The Treatment (The Program #2)(4)

James mumbles that he’s going to get our bag from the van.

The sun beats down on my cheeks. Without the shade of the trees, it’s hotter than I’m used to. The lot next to this one is empty, and I think Dallas was right about the seclusion. It’s quiet here.

Cas exhales and runs his hand through his long brown hair. On closer inspection, his nose doesn’t look that broken.

There’s a small cut over the bridge, swelling in the nostrils, and of course the black bruising under his eyes. Lacey could have done worse.

“Dallas wasn’t always like this,” Cas says to me quietly. “She had a very different life before The Program.”

“She was in The Program?” I ask, surprised. “She made it sound like she hated returners.”

Cas shakes his head. “She hates what The Program does.

Now she spends most of her time training.”

“Training for what?” I ask, watching as James spits a mouth-ful of blood onto the pavement. Dallas hit him harder than I thought.

“Self-defense,” Cas answers. “How to kill someone if she has to. Or wants to.” He pauses. “Look, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but we’re on the same side.”

“You sure?” I turn my shoulder so he can see the restraints still binding my hands. Cas apologizes, and gently holds my forearm so he can start cutting through the plastic.

“Who knows,” Cas says from behind me. “Maybe in the end we’ll all become friends.” My wrists pull apart as the bond is cut, and I rub the spot where the restraints have left my skin raw.

“I wouldn’t plan on that,” James responds to Cas and walks between us. He drops the duffel bag at our feet and then takes my hands to look over the red marks. He runs his thumb gently over the creased skin, and then lifts my wrist to his lips to kiss it. “Better?” he asks, looking sorry even though this wasn’t his fault.

I hug him, pressing my cheek against his neck. I’m not sure if our situation has gotten better or worse. “I’m freaking out,” I murmur.

James turns his face into my hair, whispering so Cas won’t hear. “Me too.”

And somehow those words remind me of something, a phantom memory I can’t quite place. The pill in my pocket could change that—I’d remember everything. I pull back from James and see the look in his eyes, an uncertainty, as if he senses a familiar memory too. He opens his mouth to talk, but then Dallas calls to us from the front door.

“Unless you’re advertising for handler intervention,” she says, “you’d better get out of sight.”

The mention of handlers is enough to make me move.

James takes my hand, and we walk toward the empty-looking building, toward what’s left of the rebels, and hope we’re safe from The Program. Even if for only a moment.

Chapter Two

THE INSIDE OF THE BUILDING IS CLUTTERED WITH

construction materials: large sealed buckets, piles of dusty bags, and flattened boxes of cardboard. I swallow hard, wondering how we’ll live in an empty warehouse, when Dallas goes to the other side of the room and yanks open a door.

She gestures to the space around us. “This is just the front,” she says. “We live downstairs. It’s safer that way.”

“Are there exits?” I ask, peering behind her to see a dark staircase.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you the safety inspector, Sloane? Of course there are exits, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go out during the day. They’ve been running your story on CNN and I can’t risk you being seen.”

“Did they mention me?” James asks. His anger at Dallas has tempered down, which I guess is a positive, since it looks like we’ll be stuck together for a while. My dislike for her hasn’t eased up even a bit.

“You were mentioned,” Dallas tells James. “But they haven’t gotten ahold of your photo yet. Wait until they do; then we won’t be able to hide you well enough.”

James smiles at me and I slap his shoulder. “What?” he asks.

“This is good. It means people must be questioning The Program. Why else would we be running from them?” Cas chuckles and walks past us to make his way downstairs.

Dallas stays, her hand on the doorknob, leveling her gaze on James. “Doesn’t work like that,” she says, and I hear the regret in her voice. “They’re going to spin it. They always do. The Program controls the media, James. They control everything.” Dallas seems unsettled about her comment, but she tries to cover it quickly, turning to hurry down the steps.

James watches after her like he’s trying to figure her out, but if what Cas says is true and Dallas has been through The Program, she probably doesn’t even know herself. So James is out of luck.

We descend the narrow staircase to the lower level, which I realize is barely below the street, to enter the first room. It has high windows, though they’re covered with yellowed newspa-pers. The vents pump a steady flow of air as we pass, sending a chill over my arms. I’m not sure how they have electricity, but I guess the rebels aren’t as ragtag as they look.

In the center of the room is a cracked leather couch and a few folding chairs, but otherwise the space is lonely. Ominous.

“Where is everyone?” I ask, worry starting to build. “I thought you said there were others. You said Lacey was here.” Dallas holds up her hands, telling me to calm down. “It’s okay,” she assures me. “They’re all here.” She heads back into the hallway, and it’s long—impossibly long—until I realize it’s the length of the entire building. Styrofoam peanuts have been swept into the corners. The fluorescent lights above flicker and hum.