A long-standing rival; an archenemy.
I thought of the murders I'd endured. Deaths that made me question my sanity, even the fabric of reality itself.
Yet here, on this familiar desk, in this comfortable office, at the heart of the sleepy little town I'd called home every day of my life, was a decade-old contract linking my mother and my psychiatrist in some sort of secret agreement about me.
And I've had a nemesis ever since.
"Min?" Tack repeated, but I still didn't respond. I was paralyzed.
With an irritated grunt, Tack spun Lowell's chair so that I faced him, worry lines creasing his forehead. "Yo, Melinda J. What's up?"
I looked away. Couldn't explain. Not without telling him everything.
Pull yourself together.
"It's nothing." My voice shook. I covered it with a cough, grateful for the dim lighting. "Let's see what else we can find."
Tack's gaze lingered, blue eyes glinting in the lamplight. Then he pointed to his side of Lowell's desk. "I only checked the top drawer so far. Nothing worth discussing." He yanked the bottom one open. A single object rested inside.
"Bingo." Tack removed a MacBook and placed it on the desk. "Think we should steal it?" He drummed the laptop with his thumbs. "We could visit a tech-geek message board, maybe find a friendly hacker. Isn't that what Anonymous does?"
"No need. I know the password."
"Seriously? How?"
Despite everything, I grinned. "Dr. Lowell mumbles when he types. I pay attention."
I fired up the laptop and a pop-up box appeared. I typed out eight simple letters. I even knew what the keystrokes sounded like. "Stanford. He went to school there."
"That's his password?" Tack snorted. "I'm pretty sure your shrink failed Data Encryption 101. Nice job, Stanford."
I tucked my hair behind my ears as the system loaded. "He obviously doesn't stress about security."
"Then we're teaching him a valuable lesson." Tack leaned in so he could read over my shoulder. I felt his breath on my cheek as a satellite photo of Earth filled the monitor, followed by an assortment of icons. Tack pointed to a folder in the corner. "Case files. That looks promising. Click there."
Inside were subfolders sorted by name. A few surprised me. "Mr. Fumo? I wonder what he sees Lowell about."
"Napoleon complex," Tack said confidently. "He's as short as I am. Or maybe he thinks he's a Viking god trapped in a math teacher's body. Let's find out. Open sesame."
"I will not." Indignant. And slightly ashamed for sharing the impulse. "We didn't come here to violate people's privacy. I only want to see my file."
Tack rolled his eyes. "Bo-ring. Fine. But your name isn't listed here."
I double-checked, and he was right. Then a different name popped into my head-my terrified partner on that ride with Dr. Harris ten years ago. I rescanned the list, but Noah wasn't there either.
I closed out and examined the rest of Lowell's home screen. Everything else seemed innocuous. Program links. A folder labeled "Personal" that was largely empty. Some journal articles. A PowerPoint labeled "Northern Idaho Psychiatric Retreat-Presentation, 2016." My doctor's hard drive was as dull as his office.
I sat back, stymied. Experienced a moment of doubt. What did I really expect to find? A cache of top-secret military documents? Orders from the Joint Chiefs, in PDF format?
Tack stretched his arms over his head. "Well? We done here?"
I glanced at a nearby shelf. Lowell stared back at me, hoisting a smallmouth bass with a wry smile on his face. Is that fish me, Doc? Did I take the bait?
"No." Sitting forward, I selected "All My Files." Over the next five minutes I scrutinized the complete list, but my name didn't appear anywhere.
"Welp." Tack was chewing a thumbnail, plainly ready to give up but trying to hide it. "Maybe you're just really, really boring. Like, his dullest, least interesting case. A total snooze."
"Let's try running searches."
Melinda Wilder. Min. My birth date. My Social Security number. My mother's name.
Nothing. On this laptop, I didn't exist.
Tack straightened and stepped away, yawning into his fist. "Guess your file is somewhere else. Maybe because you're a minor?"
I was about to agree. Froze instead.
Without responding, I searched the one thing I hadn't tried.
Nemesis.
