Part 29 (1/2)

Both of them.

Which pretty much means I'm in.

I feel too light for my skin, as if my body's been filled with helium. I snag the back of a kitchen chair, desperate for something to tether me back to the here and now.

”This is it,” Mom says, beaming. ”This is the beginning of your future, Chloe. You did it.”

They squeeze me into a hug, and we all dissolve into laughter. They keep saying it over and over. You did it. You did it.

Somebody did it all right. I'm just not so sure it was me.

I stare at my purse, where a different future lingers. A future of police investigations and courtrooms. All of this laughter and dancing in the kitchen will come to a screeching halt as our scores and grades are examined. Maybe even retested.

In this other future, my parents will be reminded of exactly who I really am.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

I meet Adam one block away from Dr. Kirkpatrick's office at five. He doesn't say anything when I slide into his car, and pulls away from the curb before I can kiss him. I hold on to the edge of my seat, shocked at his speed.

It isn't like him to drive this fast. Or to be this quiet.

He looks pale and gaunt, dark circles ringed beneath his eyes. I'm sure he hasn't slept at all. No way.

”Hey, are you all right?” I ask.

He doesn't take his eyes from the road. Just nods and checks his phone. A minute later, he checks it again. And then again.

”Is the president calling?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

He looks at me then. ”Keeping an eye on the time.”

”Okay.”

But it's not okay. Something's seriously screwed up with him. And I have no freaking idea what it is or why he's acting like this. I mean, shouldn't I be the one who's wigged out right now?

This isn't the time for this. There are bigger fish to fry-h.e.l.l, there's a freaking white shark in my skillet.

Adam pulls into the parking lot, and I spot Dr. Kirkpatrick's car. ”There. That one. I'm pretty sure that's hers.”

”Does anyone else work here?”

”A receptionist, but she leaves after she checks the last patient in for the day.”

”What about the last patient?”

”Sessions end at ten before the hour, so we should be good. She's probably doing paperwork.”

Adam doesn't park in the lot. He parks one street over, where his car won't be as noticeable. I look down at the manila folder in my trembling hands and wish I hadn't agreed to this.

I should have gone to the police. c.r.a.p, what if she calls the police?

I push the thoughts away and follow Adam into the office. The electric door chime sends a burst of adrenaline dancing through me.

”Dr. Kirkpatrick?” Adam calls out.

No answer. I clear my throat and gesture at the cracked door to her office. We step closer, still hearing nothing. I don't like it. The quiet sends cold, needling fingers up my arms and neck. I begin to s.h.i.+ver, though I'm not cold.

”Dr. Kirkpatrick?” Adam knocks on the door, and it groans open farther under his taps. He pushes through the gaping crack and sucks in a gasp.

”What is it?” I move around him so I can see.

I wish I hadn't.

Dr. Kirkpatrick is slumped over the desk. There's a giant red-black puddle beneath her, all over the pretty desk planner. Some small, detached part of me understands this is blood.

The rest of me demands it to be something else. That much blood would mean she's-no. She can't be.

But she's not moving at all. I take a breath and smell an unmistakable coppery tang in the air. And the truth whooshes through me like a hurricane.

Dr. Kirkpatrick is dead.

”Oh my G.o.d.” My voice splits. Cracks into pieces. ”Oh my G.o.d, Adam, we have to call nine one one.”

He's standing there, not merely shocked and sickened like I am, but almost catatonic. As if he can't even believe what he's seeing. And who could blame him? Because no one should believe this. No one should even see this.

There's a purse on the floor beside her desk. Her purse, I a.s.sume. The contents are spilled out across the carpet, her wallet conspicuously missing.

Is this why she was killed? For a wallet? A wave of nausea rolls through me, so I turn away from the scene. From the body. s.h.i.+t, there's a body.

What do I do? What do I do?

I stumble backward, pulling out my phone. Suddenly, Adam comes to life, snagging it from my fingers. ”No. Someone else has to call it in.”

”What? What are you talking about?”

He takes me by the arm and moves fast, rus.h.i.+ng us back out of the office and into the fading sunlight. He takes a moment to rub the door handle with his sleeve. I want to argue and pull away, but the truth is, I hardly feel present at all. A little bubble of shock is holding me away, numbing my senses.

”We have to call the police,” I say again, but my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

He keeps walking, dropping my arm and a.s.suming I'll follow. And I do. Because I don't know what else to do. This is way, way outside the realm of things I know what to do with.

I feel sick and heavy. I'm not just shaking-I'm practically convulsing.

Adam pulls out his own phone and starts texting. Furiously.

”You're texting the police?” Is that even possible?