Nemesis (Project Nemesis #1)(8)

Is that what this is? A "safe environment"?

I didn't know what to say. So, a lie. "Yeah. But nothing happened."

My response sounded unconvincing, even to me. Too strident, as if by overselling a denial I'd confirmed the opposite.

"I'm not entirely persuaded, Min." Dr. Lowell's tone remained light and conversational, almost apologetic. "I think there's something you're not telling me."

Not a question, so I didn't answer. Though my flaming cheeks might've spoken for me.

Uncrossing his legs, my psychiatrist leaned forward, his face growing serious. A twinge of frustration had crept into his eyes.

"We've been having these visits for six years now, Min." His voice was calm, but carried an undercurrent I couldn't decipher. "I like to think I've gotten to know you well." He paused, as if considering, creating an awkward moment I did nothing to disturb. Finally, "I sense that you're holding back today. I'd like to know why."

I hugged my knees closer, stalling for time. In all our "visits," I couldn't recall Lowell ever pushing me like this before. He rarely pried, and never directly called me out. I was always allowed to steer the conversation, or at least given the illusion of such control.

Say something, at least.

"Sorry." Not meeting his eye. "Yesterday was boring. I hung out by myself while Mom worked, and then . . ." I trailed off, but the silence stretched, and I knew I'd have to break it this time. "I just wanted to be alone. So I was."

His corduroy pants squeaked as he straightened. "Nothing unusual happened? No . . . bad memories? No lost time, or unexplained events?"

My feet hit the floor, defensive walls slamming into place. "No, Dr. Lowell. I didn't have a psychotic episode yesterday. Is that what you want to know?"

Lowell leaned back in his chair. He schooled his body to stillness, but his entire being radiated . . . disappointment.

Uneasiness roiled my gut. Did he know something happened?

"Are you taking your medication?" Dr. Lowell asked abruptly.

The question caught me off guard. "What? Oh, yes." Except for that morning. In my rush to make it to school on time, I hadn't swallowed my little blue pill.

"You need to take it every day, Min." As if he'd read my mind. "It doesn't work properly otherwise." His eyes crimped slightly at the corners. He's angry. And hiding it.

The strange behavior made me bold. "What is the pill, Doctor?" In an inquisitive voice, wearing an expression of harmless curiosity. "I mean, what's it made of? What's it supposed to do?" In all our sessions, I'd never really asked before.



       
         
       
        

A slight tic, swiftly covered. But I saw.

"Neurotandal is a psychotropic compound used to treat patients who have mild-to-severe dissociative disorders of a complex nature," he said smoothly. "But you know that. You've been taking this prescription since you were ten."

I crossed my legs casually, leaning back against the wall and feigning nonchalance. We were wading into the deep end, broaching a subject that had bothered me for years. I knew I had to swim carefully.

"It's just, I can only get the medication from you. It's not at the pharmacy, or anywhere else I know of. I Googled it once and got zero hits, which never happens. I was just wondering . . . you know . . . why."

Lowell answered effortlessly, as if reading from a manual. "Neurotandal is an experimental drug, which means it's still stuck in the quagmire of FDA approval and therefore not publicly available. That's why your mother had to provide written permission when you were little. We'd hoped that it would be right for you, and, thankfully, it has been."

Then why do I keep seeing the black-suited man? Why do I still die?

Lowell was watching me steadily. Gauging my reaction to his words. This "visit" clearly hadn't gone as he'd wished.

Did he sense I was covering up an attack?

He shouldn't, because I'd done it before.

My deaths at twelve and fourteen? I'd never said a word about them. I'd had sessions just like this one after both days, but on those occasions he'd accepted my deflections. So why was today different?

Because he knows.

My instincts spoke with bone-deep certainty. I was suddenly sure Lowell knew things he shouldn't. The notion more than unnerved me. I wanted out of his office immediately.

No. Don't run. Set a trap instead.

"Honestly, this morning was way more eventful than yesterday."

"Oh?" Lowell's head tilted, warm lamplight reflecting in his eyes. "Something at home?"

