A Cure for Madness by Jodi McIsaac Page B

pushing all patience aside. He was not going to guilt me over this. I did what I had to do. It was self-preservation, and I didn’t regret it.
    “I deserved a life too,” he said. “And you let them take it from me.”
    “Nobody took anything from you! It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask you to beat up that asshole. You almost killed him, for Christ’s sake! What did you think they were going to do, let you go?”
    Wes stood up now as well, and I automatically backed up a few paces, until my back was pressed against the kitchen counter.
    “Tell me he didn’t deserve it,” he snarled.
    Of course he’d deserved it. “You needed help, and I’m glad you got it.”
    “You’re glad I was out of the way, you mean,” he said. “Admit it. I was the only one who defended you, and you left me to rot.”
    I forced myself to meet his eyes, but I was shaking. It was as if I’d been transported back to a time when I could avoid confrontation by running upstairs to my room with pink walls and pink carpet and a pink bedspread, slam the door behind me, and throw myself onto the bed. It was this place; it was messing with me. I needed to go back to Seattle, where I was a grown-up. Here I would always be a child.
    Most people would have quailed under the look Wes gave me, especially combined with his tattoos, piercings, chains, and metal studs. And it’s not that I felt no fear. I knew he could kill me with his bare hands if he felt like it, and my heart quivered a little at the fire in his eyes. The difference was that most people never considered whether or not their siblings would kill them, and it was a question with which I was very familiar—comfortable, even, despite what I’d said about Wes’s gentle nature.
    The buzz of my phone broke our impasse. It was a text from Kenneth.
    The CDC is having a press conference in a few minutes. I think all our questions are about to be answered.
    “Hang on,” I said to Wes, who was still glaring at me. “We can talk about this more later, but something important is happening right now . . . something I want to see.”
    I turned on the TV in the living room and tried to figure out the remote.
    “What’s going on?” he asked as I flicked through the channels.
    “The CDC is having a press conference,” I said. “Centers for Disease Control. They think there’s something wrong here in Clarkeston—an illness or something in the water. It’s why the hospital’s been so crazy.”
    I found a news station and sat down on the sofa. Wes sat beside me, still glowering. But he seemed willing to let things rest—for now.
    On the screen, a thin, white-haired man in a dark blue suit approached a podium with the state of Maine’s seal on it.
    My phone rang. It was Latasha. “You watching the CDC thing?” she asked.
    “Yeah, Kenneth just texted me. How did you—?”
    “Saw it online. Shhh, it’s starting.”
    “Thank you,” the man said to whoever had introduced him. He was identified on the screen as Dr. Harry Normand, director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. He cleared his throat.
    “As some of you are aware, we have been investigating the rise of unusual behavior in and around the town of Clarkeston. We were asked by the Maine Health Department to investigate the increase in patients presenting at the Riverside Psychiatric Facility. This issue was brought to our attention only days ago. During this time, our scientists have been working exceptionally hard, often in hazardous environments, and for that, they certainly have our thanks.”
    He paused and looked down at his notes.
    “We have investigated many potential causes and have now identified the agent of this condition as a pathogen—an infectious particle called a prion. Now, I want to say right up front that this is good news: we know what’s causing it, so now we can determine how to treat it. We will be releasing new information through the CDC website as soon as we have it.”
    “Oh my