She waited as if for a response. I nodded.

"The windows are armed with a siren, as are the exterior doors. You are allowed out the back only, and there is no gate. Because of the alarm, you must notify us before going out, so we can disable it and, yes, watch you. If you have any questions about what you can and cannot do, come to me. I won't sugarcoat it for you, Chloe. I believe honesty is the first step to establishing trust, and trust is critical in a place like this."

Again her gaze pierced mine, probing, making sure I understood the other side of that statement —that honesty went both ways and I was expected to keep up my end.

I nodded.

MRS. TALBOT SET ME up to peel carrots for lunch. I didn't dare tell her I'd never peeled one in my life. After hacking my thumb, I got the hang of it.

As I peeled, my mind started to wander . . . into places I'd rather not visit. So I called in my best defense: turn it all into a movie.

As traumatic experiences went, the last few days were my best film fodder ever. But what genre would it be? Straight horror? Or psychological suspense? Maybe a combination of elements, surprising the viewer with —

"Peeling duty already?" a voice whispered. "What'd you do to deserve that?"

This time, when I wheeled around, I didn't see a disembodied hand but a whole body. A guy, in fact, maybe a year older than me, a half foot taller and slender, with high cheekbones and dark blond hair worn in short, messy spikes. His almond-shaped brown eyes danced with amusement.

"You must be Chloe."

He reached out. I jumped back. The carrot leaped from my hands and bounced off his arm. A real arm. Attached to a real guy.

"I —I—'

He put a finger to his lips, then pointed at the dining room door. Beyond it, Mrs. Talbot was talking to Liz.

"I'm not supposed to be in here," he whispered. "I'm Simon, by the way."

I was suddenly aware that he was standing between me and the exit. His smile was friendly, and he was definitely cute, but cute didn't count with a guy who had you cornered in a group home.

He backed up to the walk-in pantry, lifted a finger telling me to wait, then disappeared inside. I could hear him rooting around in the shelves. When I peeked in, he was taking down a box of graham crackers.

A kitchen raid? I couldn't help smiling. Guess it didn't matter whether it was a group home or summer camp, guys and their stomachs didn't change. Simon pulled out an unopened sleeve of crackers. •

"The other one's already open," I whispered, pointing.

"Thanks, but he'll want the whole thing. Right, bro?"

I followed his gaze over my shoulder, and let out a yelp. The guy standing behind me had to be six feet tall, with shoulders as wide as the door. Though he was as big as an adult, he'd never be mistaken for one. His face could be used as the "before" picture for acne cream. Dark hair hung in his eyes, lank and dull.

"I —I—I—" I swallowed. "I didn't see you there."

He reached past me and took the crackers from Simon. When he started to retreat, Simon grabbed the back of his shirt.

"We're still teaching him manners," he said to me. "Derek, Chloe. Chloe, my brother, Derek."

"Brother?" I said.

"Yeah." Derek's voice was a low rumble. "Identical twins."

"He's my foster brother," Simon said. "So I was just about to tell Chloe —"

"We done here?" Derek said.

Simon waved him away, then rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Anyway, I was just going to say welcome —"

"Simon?" Tori's voice echoed through the kitchen. "Aha. I thought I heard you." Her fingers closed around the pantry door. "You and Derek, always raiding the —"

She spotted me and her eyes narrowed.

"Tori?" Simon said.

Her expression flipped from simmering to simpering. "Yes?"

He jabbed a finger toward the dining room door. "Sh.hh!"

As she babbled apologies, I made my escape.

After I finished the carrots, Mrs. Talbot said I could have free time until lunch and directed me to the media room. If I was hoping for a big-screen TV with surround sound and a top-of-the-line computer, I was out of luck. There was a twenty-inch TV, a cheap DVD/VCR combo, an old Xbox, and an even older computer. One flip through the movie collection and I knew I wouldn't be spending much time here . . . unless I was suddenly nostalgic for the Olsen twins. The only movie rated above PG was Jurassic Park, and it was labeled "Please ask before viewing," like I had to show my school ID card to prove I was over thirteen.

I turned on the computer. It took five minutes to boot up. Windows 98. I spent another five minutes trying to remember how to use Windows. We had Macs at school and I'd used that as an excuse to finally persuade my dad to buy me an Apple laptop —complete with all the upgraded movie editing programs.

I searched for a browser. I hoped for Firefox, but wasn't getting anything better than plain old IE. I typed in a URL and held my breath, expecting to get a "cannot connect to the Internet message." Instead, the page popped up. Guess we weren't as cut off from the outside world as I'd feared.

I flipped through my favorite sites, killing time until I worked up the nerve to check my in-box. A few minutes checking the weekend box office figures cleared my mind, then I typed in the URL to access my MSN account.

The browser chugged away for a minute, then brought up a "Page cannot be displayed" message. I tried Hotmail. Same thing.

"Chloe, there you are."

I turned as Mrs. Talbot walked in.

"I was just . . ." I waved at the screen. "I wanted to check my e-mail, but I keep getting this."

She walked over, glanced at the screen and sighed. "It's that Net Nanny software or whatever they use. It does more than block some Web sites, I'm afraid. You can send and receive e-mail through our account. You need to use the e-mail program that came with the computer, and get Miss Van Dop to type in the password so you can send it. A pain, I know, but we had a problem last year with a young man accessing sites he shouldn't have and when the board of directors found out . . ." She shook her head. "We're punishing everyone because of one bad apple, I'm sorry to say. Now, it's time for lunch."

I met the last housemate, Peter, over lunch. He said hello, asked how things were going, then turned his attention to his PSP as he ate. Like everything else at Lyle House, it was all very normal. Too normal. Every time someone moved, I tensed, waiting for her to start speaking in tongues or screaming about bugs crawling over his plate. No one did.

The food was decent enough. A homemade casserole, chock-full of vegetables and meat. Healthy, I was sure, like the milk and whole wheat rolls we had to go with it. For dessert we'd been promised Jell-O. Oh joy.

The sirens and screeching tires from Peter's game provided most of the meal's soundtrack. Rae was a no-show. Tori and Liz twittered together, too low for me to join in. Derek was too busy inhaling his food to talk.

So it was left to Simon to play host. He asked what part of the city I was from. When I admitted I hadn't been in any neighborhood very long, he said they'd moved around a lot, too —him and Derek. We started comparing worst-move-ever stories, and Tori jumped in with her own tale of moving horror—from her upstairs bedroom to her basement. Simon let her ramble for about two minutes before asking what grade I was in and at what school.

I knew he was just being polite —including the new girl in conversation—but if Tori had been a cartoon character, smoke would have billowed from her ears. I'd met girls like that. Territorial, whether it was about a hairbrush, a best friend, or a boy they had their eye on.