Page 64 of Montana Memory

Beckett nodded slowly. “Yeah. Some of them got pieces back. Enough to function. Enough to live. Like me on my best days.” He let out a bitter laugh. “But none of them got everything back.”

I inhaled deeply, pushing down the anger boiling under my skin. I wasn’t a scientist, but even I knew what he wasn’t saying—this wasn’t an antidote. Not really. It was only another drug, one with just as many risks, maybe more.

I didn’t want to ask. Every instinct in me screamed to let this go, to walk Jada out of this trailer and put as much distance between us and Beckett’s nightmare as possible.

But I couldn’t. Not when Jada was standing beside me, barely breathing, gripping on to the hope that maybe—just maybe—there was still an answer out there.

I exhaled slowly. “Is there any antidote left?”

Beckett blinked, as if I’d asked something ridiculous. Then he let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Not the original version.” He shook his head, his fingers twitching at his sides. “Just like the drug itself, it’s gone.”

His gaze flicked to Jada, and something like pity crossed his face before he looked away. “All that’s left is that black-market trash. Cheap knock-off of something that was already broken.”

A weight I hadn’t realized I was holding loosened in my chest. If the real antidote was gone, if there was no viable solution left—then Jada couldn’t take it. Couldn’t risk turning into what Beckett was.

He suddenly swayed, his manic energy snapping back to life. Without a word, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the narrow hallway.

I tensed. “Where the hell?—”

The sound of running water answered me, followed by the unmistakable, rhythmic scrape of a toothbrush against teeth.

Jada let out a breath like she’d been punched. “What…is he doing?”

Honestly, I had no idea.

“Maybe some sort of coping mechanism,” I muttered. “Some kind of mental reset. A ritual to bring his scrambled brain back in line.” I’d seen it before—guys with PTSD who’d developed tics, obsessions, things they had to do to keep from coming apart.

Jada wrapped her arms around herself. “This is a dead end. Am I going to end up like him?”

“No. His behavior is a combo of both the drug and the antidote. You may not have your memories, but at least you have full control over your mind and body.”

Beckett emerged from the hallway, his damp hands wiping down the front of his stained shirt, eyes slightly clearer, as if brushing his teeth had rebooted whatever fractured circuit was firing in his brain. But it wasn’t his fresh breath that had my attention—it was what he held between his fingers.

A small, clear vial.

Jada stiffened beside me.

“I lied,” Beckett said simply, extending the vial toward her. “This is the only antidote left.”

Shit.

I stepped forward instinctively, my body placing itself between him and Jada, even as she reached out hesitantly. Beckett barely seemed to notice that I was keeping him from handing the vial to her. His gaze flicked between us, restless and detached.

“There were two,” he continued, his voice oddly matter-of-fact. “I could’ve sworn there were two a few days ago. I was going to use them both, either finish myself off or get myself back to who I was. But now, I can only find one.”

He tilted his head and studied Jada. “Are you sure I didn’t give this to you a couple days ago? I could swear I did.”

“No. That wasn’t me.”

Jada stared at the vial, her fingers curled against her sides. I could feel the conflict radiating off her, the sharp-edged need for answers battling against the cold weight of everything Beckett had told us.

“If she takes that antidote, what will it do to her?” I asked, my voice tight.

Beckett exhaled, rubbing his forehead like the question exhausted him. “I have no idea.”

I clenched my jaw. “Take your best guess.”

“It could bring everything back,” he admitted, looking at Jada. “You could wake up tomorrow remembering exactly who you are. Or…you could end up like me.”

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