Six Months Later Part 28

I open the heavy leather flap of her bag and flip through an a.s.sortment of invoices and educational articles. There are a few patient files with unfamiliar names, but nothing else. This can't be another dead end. It just can't be.

I go through it again, my fingers catching on a slim manila folder I hadn't noticed before. No t.i.tle.

I pull it out and glance through the papers. There are doc.u.ments on meditation. Doc.u.ments on study strategies. I scan one set of papers that's been clipped together, and it's-oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d, that can't be right.

But it is.

My knees threaten to give. I force them to hold by sheer force of will, my fingers pinching the clipped papers tightly.

The first page is a roster of the study group. The second is a list of chemical side effects. I see little red ticks and dots next to each of the names on the first sheet. Some sort of code. Or checklist.

I hear the door chime as I drop the folder back into her bag, holding on to those two papers. My blood is roaring behind my ears as I close the flap and shove the bag back beneath her desk. I fold the papers with shaking hands and shove them deep into my purse. I'm still fiddling my zipper closed when Dr. Kirkpatrick returns, shaking her head.

"I apologize for the interruption-Chloe, are you all right?"

Doubtful. My heart is probably beating three thousand times a minute and I'm breathing faster than a hummingbird. I say the only thing I can think of. "That was my mom, wasn't it?"

It's-oh G.o.d, it's brilliant. I didn't even think of it when I hatched this whole thing, but my mom showing up at an impromptu session? Yeah, that's definitely a valid reason to panic.

Dr. Kirkpatrick sits back down, looking like she's got it all figured out now. "Yes, it was. Something tells me you won't be surprised that she's here thanks to an alarming note left on her kitchen table."

I look down and bite my bottom lip, hoping my total incapacitating panic will pa.s.s for shame.

"Chloe, is it possible that some small part of you wanted her to come here, to prove that you matter?"

The only thing my mother proved by showing up here is that she needs control like most of us need oxygen. But I don't say that. I force a wounded look onto my face and glance up at her.

"Maybe," I say, voice soft.

Dr. Kirkpatrick tilts her head and waits a beat. It stretches too long, long enough for me to think about how close I'm sitting to the woman who stole my memories. I think of the little red marks next to our names, and it's all I can do not to bolt off the couch and run for the door.

"Chloe, it's understandable to crave attention from your mother, to need that evidence of her love. But perhaps we should talk about more constructive ways to meet your needs?"

I nod along, and it's easier than it should be considering who this high-handed c.r.a.p is coming from today. But that's fine. She can preach all she wants. If I've got what I think I do in my purse right now, I'm pretty sure the next time I hear her say anything, she'll have her hand on a Bible and a judge to her right.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Adam pulls into the school parking lot five minutes before he said he'd arrive. I hop out of my car and slide into his pa.s.senger seat. He's clean and showered, but he still looks horribly unnerved. And even though he threads his hands through my hair and murmurs h.e.l.lo against my lips, I can't kiss that pinched look away from him this time.

"So what's up?" he asks.

I don't answer, and I don't ask about what's got him upset. There will be time for all that later. I unzip my purse and offer him the paper with the chemical name and possible reactions. I scoot back to my side of the car because I don't need to read it. I know every side effect listed.

Vivid dreams. Increased cognitive ability. Dry mouth. Excessive thirst. Sleepwalking. Headaches. Paranoid delusions. And my personal favorite-memory disturbances.

Adam scans the page, brow furrowing. "What is this?"

"Well, they don't have a kitschy name for it yet, but I'm pretty sure it's a variation of a benzodiazepine. You know, like...Rohypnol."

He looks up at me, eyes wide with shock. "Chloe, why do you have dosage and side effect information on Rohypnol?"

"Well, it's not exactly Rohypnol. In addition to that dratted blackout effect, Rohypnol creates drunken, sluggish behavior. Not really conducive to exceptional test results."

"What are you even talking about?"

