Six Months Later Part 14

He releases my hand once we're upstairs. I look around the narrow hallway and then follow him through his open bedroom door. I blink in the sudden brightness, and I feel like I've stepped onto another planet.

I never thought about Adam's room before, but if I had, I would have guessed death metal posters and clothing strewn all over the floor. Maybe a stolen street sign nailed to the wall next to a spray-painted quote about anarchy.

This room is so clean it belongs on a sitcom. No, maybe on one of those crime shows, where murders seem to occur in only meticulously tidy houses. As if serial killers all share a rule about freshly scoured sinks and bedroom floors that are never, ever littered with yesterday's dirty socks. His room is like that, so Spartan it almost looks like pretend.

The bed is neatly made. Two bookshelves above it are filled with a variety of fiction, and I'm not talking about X-Men comic books. Tolstoy, Nietzsche. Serious stuff. Stuff I'd probably only read if I were ordered to do so at gunpoint.

A tiny desk sits by the window, home to a computer so old I find myself searching for a floppy disk drive. The monitor is one of those huge boxy deals, some leftover from a computer era long past. That said, I could eat off the keyboard. It practically gleams. I think of my own smudgy laptop, one with all the bells and whistles, and wince.

I turn around, getting ready to comment on how pristine everything is, and that's when I see the back wall, a wall that is covered top to bottom with photographs. Black and white, mostly, but a few colored ones are mixed in.

I stare at the densely packed collage, photos of bridges and skysc.r.a.pers and that famous opera house in Australia. There are close-ups too. The detail on a soffit. An angular porch. There's so much to look at, I could be here all day.

Adam must see me gaping because he sinks into the chair by his computer and shrugs. "I like architecture."

"Understatement," I say, exhaling slowly as I spot another narrow bookshelf crammed with books on that very subject. A sleek black-and-gray skysc.r.a.per made of Legos perches on the top.

"Did you make that?"

He nods, looking fidgety. "In the third grade."

"You made that in the third grade?"

I was probably still eating paste in the third grade.

I take a breath and turn to face him. On the desk beside him, I see a stack of envelopes like mine. Even from here, I can see that one is from Yale.

Adam must see me looking because he flips it over and rolls his chair in front of the stack. "What did you need, Chlo?"

"Okay, brace yourself, because I know how this is going to sound." I wipe my palms down the sides of my jeans and take a breath. "I think all of my lost memories have something to do with our SAT study group."

Adam glances up sharply from his desk.

"The SAT group?" he asks, and his voice sounds pinched. "That ended months ago."

"Yeah, I know, but there's something weird about it. I mean, do you know how many of us have scores over two thousand?"

Adam shrugs as if the idea of this doesn't seem so very crazy to him. But it is. Completely crazy.

"Look, we're not all MIT material like you," I say, sweeping my arm around the room. "I don't know what that group did, but I'm not that smart."

"Yes, you are, Chloe. You're as smart as anyone on the dean's list. We've been over this."

We have? Man, I wish I could remember that because that look he's giving me almost makes me believe it's true.

"I know I'm not stupid," I say, "but I'm not a star student. I've slacked for three years, Adam. I don't even think three months of solo tutoring with a Harvard professor would land me the kind of score I've got."

"This year, you've got a 3.9 GPA," he says.

I do? Not important right now. I shake my head, moving closer to him. "Look, if the scores aren't weird enough for you, what about Dr. Kirkpatrick?"

"What about her?" he asks, frowning at me.

Maybe I'm too close. I step back, feeling suddenly uneasy. This is...I don't know what this is. All I know is, this isn't going right. He's suddenly jittery and distracted. Shuffling papers and checking his phone.

"She monitored our study group," I say.

He checks the window and then his phone again, and it's like he has absolutely no opinion on any of this. What the h.e.l.l?

"Doesn't that strike you as a little weird?" I ask, hoping to get some sort of reaction.

"She was there to help us with some relaxation techniques. Easing test anxiety or whatever. I don't think it's a big deal."

As soon as he says it, I have a flash. Dr. Kirkpatrick at the head of the cla.s.s, looking serene and composed. She tells us to take a deep breath. I close my eyes and obey.

Here and now, Adam is watching me with a stony expression. And can I blame him? I come here with some bizarre theory, one I have no evidence to back. I look like a complete whack job.

"Forget it," I say. "I shouldn't have come here."

I take a step toward the door, and a muscle in Adam's jaw jumps. Why did I think I could trust him? What, because I harbor some sort of hormonal fascination with him?

I feel completely stupid.

"I'm sorry I bugged you," I say, reaching for the door handle. The moment my fingers graze the k.n.o.b, he's off his chair and moving toward me.

This room has about the same square footage as a postage stamp, so when he steps in front of me, there is nowhere to go unless I dive into his closet or throw open the door. So I stand there and wait, forced to look up to meet his eyes because we are that close.

"You're not bugging me," he says, fingers resting on my shoulders. I sink into his touch. "This is going to be all right, Chloe. You're going to be all right."

I shake my head because he's wrong. My entire world is inside out and upside down, but right now with his hands on my arms and his smell all around me, I don't even care.

And there's nothing all right about that.

Chapter Thirteen.

Dr. Kirkpatrick sits in her pale green armchair wearing a practiced expression of serenity. She spent years in school training herself to spot signs of deception. I figure my chances of pulling this off without her figuring me out are about one in a billion. But I'm out of options. The only lead I have in this mess is sitting across from me, and I'm not leaving this office until she tells me something.

