Six Months Later Part 27

He looks away, and I can tell he's thinking it over. Maybe measuring my resolve. Finally, he nods and takes a half step back, needing the s.p.a.ce, I guess. "She has Alzheimer's. My grandmother."

"How long?"

Adam shrugs, plunging his hands into his pockets. "Maybe three years. Do you know anything about the disease?"

"Enough to know I'm sorry she has it," I say.

He doesn't respond to that, just goes on like he's talking about the weather or something. "She gets confused a lot. She had a period where she flushed her medicine down the toilet all the time."

"Why?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "Sometimes she thought it was poison. Sometimes she thought they were mine-stolen or whatever." He waves like none of this is very important or interesting. "The doctors helped at first, but it happened too often. That month they refused. Said if she was having so much difficulty, we should consider an evaluation for a.s.sisted living."

"What is that? Like a nursing home?"

He nods. "Sort of. I told the caseworker I found the meds, and she'd been doing better. We didn't have money for more. I stupidly figured the pharmacy wouldn't notice a missing bottle of blood-pressure pills."

"But you got hurt. Your arm."

"I was going to slide in through the drive-through window. The pharmacy was closed, but the owner was there. He closed my arm in the window. Gla.s.s broke..." Adam trails off, gesturing vaguely at the white scar on the inside of his forearm.

"I'm sorry," I say again.

That gets a laugh. A cold one. "Don't be. It was stupid, and I'm d.a.m.n lucky he didn't shoot me."

"Adam, everybody makes mistakes."

"Yeah, but most of them don't rank up there with breaking and entering."

I want to argue, but I know it won't work. For whatever reason, he needs to own what he's done. Pooh-poohing it isn't the answer. But h.e.l.l, neither is wallowing in it.

"So it was stupid," I say, throwing up my hands. "Fine. You were stupid. Now get over it. And maybe get some help for her. Have you looked into that at all?"

He scoffs, relaxing against his closed door. "Look around you, Chlo. We're not exactly wading in cash and options."

"But there are like twelve zillion social programs for senior citizens. So why not? Is she an illegal immigrant or something?"

"You don't get it, do you?" He c.o.c.ks his head and narrows his eyes. "I don't have any other family."

"I know you care about her-"

"Care about her?" Adam practically sneers at that. "Yeah, Chloe, I do. But I'm not Mother Teresa, and this isn't just about family loyalty. If they find out how bad she's gotten, we'll both end up in the system."

I shake my head, still not getting it.

He leans closer. "Nursing home for her. Foster home for me. Good-bye, Ridgeview High and its reasonably decent academic program. h.e.l.lo, foster care and schools with metal detectors."

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, the one that's worked its way up from my chest. "You stole the medicine because you didn't want to go into foster care."

"Yeah. And because I didn't want my grandmother to die. She isn't perfect. But I'm all she's got."

He must take my silence for something bad because he crosses his arms over his chest and hardens his expression. "It's not pretty, Chlo. But it is what it is. And it's not right to drag you into it."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n about what's right," I say.

I tug him hard by the lapels of his coat because he's so tall that going up on tiptoes isn't going to be enough.

I kiss him, and at first his lips are hard and unrelenting. I know this is some token effort at resistance, and I totally ignore it. It's a good choice because after a few seconds, Adam's hands drop to my shoulders and then he's kissing me like he's absolutely starved for it. Before long, I feel like I'm the one who needs to steal some medication.

When we finally part, his eyes are closed. His breath is coming in little shuddery bursts, and I can't quite believe I'm the one able to reduce him to this. It's dizzying.

"I'm trying to tell you I'm not good for you," he breathes, voice low and husky.

"Well, I've never been a good listener."

His mouth curls up in a smirk. "Cute. But, Chlo, there's more. There are things-"

"I don't care," I say, shaking my head. "Nothing you say is going to make me care. Not now."

"I think you'd care about this," he says.

"I wouldn't," I say, pressing my fingers to his lips. I do it because it wouldn't matter. Or maybe because I'm not ready to hear him tell me anything else.

I can see the pain in his eyes, but eventually he relents. He kisses the tips of my fingers before taking my hand in his own. "You really like to get your way, don't you?"

"Oh yeah," I say, moving in to lean against him.

Adam's arms go around my middle, and I feel perfect. The stress and fear pours out of me, like sand through a strainer. I push my face against his chest, and his chin lands softly on my head.

"Anything else you want to get out of me?" he asks, his teasing voice rumbling against my cheek.

I sigh in his embrace, wis.h.i.+ng that this were enough. If I stayed right here in his arms, it just might be. But there's a whole world I have to deal with. School and parents and...

"Actually, there is one more thing I need."

"Name it."

"I need you to help me save Julien Miller."

Chapter Twenty-Five.

I explain it all over an enormous cheese pizza. It's the place I remembered, the one with the red pop. In between greasy bites, I fill him in on everything. Maggie and me. Blake and his stalker phone call. I include everything about Julien, and even the stuff about our resident Wicked Witch, Dr. Kirkpatrick.

Finally, I stop for breath, grabbing another piece of pizza and waiting for Adam's response. I wait a while, but figure he's thinking it over. I still haven't processed it, and I've had two days.

