The Evolution of Mara Dyer Read Free Page B

throwing around words like ‘psychotic’ and ‘schizotypal,’ Mara.”
    I ordered myself not to cry.
    “Mom is hoping that, worst case scenario, this is maybe something called Brief Psychotic Disorder brought on by the PTSD and the shooting and all of the trauma—but from what I think I’m hearing, the main differences between that, schizophrenia, and a bunch of other disorders in between is basically duration.” He swallowed hard. “Meaning, the longer the delusions last, the worse the prognosis.”
    I clenched my teeth and forced myself to stay quiet while my brother continued to speak.
    “That’s why Mom thinks you should stay here for a whileso they can adjust your meds. Then they can move you to a place, a residential treatment facility—”
    “No,” I said. As badly as I had wanted to leave my family to keep them safe before, I knew now I needed to stay with them. I could not be locked up while Jude was free.
    “It’s like a boarding school,” he went on, “except there’s a gourmet chef and Zen gardens and art therapy—just to take a break.”
    “We’re not talking about Fiji, Daniel. She wants to send me to a mental hospital. A mental hospital!”
    “It isn’t a mental hospital, it’s a residential—”
    “Treatment facility, yeah,” I said, just as the tears began to well. I blinked them back furiously. “So you’re on their side?”
    “I’m on your side. And it’s just for a little while, so they can teach you to cope. You’ve been through—there’s no way I could deal with school and what you’ve been through.”
    I tried to swallow back the sourness in my throat. “What does Dad say?” I managed to ask.
    “He feels like part of this is his fault,” he said.
    The wrongness of that idea sliced me open.
    “That he shouldn’t have taken on the case,” my brother went on. “He trusts Mom.”
    “Daniel,” I pleaded. “I swear, I swear I’m telling the truth.”
    “That’s part of it,” he said, and his voice nearly cracked. “That you believe it. Hallucinations—that fits with the PTSD. But you knew when you had them that it was all in yourhead. Now that you believe it’s real,” Daniel said, his voice tight, “everything you told them yesterday is consistent with—psychosis.” He blinked fiercely and swiped one of his eyes with the back of his hand.
    I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. “So that’s it, then.” My voice sounded dead. “Do I even get to go home first?”
    “Well, once they admit you they have to keep you for seventy-two hours, and then they reevaluate you before they make a final recommendation to Mom and Dad. So I guess that’ll happen tomorrow?”
    “Wait—just seventy-two hours?” And another evaluation . . .
    “Well, yeah, but they’re pushing for longer.”
    But right now, it was temporary. Not permanent. Not yet.
    If I could persuade them that I didn’t believe Jude was alive—that I didn’t believe I killed Rachel and Claire and the others—that none of this was real, that it was all in my head—if I could lie, and convincingly, then they might think my episode at the police station was temporary. That was what my mother wanted to believe. She just needed a push.
    If I played this right, I might get to go home again.
    I might get to see Noah again.
    An image of him flickered in my mind, his face hard and determined at the courthouse, certain that I wouldn’t do what I did. We hadn’t spoken since.
    What if I had changed to him, like he said I would?
    What if he didn’t want to see me?
    The thought tightened my throat, but I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t lose it. From here on out, I had to be the poster child for mental health. I couldn’t afford to be sent away anymore. I had to figure out what the hell was going on.
    Even if I had to figure it out by myself.
    A knock on the door startled me, but it was just Mom. She looked like she’d been crying. Daniel stood up, smoothing his wrinkled blue dress