Roger sucks on his teeth, looking Dallas up and down and evaluating her. “Oh, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says to Cas. “She hates that.” He grins, and I think he’s the biggest monster I’ve ever met. But before I can imagine what horrors he has in store, Dallas reacts.
In a sudden movement she kicks out the knee of the handler behind her, spinning out of his grip and freeing her arms. She’s a whirlwind of motion, and I see the glint of the metal of her knife before I realize she’d even grabbed it from her pocket. She growls like a wild animal and slams into Roger, burying the blade to the hilt in his gut.
“I hate you!” She screams a high-pitched squeal that’s barely human. Roger is too stunned, or too hurt, to do more than double over. Dallas yanks out her knife and plunges it into his chest with both hands, before another handler tackles her to the pavement with a sick thud. Roger is wailing, rolling on his side as blood pools on the gray concrete.
Before they can take her away, Dallas stares down at Roger. His blood is halfway up her arms and splashed across her shirt. And she begins to laugh—not joyous or even maniacal. It’s unhinged. It’s crazy. She starts to pull on her dreads, yelling that she wins, she fucking wins, even as they start to drag her away.
My body shivers, my teeth chattering even though I can’t feel the cold. Arthur Pritchard is slowly waking up, but they pull me past him before he’s fully conscious. A handler snaps restraints on my wrists, claiming they’re for my protection, although really they’re for his.
A van pulls away before the others do, and I realize James was inside it. He’s gone. Dallas is gone. The handler leans me against the door of the van before taking a moment to call in the incident. Although Cas isn’t in custody, he’s led by with a handler. He pauses, glancing over apologetically. But I don’t care to hear his excuses. There’s a giant hole in my chest, leaking out the remainder of my feelings.
“You killed her,” I murmur in his direction, thinking of how broken Dallas is now. “You’ve killed what’s left of her.”
Cas sways with sorrow. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he says, pulling his arm from the handler. “They told me she’d be safe. That we all would.”
“Then you’re stupid for believing The Program. You’re stupid for thinking they’d ever let us walk out of here. And what about Realm? What did you do to him?”
Cas furrows his brows, confused. But then my handler is back, opening the door and pushing me onto the seat. He buckles me in place, leaving me helpless with my hands bound. From outside the van, Cas watches on in horror. “I have no idea where Realm is,” he says before they slam the door shut.
There’s a spike of fear that Realm isn’t waiting in the woods at all. That maybe Roger already found him and did something to him. I’m so overwhelmed. I’m so completely buried in despair, I don’t think I’ll ever find the way out.
Up front two handlers climb onto the seats. The driver reports our location, and over the scanner the operator asks if Roger is dead.
“Not sure,” the handler responds. “Ambulance is in route.”
“If Roger survives,” I call out in a raspy voice, my entire body trembling, “I’ll finish the job. I’ll kill every single one of you.”
The handler turns, his brown eyes wide, as the other guy glances at me in the rearview mirror. They have the balls to actually look concerned. I rest my head against the seat, rocking with the bumps of the road, thinking I’ve come undone. All hope is lost now.
I’m going back to The Program.
PART III
NO APOLOGIES
TEENS TAKEN INTO CUSTODY
The Program is reporting that they’ve taken a group of teens hiding near Lake Tahoe, Nevada. The names are being withheld at this time, but there’s speculation that the suspects include Sloane Barstow and James Murphy.
The two teens, first reported missing last month, have led authorities on a multistate manhunt. Exactly why Barstow and Murphy were running has never been made public, but the effectiveness of The Program has come into question.
Arthur Pritchard, creator of The Program, has stepped down amid the controversy, and his lawyer will be making a statement later in the week. He is currently unavailable for comment.
—Reported by Kellan Thomas
CHAPTER ONE
THERE ARE VOICES, BUT I can’t make out their words. Not at first. My eyelids are heavy as I try to open them, letting in small slivers of light when I blink. The voice next to me is only an echo.
“Is there anybody in there?” she asks again more clearly.
My lips are numb as I turn my head lazily to the side. My head is throbbing from where I hit it on the pavement. “Help me,” I whisper to the waiting nurse. I try to reach out, but my wrists are fastened down. I’m surrounded by stark white walls with the smell of bleach thick in the air. The nurse leans closer, and I recognize her from my first stay in The Program. Nurse Kell places her hand on my shoulder.
“We are going to help you,” she says, an earnest smile on her thin lips. “But first we have to cure the infection.” She takes a syringe from the pocket of her fuzzy blue sweater and uncaps it. “Now don’t move, dear,” she says, pushing up my shirtsleeve, “or this will really hurt.”
I hitch in a breath, choking on it as I start to whimper. “Please, Kell,” I say. “I’m not sick. I’m really not.”
“That’s what they all say.” Her manners are sweet but firm. And when I feel the pinch and burn of the needle, I openly sob.
A handler walks in. He’s tall, a bit unkempt compared to the others. He’s the same one who put his hand on Cas’s shoulder back at the parking lot. My heart breaks and I shake my head, trying to rid myself of Cas’s memory. Pretending the past few weeks with him never happened. I can’t reconcile in my mind that the guy who looked out for us is really the one who turned us in.
The handler comes over, talking quietly with Kell. When they finish, they unfasten me from the bed and drop me into a wheelchair, securing me to the armrests. The burn from the needle has turned to a tingle, and then it’s like warm bathwater. A sense of calm stretches over me, even though I know logically it’s not really there. The drug is numbing my panic, but it can’t mask everything. I won’t let it. I kick my legs, trying to buck my body out of the chair, but I’m too lethargic. I end up flopping like a fish, gasping for breath, and by the time I’m out in the hallway, I’m too tired to fight anymore. I melt into the chair, feeling the trickle of tears slide down my cheeks.
“Where are we going?” I mumble as Nurse Kell walks hurriedly beside me, her hands in the pockets of her sweater.
“To see the doctor, Sloane. They need to determine if you’re a candidate for continued therapy.”
My heart skips. “And if I’m not?” I ask. Kell doesn’t answer me, just smiles as if it’s a silly question. We’re passing patients in the hallway, flashes of lemon-yellow scrubs streaking my vision. But it’s the last face I see before I’m pushed through the double doors that sinks my hope.
Lacey Klamath stares at me from a chair near the window, her eyes wide and doelike. Her blond hair is styled in a short pixie cut, and her serene expression gives no sign of recognizing me, gives no hint of emotion. I almost call out to her but stop short when I see a nurse appear at her side, placing a small Dixie cup in her hand. Obediently and without complaint, Lacey swallows whatever’s inside and goes back to staring blankly ahead.
When the handler pushes me through the doors marked THERAPY WING, I turn to face forward again. She’s here—Lacey is here. Although I’m glad to know she’s safe, it’s obvious she’s . . . different. I don’t know what they’ve done to her, but I have to lock the thought away. I’ll come back for her. Just like I pray James will come back for me.