Suzanne Young - The Treatment

But I can tell what he’s thinking—we must have known Miller.

It’s twenty minutes later when James is driving the Escalade we’d left Oregon with, Cas following in the white van. We’re picking up Dallas and the others at the Suicide Club, but as we drive, I watch the streets, hoping to catch sight of Lacey wandering or lost. I don’t want to believe she’s gone.

Lacey—snow-blond hair she dyes red just because. Lacey who ate cupcakes for lunch and questioned everything . I could have done more to help her. I could have stayed behind tonight. But she ran away, took her stuff—where would she go? What did she remember that was so awful? I touch my chest as the hurt starts again, the name Miller haunting my thoughts.

As we pull up to the Suicide Club, the bouncer straightens, looking alarmed. He immediately takes out his phone and presses it to his ear. Cas parks and jogs over to him as James and I wait in the SUV. We’re silent. Anxiety and worry twist in my gut, and I don’t know what to do. I almost want another Bloodshot from the club.

“I’m sick of losing,” James says in a low voice. “And I’m sick of running.” He turns to me, and the fire is back in his eyes, the sadness replaced with anger. “We’re going to take down The Program, Sloane. And we’ll get Lacey back.”

“Promise?” I ask, wanting to believe his words even though I know James doesn’t have the power to make them come true. But I’ll believe them if he tells me. I have no other choice.

“Yeah,” he says, looking past me toward the club. “I promise.”

I blink back the tears that are starting and then follow his gaze to the Suicide Club. Dallas and Cas rush out, with the others, including the guy with the purple hair, close behind them. The bouncer nods as they leave, but I’m surprised to see another person, lingering near the door as he smokes a cigarette. It’s Adam—watching with careful regard. It strikes me then that he’s not like the other people from the club. And as Dallas climbs into the van, telling us to “Go, go!” I watch as Adam turns toward me.

He smiles, and it’s not sinister, it’s not threatening. It’s almost apologetic. He lifts his hand in a wave as James peels out of the parking lot, and I know The Program can’t be far behind.

“HAVE YOU SEEN HER?” DALLAS asks into the phone. Her words are slightly slurred, but she seems otherwise pulled together. In fact, she’s taking charge in a way that makes me trust her. “Is that so?” she asks, hardening her tone. “Where?”

James tightens his grip on the steering wheel, turning his knuckles white. The minute we’d pulled away from the Suicide Club, Dallas had started making calls, while Cas took the others in the van. Dallas said she had contacts within The Program and that they could tell us if Lacey had been picked up. I turn to look back just as Dallas lowers the phone. When her eyes meet mine, they’re stunned.

“She’s gone,” Dallas says.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice cracking over the words.

“She’s alive,” Dallas says, as if that’s the bad news. “But she’s back in The Program. They’re saying she had a brain-function meltdown, and she’s hospitalized within their facility. They found her at a bus station, set to head back to Oregon.” She shakes her head, absorbing her words. “She must have cracked. It happens sometimes. I’m sorry, Sloane. But . . . she’s never going to be the same. Even if they can put her pieces together again, The Program isn’t going to just let her walk out of there. They’re going to take whatever’s left of her. They probably already have our location and are raiding the warehouse now.” Dallas reaches to rub her eyes with the heels of her hands, smudging her makeup.

“What are you saying?” I ask.

“I’m saying Lacey no longer exists. And there’s no way to bring her back.”

There’s a flurry of motion next to me and the SUV swerves. James pounds his fist against the steering wheel. Then again. Again.

“James, stop,” I say, reaching over to grab his arm, but he yanks it away and squeals the tires as he slams on the brakes. We all pitch forward, and behind us we hear the van skid to a stop.

James opens the driver’s door and jumps out to begin walking. I scramble behind him, confused by his behavior and horrified by the news we’ve just received. “Wait!” I yell, chasing after James. Before I reach him, he spins and startles me. He pulls at his blond hair, knotting his fingers as his face contorts with anger and misery.

“We can’t trust them,” he says, motioning toward the cars. “We can’t trust one fucking person, Sloane. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Contacts in The Program,” he says, as if the idea is ridiculous. “Are you kidding?” He reaches to take my upper arms and pull me closer. “Listen to me,” he says. “We trust only each other from here on out. I don’t give a shit what they tell us; it’s me and you. No one else. For all we know, they could have sent Lacey to The Program.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me, and I instinctively turn to look back at the Escalade. The doors are wide open, flooding the dark street with light. Dallas is leaning between the front seats, waving for us to get back inside the SUV. James puts his hand on my cheek and turns me toward him; his touch is gentle, so serious. When I meet his eyes, my body relaxes slightly. James draws me into a hug, resting his chin on the top of my head, his arms tight around me.

“It’s just us,” I whisper into the fabric of his shirt. “Forever, just us.”

“That’s the idea,” he responds. The horn beeps, making us jump. James looks me over one more time before smoothing the curls of my hair away from my face. In this moment of calm, the disappearance of Lacey is crushing. But it’s no longer panic, it’s loss. Heavy, terrible loss covers me in a shadow. Rather than cry, I take James’s hand and go back to the waiting car. There’s no time to mourn. There’s only time to run.

I’ve never been to Colorado before, and when we cross the state line, the sun is shining. It does nothing to comfort me though, and I lean my head on James’s shoulder in the backseat as Dallas drives. I’ve been checking the CNN feed on Dallas’s phone—hoping for word on Lacey, but at the same time, terrified of what an article would say about her. But there are no updates, save for an older one about James and I running away.

James asks me to check the New York Times , and when I do, my stomach drops. “Oh my God,” I murmur, scrolling through an interview. This can’t be real.

“What is it?” James asks. From the front, Dallas flicks her gaze to the rearview mirror. The date on the interview is from a few days ago, and when I meet Dallas’s eyes, I see she already knows.

“What’s going on?” James demands. I hold the phone out to him and watch as his expression falters. It’s an in-depth interview about us. And James’s dad is doing the talking.

“He’s claiming it’s your fault,” Dallas says quietly, looking at me in the mirror, “like you’re some sort of vixen. You’d think he’d be more concerned about getting his only son home.”

James is still reading, and every second that ticks by makes his posture tighter, his hands curl into fists. I’d only skimmed the interview, but James’s dad claimed I was the mastermind behind our disappearance. There’s even a picture of him posing with a framed photo of James from middle school. It’s absolutely absurd.

“Propaganda,” Dallas calls back, even though James and I have fallen silent. “They baited him into that interview to gain public support. I wouldn’t let it bother you too much.”