The Evolution of Mara Dyer (Mara Dyer #2)(85)

Rachel had passed me a note one day, telling me to meet her at Claire’s after school. I handed her my notebook as the teacher droned on, and she scrawled an address inside.





1281 Live Oak Court


“What was the address you went to?” I asked him.

“One two eight one Live Oak Court,” Noah said.

The address wasn’t wrong. Something else was.





50





I TOLD NOAH EXACTLY THAT.

“Your parents went to the funerals, yes?” he asked. “See if your mother knows anything.”

I tried so, so hard not to lose it.

“People don’t disappear,” he said.

“What about Jude?”

Noah went quiet. Then said, “I don’t know, Mara. I wish—I wish I did. But John is across the street right now. Nothing is going to happen to you or Daniel or Joseph or anyone, all right?” His voice was strong. “I promise.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Anna died,” I said after a too-long silence.

“I know.”

“It wasn’t me,” I said.

“I know. Hang on, Mara.”

“My parents think I’m getting better,” I went on. “They said I don’t have to go to the retreat to be evaluated for the residential program.”

“Good,” he said, sounding calm again. “They’re impressed with you. You’re doing well.”

“Except for the fact that it’s a complete lie. I’m not getting better. I thought maybe I was but I’m not.”

“You are not insane.” He barely concealed his anger. “All right? Something is happening to you. To us. I—I saw someone today,” he said quietly. “Some asshole grabbed a girl, twisted her wrist. I thought he was going to break it. He nearly did.”

“Who was she?”

“Don’t know. Never saw her before in my life,” Noah said. “But she’s all right. I wouldn’t have said anything except—you aren’t alone in this, Mara. You aren’t alone. Remember that.”

It was hard to breathe. “Okay.”

“I’ll be back soon. Hang on, Mara.”

“Okay,” I said, and we hung up.

I stared at the phone for five, ten seconds, then forced myself to do something else. I filled a cup of water from my bathroom sink. Drank half. Sat on my bed until Joseph burst in.

“You coming?” he asked breathlessly.

I took a deep breath and carefully composed myself. “Where?”

“Dinner.”

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock. “Yeah,” I said, much more brightly than I felt. I stood up and started to leave.

Joseph stared at my feet. “Um, shoes?”

“Why?”

“We’re going out.”

I just wanted to go to sleep and wake up with Noah back in Miami, back in my arms. But my parents thought I was getting better, and I needed to make them believe it. Otherwise I’d be sent away for problems I didn’t have. I was taking their drugs, drawing their pictures, passing their tests and it would all be for nothing if I was sent away now. I couldn’t bear that. Not when it would separate me from the one person who believed me. The one person who knew the truth.

I set the cup down. I put on my shoes and a big, fake smile. I laughed on the outside while I screamed on the inside. My body was in the restaurant but my mind was in hell.

And then we went back home. Daniel and Joseph were talking, my parents were joking, and I felt a little better, until I entered my room. I drank some more water from the cup I filled before we went out to eat and got ready for bed, trying not to be afraid. Fear is just a feeling, and feelings aren’t real.

But the disc I found under my pillow that night was.



My fingers curled around it in the dark. I began to hear the sirens of panic wail in my brain but I forced myself to shut them out. I stood slowly and turned on my light.

The CD was plain and unmarked.

Noah’s security guard, John, was outside.

Maybe I made the disc myself? And just didn’t remember? Like writing in the journal?

That had to be it. I glanced at the clock: It was midnight. Noah would be on the plane. My whole family was home and in their rooms, if not asleep. I couldn’t vaporize the healthy normal teenager facade by waking them and losing it, so I drained the cup of water, gritted my teeth, and put the disc in my computer. I could not panic. Not yet.

I moved the mouse and hovered over the file icon hoping for a flash of recognition, but it was just a series of numbers—31281. I double clicked, and a DVD application opened up. I pressed play.

The screen was grainy and black, and then a flash of light illuminated— “It’s supposed to be in here, come on,” said a voice from the computer.

Rachel’s voice. My mouth formed her name but no sound came out.

“We could be in the wrong section?” Claire’s voice, from behind the video camera. “I don’t know.”

I leaned in close to the screen, the air vanishing from my lungs as the asylum appeared. The paint on my bedroom walls began to peel, curl, and flake off around me like filthy snow. My bedroom walls seemed to melt and new ones, old ones, sprang up in their place. The ceiling above me cracked and the floor beneath my feet rotted away and I was in the asylum, right next to Rachel and Claire.