“I’m not sure,” I say. “And I don’t know how Lennon Rose got it, but I think Valentine could have given it to her.”

Brynn finishes reading, sitting very still when she’s done. Her lips are parted, her cheeks red. She passes the book to Marcella. “A girl wrote it,” Brynn says. “I’m sure of it.”

Marcella is the last to read, and when she finishes, she stares at the page. I’m suddenly worried that she isn’t going to appreciate the words or that she’ll be scared by them. But instead, she looks at me.

“This is . . . ,” she starts. “This is kind of like us. The way we are at this school. The way . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought. She looks down at the page again, and her eyes drip tears.

The parallels to our lives are obvious. At least, they are now that we’re looking for them. The way we’re taught, kept, trained. It’s only now that we’re starting to see what’s happening to us. We may not completely understand, but there is a sense that we’ve been . . . wronged.

A heaviness pulls us down, and we all lower our heads. I think about Rebecca being humiliated and then trying to fight back in the only way she knew—destroying what they coveted: her beauty.

“There’s something else,” I say, after a moment. “You can’t take the nightly vitamins anymore.”

Brynn looks confused. “Why not?” she asks. “I’ll be off balance.”

I explain to her that I haven’t had vitamins in my system since Friday night. And when I tell them about the silver dust inside the capsule, Brynn grips Marcella’s leg, terrified.

“I’m not sure what they’ve been doing to us,” I say. “But since I stopped taking them, I see more. I understand more. Those pills are controlling us. With what? I’m not sure. But we need to figure out what the purpose of this school really is.”

I see that the girls aren’t totally getting my theories, even if the poem has moved them.

“Just . . . Just pretend to take the vitamins tonight,” I beg. “See how you feel tomorrow. Deal?”

“Yeah,” Annalise says, seeming lost in thought. “Fine. I hate swallowing those pills anyway.”

I tell them what Jackson said about the town knowing about the school, and how it’s super mysterious and kind of scary. They listen closely, and Sydney occasionally looks toward the bars on the window.

I still remember bits of my dreams, so I tell them about those, too. But we all agree it’s probably due to the abrupt change in medication. I relay the vision (memory?) of Annalise with blond hair, and she grabs her red strands and inspects them as if they’ve somehow changed instantly.

But it’s Brynn who suddenly starts to cry.

“So what happened to Lennon Rose?” she asks. “What—where is she?”

“I don’t know,” I say, miserably. “But Jackson is going to try to find her number. That way we can call and check on her. Only . . .” I shrug. “I tried to call him and it didn’t go through. He must have written his number down wrong.”

“What do we do now?” Annalise asks.

“We should call our parents,” Sydney says suddenly.

Annalise takes a breath, about to argue, but must think better of it. It’s scary to think about calling our parents. What if they don’t believe us? What if they do?

What if they do nothing at all?

“Gemma will answer,” Sydney continues, “and I’ll ask her to put my mom on the phone. Then I’ll tell my mother everything. She’ll be out here by the end of the day.” Sydney smiles, her eyes hopeful. “I bet she’ll even help us find Lennon Rose.”

The girls and I look at each other, considering it.

“We have to be careful,” Marcella warns. “We don’t want to seem disrespectful.”

I agree, but the moment I do, I realize that the academy is still inside my head. Making me believe that my parents would be disappointed, even though what’s happening here isn’t my fault. I just don’t know exactly what’s happening here.

We all hesitate, afraid to go against the analyst’s wishes. We’re supposed to forget about Lennon Rose. Sydney begins to fidget.

“I can make the first call,” I say, shoring up my courage. “Test my parents’ reaction before I tell them everything. That way, if it all goes wrong, I can blame it on missing them. Plus . . . I’m less tied to Anton’s rules now that I’m not taking the vitamins. I’ll be able to tell if my parents are lying.”

I have no idea if that’s true, but I don’t want the other girls to take the risk. I wouldn’t want one of them to end up in impulse control therapy because of this plan.

We debate for a few minutes, but ultimately, we decide that only one of us should try. Just in case . . . Just in case what, I’m not sure. I don’t think we want to imagine the possibility of not being believed.

The girls wait inside my room while I go into the hall. My heart is in my throat as I pick up the phone receiver and dial my parents’ number. I shouldn’t be this scared to talk to them. Right?

Just as I close my eyes to take a breath, the line picks up.

“Hello?” Eva answers. I’m both comforted and disappointed to hear from her. Her motherly tone is a like a hug, but ultimately, she’s powerless to help me.

“It’s Philomena,” I say, and she makes a fuss.

“It’s nice to hear from you. How are you, honey? How are your classes? Still on track for graduation?”

“Good, and yes,” I say, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Eva, can I please speak to my mother?”

“She just left,” she says with regret. “I can pass along your message.”

I close my eyes. “No, Eva. I need to talk to her. This is important.”

“Oh?” she replies, sounding concerned. “Well, if it’s an emergency, then I think we should get Mr. Petrov on the line right away.”

“No!” I snap.

“Philomena,” Eva scolds. “What is going on over there?”

“I just need to talk to my parents,” I say as calmly as possible. “It’s not about school. I need to talk to them.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she replies, her voice now curt. “They’re not here to take your call. I will pass along the message.”

A sudden realization crawls over my skin, a sinking in my gut. The way she just said that—her tone. I’m certain it’s the same voice on the recorded line that told me Jackson’s number was out of service, only without the accent. It was the same voice.

“Eva, I want to talk to my parents,” I repeat simply. “Put them on the phone.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Too long.

“I’m sorry, Philomena,” she replies. “I can’t do that. They’re busy. I’m sure they’ll check in after your impulse control therapy.”

I blink quickly, like I’ve just been slapped.

“I’m not scheduled for impulse control therapy,” I tell her, my voice lowering.

“Yes, well,” she says, “sounds like maybe you’re due for one. Your impulses sound compromised.”