The screen blanked. Planet Earth disappeared as the laptop hummed with renewed purpose. A new home screen sprang up, backed by a high-res satellite image of the sun. A single, unlabeled folder sat in one corner.
"Oh, snap!" Tack's eyes widened in delight. "A second desktop. Here we go!"
Taking a deep breath, I clicked the folder. A short list of files appeared. Tack swore.
Melinda Juilliard Wilder.
My name was the very first one.
"What does this mean?" Tack pointed to the metadata beside my file. "The subheading for your document is Beta Run-Test Patient A. Not gonna lie-I don't like the sound of that."
Abruptly, I wished I were alone. If Tack read Lowell's notes about me-even just the highlights-he'd learn my darkest secret. I wasn't ready for that, but banishing him now would be unfair. He'd shared the risk of getting me in here. I owed him.
So I steeled myself for whatever came next. "Only one way to find out."
I selected my file. A new password box opened. I entered "Stanford," but was denied. Frustrated, I typed the word again, more slowly. Same result.
"Well, fart." Tack had a way with words.
"Come on come on come on." I thought for a moment, then tried "Nemesis."
The box disappeared with a beep.
"Nice!" Tack crowed, but then a red stop sign flashed onscreen.
"Shit! I'm locked out. Too many incorrect entries."
Tack shifted uncomfortably. "Will Lowell see that?"
I shrugged helplessly, then minimized the warning and checked the folder. A red key icon had appeared next to my file name.
My stomach twisted in knots. "Damn it. I think Lowell has to reset his password or something. He'll know someone tried to access my file."
Tack narrowed his eyes at the monitor, thinking hard. Finally, "Lock out all the files, one by one. We can't do anything about yours, but if we jam the entire folder, at least he won't know which document was the original target."
"Brilliant!" I squeezed his hand, then clicked the next file before its name penetrated my brain. "Oh God. Tack, look."
Noah Charles Livingston.
"That jackass?" Tack sniffed. "I wonder what his problem is. Affluenza? Trust fund guilt?" He tapped the screen. "Check out the metadata."
Noah's subheading was similar to mine: Beta Run-Test Patient B.
I held his hand before the shots. He was so scared.
My mind was galloping in circles. They'd taken us both to that facility.
Melinda Julliard Wilder. Noah Charles Livingston.
Test Patient A. Test Patient B.
Were his sessions like mine? I thought of Lowell's droning. The blue pills. I tried to imagine Noah freaking Livingston in my place on that stupid couch, evading Lowell's questions, doubting himself, a ball of frustration and suspicion like me.
I couldn't get there. But then the real question hit me, and I nearly threw up.
The murders.
The black-suited man.
Is it happening to Noah, too?
The idea that another person might be sharing my wretched experiences had never occurred to me. I didn't want it-wouldn't wish that on anyone-even as the notion gave me a wild surge of . . . relief.
"Weird," Tack muttered, focused on the laptop. "There aren't any other patient-named files here. The rest aren't even words-just letters and numbers." He blew out his cheeks. "Only you and Noah. I didn't even know that douche was in therapy."
Neither did I.
But suddenly, everything had changed.
Maybe I wasn't alone. Maybe Noah was just like me.
My energy level surged, despite the hour. I thumped out wrong passwords for each file, proceeding down the list as fast as I could. Angry red keys appeared in a row. I was halfway done when Tack popped up and plucked the Nemesis folder off the desk. He flipped over my consent form to examine the one beneath it. Then, clicking his tongue, he thrust the document in front of me. The second patient consented for was Noah C. Livingston.
"His mother signed." Tack tilted his head. "Didn't she die when we were little?"
"First grade." I traced her signature with my eyes. "I remember because we turned seven that year, but his mom didn't come to the class party like usual, and I got shushed for asking about it. Then a few months later another woman was dropping him off at school."
Turning back, I clicked the last document. Did a double take. "Yo, Tack!"
He dropped the stapled forms. "What?"
"This file is actually a folder, and check out the title." My finger jabbed the monitor. "VHG Federal Land Reserve. That's the name of the government property on Old Fort Run!"
"Where the convoy disappeared last night." Tack actually clapped. "Open it!"