“And what’severything?” Nicole asks.
Before answering, Marie’s eyes drift to me. “Tatum,” she says. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Nicole looks at me, taking in my appearance before turning back to Marie. “She stays,” she tells her. “Now, what’s going on? Why didn’t my father want me to know him?”
“You’re well,” she says as if it’s the explanation. “Don’t you see, both of you?” She indicates me. “You’re well. The problem the doctors never mentioned with The Program is the accepted compromise. The benefit-harm balance. They have it with every drug—a company takes an accepted loss. When a patient starts on a new medication, they’re told of the side effects. They’re briefly told of the long-term effects. But it’s more than that.
“As doctors,” Marie continues, “we understand that to cure one aspect of the body, we essentially cut off another, sometimes killing it. To cure what they thought were emotional triggers for depressive thoughts, they killed memories—removed them. That removal formed cracks in perception. Hairline fractures throughout. And now, returners are crashing back. They willallhave complications.”
“You’re telling me that all of the patients from The Program are going to... have meltdowns?” Nicole asks, horrified.
“Yes. All of them.”
I fall back a step, realizing this includes me, and Marie looks over to me dreamily. The medication has clearly kicked in.
“You don’t have to worry, Tatum,” she calls. “You aren’t affected the same. And Wes will be fine due to his reset.” She turns back to Nicole.
“We’re curing returners,” Marie says. “That’s what we’re doing here. We plan to save them. But we haven’t quite figured out how. The brain is a fascinating organ, completely mysterious in so many ways. But we’re close this time.” She pauses. “I’m close.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’ve lied to us for the past five years,” Deacon says, his voice loud in the small room and echoing off the walls. “Why did you tell us Tom had his memory wiped? What purpose did that serve, other than to hurt Nic even more?”
Nicole rolls her shoulders, the words themselves causing her tension. Marie’s face tightens, and I can visibly see her fighting to not talk. For a moment, I don’t think she will—sure this secret is buried deeper than any medication can get to.
“We were trying to keep you away from The Program. From Arthur Pritchard. And... your father didn’t want you to know,” Marie says finally. She closes her eyes, and then her entire body moves in a wave, and she looks up again. “He didn’t want you to know that you’re not the only one.”
“Not the only what?” Nicole asks.
“You’re not the only replacement.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEACON SHOOTS FORWARD AND TAKESNicole’s arm. I look over and realize she’s swaying, her eyes fluttering. “What do you mean?” Nicole asks Marie, her voice horrified. I don’t understand what they’re talking about, what “replacements” are.
Tears form and spill over onto Marie’s cheeks, but she keeps talking. Her words are soft and dreamlike. “The grief department has secrets,” she whispers. “And Tom—he knew you wouldn’t forgive them.” She looks at Deacon. “Either of you.”
“Tell me what you did,” Nicole demands.
“I will,” Marie breathes out. “But first, you have to understand—what we’ve seen, your father and I... the depths of grief. The absolute misery of loss.” She puts her hand over her heart. “We knew what it meant to lose everything. We only wanted to stop it.”
“What did you do?” Nicole asks, louder.
“The grieving families,” Marie starts, “the parents... sometimes they didn’t want to give the closers back. Especially the young ones.”
As Marie speaks, I watch the color drain from Deacon’s face; Nicole’s lips part as she sucks in a staggered breath.
“And so,” Marie says, “we had another service, for those who needed it.”
“Needed it or could afford it?” Deacon asks in a growl.
“Let’s say both,” Marie responds. “Those families who couldn’t cope were given an option. Some chose to keep the replacement.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, stepping forward. A pit has opened in my stomach. “What the fuck kind of business did you run?”
“As my closers can tell you,” Marie says, motioning to Nicole and Deacon, “their colleagues didn’t come from good homes. They were orphaned or wards of the state, for the most part. Their job required them to step into a family situation and help the parents cope with grief. And then, once the loop was closed, they’d leave. But on occasion, a family asked for more time. And then more. If it was deemed a good fit, we let the closer stay indefinitely and adjusted the paperwork.”
“What do you mean ‘adjusted the paperwork’?” I ask.
“The death certificates,” Marie says. “In some cases, we were able to vacate them. And the closer took over the identity of the dead.”
