Residential. Not ideal.

“Or an outpatient program could be the best thing—”

“Outpatient?” Tell me more.

“There are day programs for teens who are going through difficult things, just like you.”

Doubtful.

“You work mostly with counselors and your peers in group therapy and in experiential therapies like art and music—with a bit of time devoted to schoolwork, but the focus is definitely on therapy. And at the end of the day, you go home.”

Not so terrible. At least now I knew what to hope for.

“Or, your parents might decide not to do anything but therapy. We’ll make our recommendation, but ultimately, it’s up to them. Your mother should be stopping by soon, actually,” she said, glancing at the elevators. “Why don’t you keep drawing—what a lovely picture!—and then we’ll speak again after I talk with her?”

I nodded and smiled. Smiling was important.

Dr. West left, then, and I was still attempting to make the falsely cheerful picture even more falsely cheerful when I was startled by a tap on my shoulder.

I half-turned in the plastic chair. A young girl, maybe ten or eleven, with long, unbrushed dirty blond hair stood shyly with her thumb in her mouth. She wore a white T-shirt that was too big for her over a blue skirt with ruffles to match her blue socks. She passed me a folded piece of paper with her free hand.

Sketchbook paper. My fingers identified the texture immediately, and my heartbeat quickened as I unfolded it, revealing the picture I gave Noah, of Noah, weeks ago at Croyden. And on the back were just three words, but they were the most beautiful words in the English language:

I believe you.

They were written in Noah’s handwriting, and my heart turned over as I looked behind me, hoping by some miracle to see his face.

But there was no one here that didn’t belong.

“Where did you get this?” I asked the girl.

She looked down at the linoleum floor and blushed. “The pretty boy gave it to me.”

A smile formed on my lips. “Where is he?”

She pointed down the hallway. I stood, leaving the bullshit tree and my sketch on the table, and looked around calmly even though I wanted to run. One of the therapists sat at a table talking to a boy that kept scratching himself, and one of the staff members manned the front desk. Nothing out of the ordinary, but obviously, something was. I casually walked toward the restrooms—they were close to the hallway, which was close to the elevators. If Noah was here, he couldn’t be far.

And just before I turned the corner, I felt a hand gently grab my wrist and pull me into the girls’ bathroom. I knew it was him even before I saw that face.

I lingered on the blue-gray eyes that studied mine, on the small crease between them above the line of his elegant nose. My eyes wandered over the shape of his mouth, following its curve and pout, as if he was just about to speak. And that hair—I wanted to jump into his arms and run my fingers through that hair. I wanted to crush my mouth against those lips.

But Noah placed a long finger on mine before I could say a word. “We don’t have much time.”

His nearness filled me with warmth. I couldn’t believe he was really here. I wanted to feel him more, just to make sure he really was.

I raised a tentative hand to his narrow waist then. His lean muscles were taut, tense beneath the thin, soft cotton of his vintage T-shirt.

But he didn’t stop me.

I couldn’t stop my smile. “What is it with you and girls’ bathrooms?” I asked, watching his eyes.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “That is a fair question. In my defense, they’re much cleaner than boys’ bathrooms, and they do seem to be everywhere.”

He sounded amused. Arrogant. That was the voice I needed to hear. Maybe I shouldn’t have worried. Maybe we were okay.

“Daniel told me what happened,” Noah said then. His tone had changed.

I met his eyes and saw that he knew. He knew what happened to me, why I was here. He knew what my family thought.

I felt a rush of heat beneath my skin—from his gaze or from shame, I didn’t know. “Did he tell you what I—what I said?”

Noah stared down at me through the long dark lashes that framed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Jude’s here,” I said.

Noah’s voice wasn’t loud but it was strong when he spoke. “I believe you.”

I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear those words until he said them out loud. “I can’t stay here while he’s out there—”

“I’m working on that.” Noah glanced at the door.

I knew he couldn’t stay, but I didn’t want him to leave. “Me too. I think—I think there’s a chance my parents might let me come home,” I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt. “But what if they make me stay? To keep me safe?”

“I wouldn’t, if I were them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Any minute now . . .”

Two seconds later, the sound of an alarm filled my ears.

“What did you do?” I said over the noise as he backed up toward the bathroom door.

“The girl who gave you the note?”

“Yes . . .”

“I caught her staring at my lighter.”

I blinked. “You gave a child, in a psych ward, a lighter.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “She seemed trustworthy.”

“You’re sick,” I said, but smiled.

“Nobody’s perfect.” Noah smiled back.

7

NOAH’S PLAN WORKED. THE GIRL WAS CAUGHT setting fire to my drawing, actually, but not before the alarm went off. They managed to override a full-scale evacuation and in the midst of the chaos, Noah slipped out. Just before my mother arrived. And she wasn’t happy.

“I can’t believe someone on staff would bring a lighter in here.” Her voice was acid.

“I know,” I said, sounding worried. “And I was working really hard on that picture.” I shuddered for effect.

My mother rubbed her forehead. “Dr. West thought you should stay here for another week, to get your medications stabilized. She also thought you’d be a good candidate for an inpatient program, it’s called Horizons—”

My stomach dropped.

“It’s off of No Name Key, and I’ve seen the pictures—it’s really beautiful and has an excellent reputation, even though they’ve only been operating for about a year. Dr. Kells, the woman who runs it, said she met you and that you’d fit in really well—but I just . . .” She sucked in her lower lip, then sighed. “I want you home.”

I could have cried, I was so relieved. Instead I said, “I want to come home, Mom.”