I hand over the second paper, the one with our names and all the little red pen marks. "See, this fancy new stuff lowers inhibitions, but boy, it sure makes you a real sponge for information. As long as you don't lose huge chunks of your memories, you're golden."

He meets my eyes, and it's clear he's gotten it now. His voice is low. Different than I've ever heard it maybe. The paper shakes in his hands, and I watch it shudder. It brings me back to that first day I remember looking at him. I think of Maggie at the front of the cla.s.s and me pulling the fire alarm.

"Chloe, where did you get this?" he asks, voice whisper quiet and face blanched.

"In Dr. Kirkpatrick's files. Don't worry. You and Blake don't have any marks next to your name, so it didn't affect you. But all of the rest of us have some. I have only two, so I guess I should feel pretty lucky, huh?"

"You think our study group was drugged." He sounds like a robot, like he can't believe it, can't even get his head around the possibility.

"There's no thinking to it, Adam. You are holding the proof."

He shakes his head over and over. "And you found this in Dr. Kirkpatrick's files? Are you sure?"

I roll my eyes. "Well, unless she just so happened to swap briefcases with the person who's behind my memory loss, then yes, I'm pretty freaking sure."

He looks so pale I wonder if he'll get sick. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he silences it with a grimace. He rubs a shaking hand over his bloodshot eyes. "What are you going to do?"

"Go to the police. What else would I do?"

He shakes his head. "You can't do that."

"Excuse me?"

"What if you're wrong? What if this is a misunderstanding? I know this looks bad, Chloe, but this is the sort of thing that can end her career even if she's proven innocent."

I bristle at his words, glaring across the seat. "Are you insane? It was paper clipped together! She's in on it, Adam!"

"Or maybe she's the one who uncovered it! Have you considered that? Have you thought for one second about what you might do to her without even knowing her intentions?"

I haven't thought of that. I haven't thought of much of anything, so I stay silent, watching him like a lit stick of explosives.

He draws back from me, his face closing off as he hands the papers back. "I just think you should talk to her."

"Talk to her? Talk to the woman who might have drugged eighteen teenagers?"

"Yes, talk to her! Because if she found this, going against each other could unravel the whole d.a.m.n thing. There is strength in numbers, Chlo."

Adam can see he's gotten a foothold with me because he leans in, touching my face. "I'll go with you, but you have to talk to her. Give her a chance to explain all of this."

I pull the papers from his hands and rattle them for emphasis. "I'm not giving these back to her."

He just runs a trembling hand through his hair and sighs. "Fine. Let's just talk to her. When does she leave her office?"

"Like two hours ago."

"So we'll meet tomorrow? When she closes?"

"Tomorrow's Sat.u.r.day. She takes her last patient at four, I think," I say.

"Hey," he says, reaching for me. "We'll get through this. We'll get to the bottom of it."

"Okay," I say again, but for once I'm not comforted by the feel of his hand against my face. Because all I can think about is the way his fingers shake against my skin.

I drop my keys on the table inside the door. The house is warm and mostly quiet. I follow the smell of bacon and the sound of sizzling into the kitchen. Dad's hunched over a skillet, plaid shirt stretched across his wide shoulders.

"How goes it?" he asks.

"I've been better," I admit, checking the clock on the microwave. Twenty-one hours until I can do something about this. Or I could go right now. If I'm right, I could blow this whole thing open tonight.

And if I'm wrong, Dr. Kirkpatrick's career will be destroyed.

I watch my dad pull the strips of bacon out of the skillet. He lays them side by side on a nest of paper towels with at least a dozen others. "You know, your mother's worked herself into a real lather over the whole Dr. Kirkpatrick episode today."

Oh s.h.i.t. I completely, totally forgot about that.

Great. I've got twenty-one hours until I confront the woman who drugged me. And I'm probably going to spend twenty and a half of those hours on the receiving end of a riot act.