Careful.

Frowning, I ran fingers through my hair. Scratched at my cheek. My very best Normal Sullen Min impersonation. "Mom barely noticed me come in, and didn't say a word until I was halfway back out the door. Sometimes I think she's given up on me."

"Your mother works very hard," Lowell said gently, "but she's always in your corner. During stressful moments parents can be just as tongue-tied and out of answers as their children. But it doesn't mean they've given up, or love them any less." 

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

My slipup had been plain, yet Lowell hadn't blinked.

He didn't ask where I was coming from. Or why I'd been out in the first place.

The omission might seem innocuous-that he'd simply misunderstood what I'd said-but I knew better. Dr. Lowell never missed things like that. Six years of therapy had left me with little doubt on that account.

My mouth went dry. The implications were staggering. I needed out of there, now, but the hour was barely halfway gone. So I gritted my teeth and mentally closed ranks, determined to give as little as possible.

The rest of the session was brutal: Lowell asked questions, I gave terse answers, and neither of us was satisfied. Finally, he glanced at his watch. "It seems we're out of time. I look forward to seeing you on our next visit."

I grabbed my pack and beelined for the door. Through the lobby and out onto High Street, streaking away as fast as possible without drawing eyes. I glanced down toward the lake. Flashing lights illuminated the school parking lot. I saw the town's fire engine and two of our three squad cars. Despite everything, the sight warmed my heart.

Like punching people now, tough guy?

I was hustling home as fast as I could-satisfied or not, I didn't want to run into Ethan any more than Tack did-when a thought surprised me so much, I stopped in my tracks.

Lowell had peppered me with questions for nearly an hour. But never, not once during the eternity I was trapped inside his domain, had he mentioned the Anvil.

I stood in the middle of a crosswalk, face scrunched in disbelief. The potential end of the freaking world isn't on my shrink's radar? How was that possible? That wasn't relevant to my mental health?

A horn beeped, and I jumped. Hurried to the sidewalk. Talking to myself wouldn't yield any answers, and I was the perpetrator of a recent felony.

I needed to get my butt off the streets.





7



My body locks up with fear.

It's the morning of my twelfth birthday, and I dread what's coming. I'm certain I won't survive this time.

I struggle to reassure myself. My eleventh passed without incident. I spent the whole day locked in my room, refusing to speak to anyone, not even Mom. She called Dr. Lowell, who came by the trailer and tried to coax me out.

Nothing will happen, he said. The past experiences are all in your head.

But I didn't budge. I took my medication that morning, but with zero faith it would work. A pill can't stop a killer. Can't hold back my personal angel of death.

But it did.

Nothing happened that day. The black-suited man never appeared.

No fleeing. Or falling. Or dying. No waking up in the woods, cold and alone.

Maybe the medicine really did work, and the murders were delusions after all.

A knock on my door. Mom. She takes one look at me and sighs. "Now, Min." Sitting on the edge of my bed, she brushes damp hair from my eyes. "You're going to school today, and that's a fact. I've already spoken with Principal Myers, and he's expecting you."

"You called the principal!?" Aghast. If the others find out my mother trades phone calls with Peg-Leg Myers . . .



       
         
       
        

"And Dr. Lowell," Mom confirms, each word a dagger. "Everyone understands why you're upset, but we've got to put that behind us. Today is going to be a normal, happy birthday, and it starts with school." She forces a smile. "There'll be a party for you and Noah Livingston. Isn't that nice?"

"Right. Nice." She has no idea.

I can picture it now: standing in front of the firing squad beside Noah-the cutest, richest, shyest boy in my grade-while his friends snicker and make fun of us, taunting him about his "girlfriend." He'll turn red and edge away, leaving me up there alone like a freak.

Mom snaps open the blinds, then clucks audibly. "Well, there goes the bus. You'll have to walk in. I'll let them know you'll be a few minutes late." She looks over, sees my pained expression. "I'm sorry, Min, but I have to be at work in thirty minutes, and not showering again won't do. Thomas must've thought you weren't coming. He got on."