The Evolution of Mara Dyer (Mara Dyer #2)(6)

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 your head. 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 shirt.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked her.

“Still in the hospital. He gets discharged tomorrow.”

Maybe, if I could put on a good enough performance, I might get discharged with him. “Joseph’s there?”

Mom nodded. So my twelve-year-old brother now had a father with a gunshot wound and a sister in the psychiatric ward. I clenched my teeth even harder. Do not cry.

My mom looked at Daniel then, and he cleared his throat. “Love you, sister,” he said to me. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

I nodded, dry-eyed. My mother sat down.

“It’s going to be okay, Mara. I know that sounds stupid right now, but it’s true. It will get better.”

I wasn’t sure what to say yet, except, “I want to go home.”

My mother looked pained—and why shouldn’t she? Her family was falling apart. “I want you home so badly, sweetheart. I just—there’s no schedule for you at home if you’re not in school, and I think that might be too much pressure right now. I love you, Mara. So much. I couldn’t stand it if you—I was throwing up when I first heard about the asylum. . . . I was sick over it. I couldn’t leave you, not for a second. You’re my baby. I know you’re not a baby but you’re my baby and I want you to be okay. More than anything I want you to be okay.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and smiled at me. “This isn’t your fault. No one blames you, and you’re not being punished.”

“I know,” I said gravely, doing my best impression of a calm, sane adult.

She went on. “You’ve been through so much, and I know we don’t understand. And I want you to know that this”—she indicated the room—“isn’t you. It might be chemical or behavioral or even genetic—”

An image rose up out of the dark water of my mind. A picture. Black. White. Blurry. “What?” I asked quickly.

“The way you’re feeling. Everything that’s been going on with you. It isn’t your fault. With the PTSD and everything that’s happened—”

“No, I know,” I said, stopping her. “But you said—”

Genetic.

“What do you mean, genetic?” I asked.

My mother looked at the floor and her voice turned professional. “What you’re going through,” she said, clearly avoiding the words mental illness, “can be caused by biological and genetic factors.”

“But who in our family has had any kind of—”

“My mother,” she said quietly. “Your grandmother.”

Her words hung in the air. The picture in my mind sharpened into a portrait of a young woman with a mysterious smile, sitting with hennaed hands folded above her lap. Her dark hair was parted in the center and her bindi sparkled between her eyebrows. It was the picture of my grandmother on her wedding day.