"Mom would work herself into a lather if I had a tardy at school," I say, snagging a strip of bacon from the paper plate.

He turns off the burner and shoves the skillet back on the stove. He looks angry. It's a rare sight, but one I try not to mess with. "Why the note, Chlo?"

"What?"

Dad throws up his hands, clearly exasperated. "It's like throwing gasoline at a forest fire. You know how she is."

I crunch my bacon in silence and stare hard at the floor. What am I going to say to him? I can't exactly tell him that yes, I did know, and the whole point was to freak her out of her mind so I could concoct a scene and steal files from my psychiatrist.

Frankly, thinking about it now makes me feel like a complete tool.

"You going to say anything about this?" he says.

"I don't know what to say, Dad. I know it wasn't right, but I'm tired of it. We haven't seen eye to eye in forever."

"Yeah, since you started walking," he says, scoffing a little. "But this is different. You scared her, kid. And you're acting like that doesn't matter to you."

I feel a stab of guilt, and I put the bacon down, my appet.i.te gone. "It does matter. I can't explain it all."

"Well, it's a new trend for you. And I'm trying hard not to a.s.sume it's about that Adam kid-"

"Dad-"

"Don't you 'Dad' me, Chloe. I'm in her corner on that one. I don't particularly like the idea of you dating anyone, but someone with a record?"

"There's more to that story than she knows, and more than you know too."

"I don't need to know anything else about Adam, and the truth is, Chloe, neither do you! Do you have any idea how bright your future is now? Do you have any idea what kinds of things are open to you?"

I roll my eyes, pressing my back to the wall. "Yes, Dad, I do. I know because I have a parent who's drilled me on the importance of my future every minute of every day for the past seventeen years." Then I feign a shocked gasp. "Oh, look! Now I have two of those."

He looks down, clearly hurt. G.o.d, what is wrong with me? What the h.e.l.l am I doing? I feel knotted end over end, wrung out like an old sponge. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me anymore."

"Why are you so sure there's something wrong? You have an open invitation to just about any college you want and parents willing to pay for it. How is that so d.a.m.n bleak?"

"It isn't bleak. But sometimes it doesn't feel real. I don't even know who I am or what I want, Dad. I can't just do backflips because suddenly I'm a terrific student. There's more to me than that."

The words leave my mouth, and I feel stronger for having said them.

Before he can say anything else, the front door opens. "h.e.l.lo! Guys?"

"In the kitchen!" Dad wipes his hands on a dish towel and puts the skillet in the sink.

Mom comes in wearing a gray suit and a megawatt grin. Something's up. She should be frosting me out right now, but she even includes me in that smile, though it's tighter around the edges.

"Hey," I say. "I'm really sorry about that letter. I know it was..."

Mom arches a brow, happy to fill in the blanks for me. "Dramatic? Cruel? A breach of my trust on every level?"

"Maybe all of those things," I admit, deflating. "I'm sorry. I am."

She looks at me, and I can see the temptation for her to dig into me. For once, I'm pretty sure I deserve it. Which is why you could knock me over with a feather when she shakes her head.

"We're going to put that on hold. You got mail." She holds the envelopes just out of my reach, and the big smile is back. "But before you open these, I want you to know we have a lot of things to discuss, and I'm still very angry."

"You do look furious." I can't resist it. It's hard to take her seriously when she looks like she's about to burst into song and dance.

"Fine. Open them."

I scan the return addresses on the envelopes as she hands them over. Notre Dame and Columbia. College letters. Big college letters. From two of the most coveted, respected universities for psychology students everywhere. I turn them over, a little struck by what I'm about to do.

"Stop dillydallying and open them!" Dad says. He's never been one for patience. I shoot him a brief glare and then tear them both open, pulling them loose at the same time. I don't even breathe as I unfold them. I feel like it's someone else's hands. Someone else's eyes. Someone else's life altogether.

And that person has just been invited to apply to Notre Dame and Columbia.