I reach instinctively into my pocket and realize... my phone is gone. And then it occurs to me where I left it. On my grandparents’ dresser.
CHAPTER TEN
WHEN I COME BACK INSIDEthe house, my grandfather is in the laundry room, where the sound of flowing water can be heard from the machine. I use that moment to head toward the bedrooms. I pause at the top of the stairs, listening to make sure Pop’s not following me, and then I quickly dart into his room and scan the top of the dresser.
My phone is gone.
Disoriented, I spin around to see if I placed it somewhere else. But it’s nowhere to be found. “Shit,” I whisper. I hear my grandfather’s phone ringing downstairs, but it sounds closer than the kitchen. Bottom of the stairs, maybe.
I slip out of his room and walk swiftly toward my room. I stop dead when I notice my door is ajar. It was definitely closed earlier.
I hold my breath as I push open the door. The room looks the same, the bed a mess, a few pictures stuck to the frame of my mirror. A half-filled glass of water on the nightstand.
I’m about to walk out when I notice my phone sitting next to the glass, the screen unlocked. My stomach twists into anxious knots as I pick it up. My texts are open, and I assume that they’ve all been read.
I can barely keep my breathing under control as I sit on my bed, double-checking everything I’d sent today. The only notable exchange is with Foster. If my grandfather saw that... what did he think? Will he bring it up, knowing that I’m scared of handlers?
I set my phone aside, my heart racing. I look at the shared wall between my and my grandparents’ room. What else was in that box? I can’t search it now, not with my grandfather here. There has to be more; there has to be a good reason they kept it in the first place.
I measure my breathing, preparing to go downstairs. Surprisingly, the most shocking part of the day has faded—I’ve come to accept that I was in The Program. “Accept” is too strong a word, really. I’m not that far along. I’ve compartmentalized, but my mental catalogue is beginning to reach maximum capacity.
Right now, the biggest struggle for me is that I’ve always trusted my grandparents unwaveringly. They’ve always been there for me. I can still see them in the memory, how brokenhearted they were when I was taken away. How does that compare to now—where I know they’ve actively kept things from me? There has to be a bigger reason.
I’m scared to face them, acknowledge their betrayal. And I can’t accuse them without having some way to check their story. It would be careless on my part. I have to get more information first—it’s the most logical approach. I’ve made too many mistakes in the past. I have to do this right.
I’m considering my next move when my phone buzzes next to my hand. Startled, I answer it without looking at the number. “Hello?”
“Tatum?” a woman says. “Hi, it’s Dr. Warren. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
Dr. Warren’s voice is soft, yet professional, just like it is during our therapy appointments. The kind of lulling sound that makes you want to tell her your secrets, as if she truly understands. I wonder if that was part of her therapist training or why she became a therapist. We’ve been meeting for the past year, ever since Wes was taken to The Program. She honestly seems to get me, and I like her.
“Hi, Dr. Warren,” I respond politely, confused as to why she’s calling me. “And now is fine.”
“Good,” she says. “Well, I just wanted to check in. You haven’t been seen in a few weeks, and I wanted to see how you were feeling.”
There’s a twist in my gut, prickles of realization. How did she know I was having a hard day? That I’d need to talk about it?
“Did... did my grandparents call you?” I ask.
Dr. Warren laughs, a soft lilt that’s almost infectious. “Is the timing that obvious?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t get the details,” she says. “But yes, they’re worried. Your grandfather told me Weston came back to school today. And that you left campus with him,” she adds gently. “We talked about this, Tatum.”
“He was just giving me a ride home,” I say. “My Jeep wouldn’t start.”
“I understand,” she says. “But it must have been jarring to see him. Does he remember you?” Dr. Warren has always been invested in my and Wes’s relationship. Always asks about him. In fact, I daresay she was rooting for us.
But after his reset, she advised me to keep my distance from him, for both our sakes. She’s worried that if I cause a crashback in Wes, it’ll destroy me, bury me in guilt. She’s right—it would. So I promised to be careful. And I promised to let her know if that changed.
Still, I’m uncomfortable. I have no idea what my grandparents might have said to her, and that thought suddenly leaves me hesitant. Exactly how much does Dr. Warren already know? Can I trust her? I decide to test it.
“Wes doesn’t remember,” I confess. “And I didn’t tell him anything. He hung out for a few minutes, and then Pop came home. Wes didn’t even know my name, Dr. Warren. I kept my promise.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I hear her sigh. “I’m so sorry, Tatum,” she says. “I know how hard that must have been for you.”
The compassion in her voice makes my eyes tear up, and I decide Idoneed to talk to her. Talk to someone who knows me. I settle back against my pillows and close my eyes, the phone cradled to my ear.