But then, I wait long enough to wonder what expression he's wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Fear? That third one feels right, but it makes no sense at all. What the h.e.l.l would he be afraid of?

"So are you going to say anything?" I ask, stabbing random ice cubes with my straw.

"I'm not sure where to start," he says, and I hear an incoming text buzz his phone.

"I guess, 'Gee, Chloe, I don't believe you,' might work," I say, but I don't sound nearly as funny as I want to.

Adam pushes away his plate and leans back in the booth. His phone buzzes again, and he presses something to silence it, looking aggravated. "Well, I don't think you can help Julien. Schizophrenia doesn't go away, Chlo. And it's not anthrax. You can't use it like a weapon."

"Maybe that's true, but how do we know it's schizophrenia? How do we know it's not one of the weird hypno-things Dr. Kirkpatrick did in our groups?"

"Because I was in the group. It's not like she was stretching us out on couches and making us count backward."

I nod slowly, rubbing my hands clean with the napkin. "You don't believe me. Message received."

"This isn't a matter of me not believing you, Chloe. I know the lady. She's a little fixated on breathing deep, sure, but she's not the second coming of Charles Manson."

"Well, gosh, I hope she knows she can call on you for a character witness."

His expression changes. He looks tense again. Nervous, maybe. G.o.d, that can't even be right. If he is nervous, it's because I'm being a complete nut job. I sigh and lace my fingers with his over the table. "I'm sorry. I know that's not fair. I just want answers."

"I know. But I don't want to see you invent what you can't discover."

"What does that mean?"

"It means to be careful not to go accusing innocent people because you're desperate to find a reason for all of this."

"There is a reason for all of this, Adam. And Julien thinks I know what that reason is."

"Julien is a schizophrenic who probably believes a lot of things, Chlo."

"You're starting to sound like Maggie."

He looks down at his hands. "Is there any chance that's because we're both right?"

No. Ridiculous or not, I'm absolutely certain that Julien is not just schizophrenic. But knowing it isn't enough. I need proof.

"Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice," I say, settling myself onto Dr. Kirkpatrick's couch.

Dr. Kirkpatrick smiles and opens her notepad. "I'm happy I had an opening. You seemed very upset on the phone."

Good. That's exactly what I was aiming for. And if I have any luck, my mom will be home in time to see the frantic, handwritten note I left on the kitchen table. I'm pretty desperate for all of my stars to align today because this is the biggest thing I've ever tried to pull off. Ever.

"I went to California with Maggie," I say, though I have a horrible feeling she already knows that much. Something tells me she knows all kinds of things I wish she didn't.

"That's a big change from our last meeting. The two of you weren't speaking then."

"Well, I was trying to mend the bridge, but now I don't think it worked, and I just don't know what to do."

How the h.e.l.l she's buying this is beyond me. It must be the nerves I've got from being here to begin with. Still, she scoots forward in her chair and asks me at least a dozen probing questions to help me gather a better understanding of the situation.

I'm barely responding. It probably looks thoughtful, but really I just can't stop watching the clock. I have fourteen minutes left. Why the h.e.l.l hasn't my mom found the note? She was on her way home. Which means she would have had plenty of time to fly over here.

Surely she would have at least called, right? When your daughter leaves a full page of drama, closed with "If you want to know what's going on with me, you can call my psychiatrist. She knows how bad it really is."

"Chloe, I must say, you seem very distant."

"I'm sorry," I say, but I can't manage anything else. I've gone totally blank.

G.o.d, I don't know who I'm kidding. This is a ridiculous plan, and it's never going to work.

I hear the doorbell chime, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to grin. Instead, I sniff and look down at my hands. I should probably say something. What the h.e.l.l was she saying to me?

"I just want things to be normal," I say, hoping it will pa.s.s.

Outside, I hear my mother's voice. Even m.u.f.fled through the walls, I can hear the commanding tone she's using. I've been on the other side of that tone, so my heart bleeds for the poor little receptionist dealing with this.

Dr. Kirkpatrick's eyes flick to the door, a frown creasing her mouth briefly before she looks back to me. "Perhaps it's time for you to redefine normal, to come to the understanding of how things are now."

"I just don't know why they can't be the same."

"There are times when change is inevitable."

"I don't want to change!"

I sound like a whiny two-year-old, but I don't care. Her eyes are on the door again, where my mom's voice is escalating into something truly scene-worthy. The receptionist is firing back, but my mother is a force to be reckoned with.

I screw up my face in a worried frown. "Is everything okay out there?"

"I'm sure it's fine."

My mother shouts something that sounds an awful lot like "sue you," and I tense my shoulders. "Are you sure you shouldn't check?"

"Would it make you feel more comfortable?"

I swallow hard, hunching my shoulders. "Definitely."

She slips outside, taking her little notepad with her. I am off the couch the instant I hear the door click shut. Her desk is small and spa.r.s.e, highlighters and paper clips in the top drawer. Both file drawers are locked. d.a.m.n it.

I sigh, leaning back against the desk. A leather strap meets my eye. Her briefcase.

Through the door, I can hear Dr. Kirkpatrick working to soothe my mother. She probably won't say anything about me being here. It breaches doctor-patient confidentiality, a fact that she's probably discussing with my mother right this moment. With very little success I'd guess.