She hugged me. “Your father’s been discharged and he’s waiting downstairs—he can’t wait to see you.”

My heart leapt. I couldn’t wait to see him.

“Should we get your stuff?”

I nodded, my eyes appropriately misty. I didn’t have much with me, so I mostly milled around while my mother filled out a bunch of paperwork. One of the psychiatrists—Dr. Kells—clicked toward me in expensive-looking heels. She was dressed like my mother—silk blouse, pencil skirt, perfectly applied makeup and perfectly coiffed hair.

Her wide red lips pulled back to reveal a flawless smile. “I hear you’re going home,” she said.

“Looks that way,” I said back, careful not to sound too smug.

“Good luck to you, Mara.”

“Thanks.”

But then she didn’t leave. She just stood there, watching me.

Awkward.

“Ready?” Mom called out.

Just in time. I left Dr. Kells with a wave and met my mother by the elevator. As the doors closed, it took everything I had not to cheer.

“What do you think of her?” Mom asked me, once we were alone.

“Who?”

“Dr. Kells.”

I wondered where she was going with this. “She’s all right.”

“There’s an outpatient program that Dr. West recommended—it’s actually run by her as part of Horizons. They do a lot of group therapy work—teens only—and art and music therapies, that type of thing.”

“Okay . . .”

“I think it would be good for you.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. Outpatient was better than inpatient, certainly—and I had to act like I wanted that brand of help. But dropping out of school was a big deal. I needed a minute to think.

Luckily, I got it. Because the elevator doors opened and there was my father standing in the lobby, looking healthy and invincible. I knew better than anyone that he wasn’t.

“Dad,” I said, with a smile so wide it hurt my cheeks. “You look good.” He really did; the pale skin we shared had some color to it, and he didn’t seem tired or haggard or thin, despite what he’d been through. In fact, standing there in khakis and a white polo shirt, he looked like he was heading out to play golf.

He flexed one of his arms and pointed at his biceps. “Man of steel.”

My mother shot him a withering look, and then the three of us walked out into the sub-Saharan humidity and into the car.

I was happy. So happy that I almost forgot what landed me in the hospital in the first place. What landed my father in the hospital in the first place.

“So what do you think?” my mother asked me.

“Hmm?”

“About the Horizons Outpatient Program?”

Had she been talking? Had I not noticed?

Either way, I was out of time. “I think—I think it sounds okay,” I finally said.

My mother let out a breath I hadn’t noticed she’d been holding. “Then we’ll make sure you start ASAP. We’re so happy you’re coming home, but there are going to be adjustments. . . .”

There’s always another shoe.

“I don’t want you home alone. And I don’t want you driving, either.”

I bit my tongue.

“You can leave the house as long as Daniel’s with you. And if you come back without him, he’ll have to answer for it.”

Which wasn’t fair to him. Which they knew.

“Someone will take you to and from the program every day—”

“How many days a week is it?”

“Five,” my mother said.

At least it wasn’t seven. “Who’s going to take me?” I asked, peering at her. “Don’t you have work?”

“I’ll take you, sweetheart,” my dad said.

“Don’t you have work?”

“I’m taking some time off,” he said lightly, and ruffled my hair.

When we pulled up onto our street, I was surprised to find myself annoyed. It was the picture of suburban perfection; each lawn meticulously edged, each hedge carefully trimmed. There wasn’t a single flower out of place, or even a stray branch on the ground, and our house was just the same. Maybe that was what bothered me. My family had been through hell and I was the one who put them there, but from the outside looking in, you’d never know.

When my mother opened the front door, my little brother rushed into the foyer wearing a suit, pocket square and all.

He smiled with his whole face, threw his arms wide open and seemed like he was just about to launch himself at me, but then stopped. He teetered on his toes. “Are you staying?” he asked cautiously.

I looked to my mother for an answer.

“For now,” she said.

“Yes!” He wrapped both arms around me, but when I tried to do the same he jumped away. “Watch the suit,” he said, glaring.

Oh, boy. “Have you taken over the operation of some Fortune 500 company while I was gone?”

“Not yet. We’re supposed to dress up as the person we most admire and write a speech from their point of view for school.”

“And you are . . .”

“Warren Buffett.”

“I didn’t know he was partial to pocket squares.”

“He isn’t.” Daniel appeared from the kitchen, his fingers wrapped around a very thick book, the title of which I couldn’t read. “That was Joseph’s special touch.”

“Wait, isn’t it Sunday?” I asked.

Daniel nodded. “It is. But even with the entirety of spring break to practice, our little brother doesn’t appear to want to wear anything else.”

Joseph lifted his chin. “I like it.”

“I like it too,” I said, and ruffled his hair before he ducked away.

Daniel grinned at me. “Glad to have you back, little sister.” His eyes were warm, and I’d never felt happier to be home. He ran a hand through his thick hair, creating a gravity-defying mess. I cocked my head—the gesture was unusual for him. It was more reminiscent of—

Noah glided out of the kitchen before I could finish my thought, holding his own massive book. “You’re completely wrong about Bakhtin—” he started, then looked from my parents, to me, to Daniel, and then back to me.

Scratch that. I’d never felt happier to be home until now.

“Mara,” Noah said casually. “Good to see you.”

Good did not do my feelings justice. All I wanted was to pull Noah into my room and pour out my heart. But we were under observation, so all I could say was, “You too.”

“Mr. Dyer,” he said to my father, “you’re looking quite well.”

“Thank you, Noah,” my Dad said. “That gift basket you brought kept me from starving. The hospital food nearly killed me.”