The Treatment (The Program #2)(13)
Author: Suzanne Young

James casts a suspicious glance from me and Adam. “And this conversation’s over,” he mutters, and pulls me away from the wall. I hadn’t noticed how much it was holding me up. “You really shouldn’t talk to strangers,” James adds quietly, shooting another look in Adam’s direction.

Dallas finally catches up and steps in front of us, letting go of her companion. “I’m not leaving yet,” she states. I’m about to protest, but she grins widely and holds up the keys, dangling them from her finger. “But you two go on,” she says, looking positively wasted. “I’ll get another ride back.” She nods to the guy next to her.

That seems completely reckless, but at this point, I’m not going to argue. This place is overwhelming, vexing . . . alluring.

James takes the keys from her hand and then starts toward the door. As we leave, I hear Adam’s voice.

“Have a good night, Sloane,” he calls after me. I turn and wave because he wasn’t a total jerk or anything.

“Yeah, you too.”

I follow James out, occasionally taking his arm as we pass through the bottlenecked crowd waiting to get in. It isn’t until we’re in the cool night air that I stop to look back at the building, a chill running over my skin. Because I realize . . . I never told Adam my name.

Chapter Six

THE WAREHOUSE IS QUIET WHEN WE ENTER. EVERY

movement I make sounds too loud—every step. Every breath.

Lacey’s door is shut, and the lights buzz as we make our way down the hall. We’re barely inside the bedroom door when James’s hand grazes my hip, moving me aside, but I grab him by the shirt and pull him to me.

As if we’re starving for each other, his mouth is on mine and he backs me against the door, closing it. We’ve slept together only once—that I can remember—and I’m feverish for him now. My hands slip under his shirt before yanking it over his head, and I hear my T-shirt rip more as he pulls away the fabric in his fist. When it doesn’t come off entirely, he growls, and then we’re moving toward the bed. I push him down and then climb on top of him, forgetting everything outside of us. Our layers of clothes begin to evaporate, and his skin is hot against mine. I whisper his name, and then he rolls me over, his weight heavy but perfect. He’s reaching for his pants that lie in a heap next to the bed, when I feel something under my back. I shift, thinking it’s a tag from the sheets, but when I reach to pull it from behind me; I see it’s a folded piece of paper.

James takes a condom from his wallet and then notices I’m holding something. He pauses. “What’s that?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“I don’t know,” I say. Panic begins to bubble up as James moves off me to get a better look at the paper. I start to unfold it, seeing through the sheet that there’s something written in ink—it’s a note. In Lacey’s perfect print, there is a single word that means nothing to me, and yet I hitch in a ragged breath.

Miller

“Sloane?” James’s voice is a million miles away as I drop the paper, my chest heavy with a grief I can’t understand. James grabs the note from my lap and reads it. He tosses it aside before taking my shoulders. “Who’s this from?” he asks.

My panicked eyes find his as I begin to shake all over.

“Lacey.” In my head I can think only Miller. My Miller. But I don’t know what it means.

“Goddamn it,” James says, jumping to grab his pants from the floor and pulling them on. He tosses his shirt in my direc-62

tion and then he’s out the door, running barefoot down the hallway. I slip on his shirt and chase after him.

Why would Lacey write that note? Why would she put it on my bed? Oh, God. I start running faster. Where’s Lacey?

I catch up with James just as he stops in front of Lacey’s door, not knocking before bursting though. The room is dark, and as I look in, he’s in the middle, swiping his hand through the air looking for the chain for the light.

“What’s happening?”

I turn and see Cas stalking toward us, pulling out his switchblade. His face is swollen with sleep, his clothes wrinkled, but he’s as alert as if he’d been waiting for handlers all night. Just then light floods the room, and my heart leaps with hope. The room is stark and the bed is empty. Lacey is gone.

Cas pushes past me into the room, pulling back the covers as if Lacey is somehow hiding. He spins to face James. “Where is she?” he demands accusingly.

James looks devastated, shocked. “I don’t know.” Cas yanks open the dresser drawers, cursing when he finds them empty. I’m still in the doorway and any trace of the drink at the Suicide Club is gone, replaced instead with disbelief and panic. Cas pulls his phone out of his pocket and begins to pace as he dials. James still stands under the swinging, naked bulb, his head lowered, his chest heaving.

“James?” I say weakly. He looks over, and I’m struck with an image so familiar, I’m not sure how to process it. James’s eyes are red, his skin blotchy, like he’s about to cry. I think Lacey is gone, and then mingling with that is the thought that “Miller” is gone too. James’s expression fits the thought somehow, like he’s replaying a memory from my head.

James coughs out the start of a cry but then crosses the room and gathers me into a hug. His lips press a hard kiss against my forehead, his muscles rigid as I grip his arm.

“Dallas,” Cas says into the phone. “You need to come back.” James and I both look at Cas as he continues to pace.

“I don’t give a shit,” he snaps into the receiver. “Lacey’s gone.

We’re compromised.” James and I exchange a glance, fear spik-ing within me. “I’m on my way,” Cas tells Dallas, and then hangs up.

“What’s going on?” James asks.

“Get your things,” Cas says, storming past us. “We’re leaving.” He pauses in the doorway and turns to look back at me. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he says. “I really am. But a returner is always a threat, and Lacey is gone. It’ll be only a matter of time before The Program comes for the rest of us.”

“Do you think they have Lacey?” I ask, frantic.

“Yes,” Cas says in a quiet voice. “I think Lacey is with The Program. Now get your things and meet me at the van.” Cas leaves, and I turn to James, waiting for him to tell me Cas is wrong. But James just stares after him. “I tried,” he whispers, mostly to himself. Then he lowers his eyes to meet mine.