving the pasture behind as we continue down the peaceful, winding road toward our destination. “What’s up?”