This time she waits ten minutes before speaking. Maybe she wants me a little nervous today.

"So how did your exercise go?"

Exercise? Oh c.r.a.p. I rush through our last meeting in my mind, remembering her little a.s.signment. The sc.r.a.pbooks.

"I think it helped," I lie. Testing the waters. Given the way her eyes just narrowed a little, I'd say those waters look muddy as h.e.l.l.

"Would you care to tell me a little about it?"

"Well, to be honest, the details in the old stuff felt more real," I say, hoping that little nugget of honesty will throw her off enough to buy my next line. "But just looking at the newer pictures gave me better perspective."

"Perspective?"

"Yeah," I say, tipping my head back and forth, like I'm searching for the word. "Like I can remember things better."

"Good," she says, and she looks strangely relieved by this. "How does it make you feel, remembering these moments more clearly?"

I square my shoulders and look her right in the eyes. "I feel like I miss Julien."

She flinches.

She hides it fast, sliding on that calm smile. But it's there. A tiny crack in her smooth facade. I see it. And that little frisson of tension in her face goes through me like a blade of ice. I resist the urge to fidget, holding my fingers steady in my lap.

"You remember Julien, right?" I ask. "From our study group?"

She smiles, but I can tell she's uneasy. Maybe even sad. Apparently even trained clinical therapists aren't immune to the clenched jaw and tight smiles that give the rest of us away.

"I believe I remember Julien," she says softly. "As you remember, my time with your study group was very limited. Just a few minutes here and there. I sadly didn't have the opportunity to know you very well as individuals."

Is she making excuses? It sounds like excuses. And the way she's playing with her pen looks like guilt.

Oh G.o.d, Maggie was right. Something happened to Julien, and Dr. Kirkpatrick knows what it is.

"I don't think Julien wanted to move to California." I say it before I can stop myself.

"Sometimes families make decisions that will upset some of the parts of the whole."

"Maybe. Or maybe none of them wanted to go."

This time there's no mistaking the way her cheeks go pale. She is nervous. Maybe even scared.

"It doesn't make any sense," I say, chewing my lip before the accusation I'm feeling shows. "The Millers have been here forever. Mr. Miller was on the Chamber of Commerce. And Julien loved it here. They all did. And now, she's just gone."

She uncrosses and recrosses her legs and glances down at her notebook. "You know, Chloe, I believe our lives should be examined and explored until some sort of understanding is reached."

"Well, you are a therapist. Wouldn't it be weird if you didn't think that?"

She smiles then, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "That's probably true. But despite believing that, I also know that some things in life don't have answers. Some things must just be accepted."

"Are you telling me it's not important for me to understand why she's gone?"

I'm hoping it will rattle her, but it doesn't. Her smile softens with her eyes, telling me that I'm playing right into her hand.

"What I think is most important here is that you miss her," Dr. Kirkpatrick says. Her ultracalm mask has descended, the little notepad she uses held easily in her palm. "I think the real lesson to be learned is how to deal with that loss."

I shrug and slouch back in my chair in defeat. The clock ticks by and I let it. I need a minute to get myself together. I should have known I wasn't going to lead this whole conversation. Her whole job is to take the reins in here.

"Maybe it isn't just Julien that I miss," I say at length.

"Is there something else you're missing, Chloe?"

"Nothing obvious. I mean, I have the perfect life right now, like every little thing has been laid out exactly like it should be."

"You don't sound pleased by that."

I glance up at her, letting a bit of the accusation I'm feeling show. "Well, maybe I didn't want the perfect life. Maybe I liked the life I had just fine."

I watch her closely now, but her face is remarkably still. I see her hands though, her knuckles going white in her lap. It's more than enough proof for me.

She knows things. If she didn't, she wouldn't be on edge like this, her face as smooth and hard as stone.

Her eyes flick up to the clock and her jaw unclenches. "I'm afraid we're running short on time today. I'd like to talk more about your feelings on this next week. Can you prepare for that?"

"I'll be ready," I say, knowing my smile is bordering on predatory.

Which is exactly how I want it to be. I'm not some mute seventeen-year-old who's going to be terrified into silence because this woman's got a few degrees on her wall. I have every right to know what's happened to me, whether or not she wants to tell me.

I let the door close behind me, leaving Dr. Kirkpatrick alone. The lobby is empty, which is typical since I'm the last appointment of the day. I pull on my coat and look at the empty receptionist's desk.

I look at it for a long time.

No. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a snoop.

Still, no matter how many times I say it in my head, I still frown at the motion sensor above the main door as I push it open. The door chimes, indicating my exit. Except I'm not exiting. I'm wedging my purse in the door and walking back toward Dr. Kirkpatrick's office.

Not my proudest moment.

My cheeks are burning with shame as I lean closer to her door.

It's totally silent. Okay, not totally, but the paper shuffling and the soft tap of keys are the only things I'm hearing. And it's not exactly a sinister sound track.

Any minute now, she's going to come out here with her lipstick refreshed and her briefcase in hand and I'm going to be standing here, looking obvious and creepy.

Still, it's a little concerning how easily I can hear through this door. Normally, there's some soft elevator music out here, but apparently the receptionist turned that off on her way out.

Ugh, I need to go. This is just too slimy.

"It's me."

My head perks up at the sound of Dr. Kirkpatrick's voice. This is not her therapy voice. This voice is tired, a little wary maybe.

"I know you don't want to talk, Daniel, but my career is on the line here," she says.