“Jana,” Marie says in warning. But Jana looks over her shoulder at her, her expression miserable, and shakes her head.
“That’s not my name,” Jana says. Marie closes her eyes, frustrated, and Jana turns back to Nathan. “My name is Melody,” she says to him. “I used to... I used to be a handler. I used to be a lot of things.”
I’m not sure what Nathan thought she was going to say—I don’t even know what I thought—but he rocks back on his heels. I put my palm on his back, reminding him that I’m here for him.
“Foster was right,” Nathan says. “I should have known; he’s always right. He didn’t trust you, and he told me you were hiding something. But I defended you.” Nathan’s voice crackles with hurt. “I fucking defended you.”
“That’s enough,” Dr. McKee says, coming over to put his hand on Jana’s shoulder.Melody.“You need to leave,” he tells us. “This is a private facility.” He shifts his eyes over to me, and there is a moment of apology there. I pounce.
“We’re not leaving,” I say. “You owe me an explanation. And she”—I jab my finger in Melody’s direction—“owes Nathan a little clarification.”
Marie’s hard stance behind Dr. McKee eases. “It’s time to tell her, Tom,” she says, surprising me. “She already knows anyway.”
Dr. McKee turns to her, and after a moment, he nods and motions toward the door.
“Let’s go into my office,” he says to me in a low voice.
I check with Nathan, and he’s a bit torn, not wanting to leave me alone.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, and look toward Melody. She stares at Nathan desperately, not even acknowledging me.
I’m burning up, ready to scream at her and ask her how she could do this to him. How she could lie to him? Ask herwhy? But ultimately, this is Nathan’s fight. He gets to decide what he forgives—ifhe forgives.
Nathan swallows hard, seeing the anger in my expression, and tells me to go ahead with Dr. McKee. He turns back to Melody, his jaw set hard, pink high on his cheeks like he might cry but is trying to tough it out.
Melody, on the other hand, is dragged down. Devastated. She stares at him intensely like she can explain everything. Well, she’d better have a good excuse, then.
I follow Dr. McKee and Marie out into the hall, the three of us submerged in heavy quiet as we walk. The doctor leads us to his office and goes inside. Marie stays in the doorway, watching me as I move past her and take a seat in the chair in front of the desk. I don’t even realize I’m sitting until I look at them, both standing by the file cabinet. It was an automatic response to entering the office.
Dr. McKee presses his lips together, making them go white. Nathan said the doctors manipulate people for a living, but I have to concede that Dr. McKee doesn’t seem all that good at it. It’s probably a ruse, but he seems defeated. A little regretful. And if I’m being honest, he looks older than he did last time I saw him. Maybe his guilt is aging him.
For her part, Marie studies me from the doorway, giving nothing away.
“Well?” I ask them both, unable to take the suspense anymore. “Are you ready to admit that I was a patient of The Programandthe Adjustment?”
“Yes,” Dr. McKee says immediately, and it’s a punch straight to my chest. The easy answer steals my fight, and I blink a few times, trying to solidify my resolve.
“Okay,” I say, my voice smaller. “So do you want to start, then? Because I’d really love to know why everyone lied to me.”
Dr. McKee slips his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, measuring his words. He comes over to the desk and leans against it, facing me.
“Tatum,” he says kindly. “I’ve known your grandmother for years.”
I look at Marie, expecting her to contradict this, but she stands stoically at the side of the room. I worry suddenly that Dr. McKee is a better liar than I’ve given him credit for. I can’t see where this response is leading, though.
“I don’t believe you,” I tell him.
“I’ve worked on and off with your grandmother through the hospital,” he says. “She used to assist me and my work with the grief department.”
“The what?” I ask.
“Grief department. It was a company that helped grieving families. Marie and I used to run it, under the supervision of Arthur Pritchard.”
There’s a nagging in my brain, something familiar, although I can’t quite place the name. Dr. McKee breathes out heavily.
“Arthur went on to create The Program,” he adds.
I jump up from my chair. “So youarepart of The Program?” I ask, taking a step back from him. “And you’re saying my grandmother was too?”
