I TOSSED A PAIR OF pink underwear marked Liz into her pile, then stopped. Did we wash the guys' underwear, too? I really hoped not. I sifted through the pile, finding only ones for Rae, Liz, and Tori, and exhaled in relief.

"Girl . . ."

A man's voice over my head. I stiffened but forced myself to keep sorting. No one was here. Or, if someone was, he wasn't real. This was how I needed to handle it. Not jump like a scorched cat. Tough it out. Hear the voices, see the visions, and ignore them.

". . . come here . . ."

The voice had moved across the room. I lifted a red lace thong marked Tori and thought of my little girl cotton undies.

". . . over here . . ."

I tried to focus on how I could get better underwear before anyone else washed mine, but my hands started to tremble from the effort of ignoring the voice. Just one look. Just one —

I glanced across the room. No one there. I sighed and returned to sorting.

". . . door . . . closed . . ."

I looked at the closed door. The one I'd noticed earlier, which was proof that the voice was really just my overactive imagination.

Why do you need proof? What else would it be?

Great. Two voices to ignore.

"Open the door . . . something . . . show you . . ."

Ha! Now there was a classic movie scene: Just come look behind the closed door, little girl. I laughed, but the sound quavered, squeaking at the end.

Get a grip. Toughen up or they'll never let you out.

My gaze snuck to the door. It looked like an ordinary closet. If I really believed the voice was in my head, then what was stopping me from opening it?

I strode to the door, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other, knowing if I stopped, I'd lose my nerve.

"Good . . . come . . ."

I grasped the doorknob, the metal cold under my fingers.

". . . open . . ."

I turned the handle slowly. It went a quarter turn, then stopped. I jiggled it.

"Locked." My voice echoed through the laundry room.

I jangled it again, then twisted sharply. The door didn't budge.

"Key . . . find .. . unlock . . ."

I pressed my fingers to my temples. 'The door is locked and I'm going upstairs," I answered.

As I turned, I smacked into a wall of solid flesh and for the second time that day gave a girlie yelp. I looked up to see the same face that had made me shriek the last time.

I stumbled back and would have fallen if the door wasn't right behind me. Derek made no move to catch me, just stood there, hands in his pockets as I recovered.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked.

"Myself."

"Huh."

"Now, if you'll excuse me . . ."

When he didn't budge, I sidestepped to get around him. He moved into my path.

"You saw a ghost, didn't you?" he said.

To my relief, I managed to laugh. "Hate to break it to you, but there's no such thing as ghosts."

"Huh."

His gaze traveled around the laundry room, like a cop searching for an escaped convict. When he turned that piercing look on me, its intensity sucked the backbone out of me.

"What do you see, Chloe?"

"I —I—I don't s-s-s—"

"Slow down." He snapped the words, impatient. "What do they look like? Do they talk to you?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yeah."

I chewed my lip, then lifted onto my tiptoes. He bent to listen.

'They wear white sheets with big eye holes. And they say 'Boo!'" I glowered up at him. "Now get out of my way."

I expected him to sneer. Cross his arms and say, Make me, little girl.

His lips twitched and I steeled myself, then I realized he was smiling. Laughing at me.

He stepped aside. I swept past him to the stairs.

Dr. Gill was a small woman with a long rodent nose and bulging ratlike eyes that studied me as if / were the rat — one whose every twitch had to be scribbled into her notebook. I'd had therapists before. Two of them, both after my mom died. I'd hated the first one, an old man with bad breath who'd closed his eyes when I talked, like he was taking a nap. When I complained, I got the second one, Dr. Anna, a woman with bright red hair who'd joked with me and reminded me of my mom and helped me get on with my life. After ten minutes with Dr. Gill, I knew she fell somewhere in the middle. She seemed nice enough, and listened carefully, but she wasn't going to start cracking jokes anytime soon.

We talked about how I'd slept; how I was eating; what I thought of the others; and, mostly, how I felt about being here. I lied about the last. I wasn't stupid. If I wanted to get out, I couldn't moan that I didn't belong or complain that someone made a horrible mistake.

So I said that I knew my dad and aunt had done the right thing by putting me in Lyle House, and that I was determined to get better, whatever it took.

Dr. Gill's rat face relaxed. "That's a very mature attitude. I'm glad to hear it."

I nodded, and tried to look sincere.

"Now, Chloe, have you ever heard of schizophrenia?"

My heart stopped. "Sch-schizophrenia?"

"Yes. Do you know anything about it?"

My mouth opened and closed, brain refusing to fill it with words.

"Chloe?"

"Y-you think I'm schizo?"

Her mouth tightened. "We don't use that word, Chloe. In fact, we prefer not to use labels at all. But a diagnosis is a necessary part of the process. A patient must know her condition, understand and accept it before we can begin treatment."

"B-but I just got here. How c-can you know already —"

"Do you remember at the hospital? The doctors you spoke to? The tests they ran?"

"They found schizophrenia?"

She shook her head. "While scientists are working on a way to definitively diagnose schizophrenia, we don't have anything conclusive yet. Those tests, though, ruled out other possibilities, such as tumors or drug use. Taking those results and combining them with your symptoms, the most likely diagnosis is schizophrenia."

I stared at the floor. "You think 1 have schizophrenia."

"Do you know what it is?" She spoke slowly, like she was starting to question my intelligence.

"I've seen A Beautiful Mind."

More lip pursing. "That's Hollywood's version, Chloe."

"But it's based on a true story, right?"

"Based." Her voice softened. "I know from your file that you enjoy movies, and that's wonderful. But they aren't a good place to learn about mental illness. There are many forms and degrees of schizophrenia and yours isn't the same as that one."

Wasn't it? I saw people who weren't there, just like the guy in the movie.

Dr. Gill continued. "What you are experiencing is what we'd call undifferentiated schizophrenia, meaning you're displaying a limited number of the primary symptoms —in your case, seeing visions and hearing voices. Visual and auditory hallucinations."

"What about paranoia?"

"We see no evidence of that. You show no signs of disorganized behavior or disorganized speech patterns —"

"What about stuttering?"

She shook her head. "That's unrelated. You display none of the other symptoms, Chloe."

"Will I? Eventually?"

"Not necessarily. We'll have to be vigilant, of course, but we've caught this early. Usually a diagnosis isn't made until a patient is in her late teens or twenties. It's like catching a disease in its early stages, when we have the best chance to minimize its progression."

"And get rid of it."

A moment of silence as she fingered a long corded necklace. "Schizophrenia . . . is not like the flu, Chloe. It is permanent."

Blood thundered in my ears, drowning out her next words. She leaned forward, touching my knee.

"Chloe, are you listening to me?"

I nodded.