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  I was startled. “Are you saying you’re going to discharge me?”

  “I can’t keep you any longer as an involuntary patient,” he said. “If you wish to leave, that’s your decision.”

  I let out my breath. “Thank you. Yes, I do.”

  Dr. Minta took off his glasses, cleaned them, and put them on again, not looking at me. “However, I do have a professional recommendation. Given the trauma you’ve been through and the need to wean yourself off your medication gradually, I think it would be a good idea for you to continue seeing a psychiatrist on an outpatient basis for a while.”

  I looked out the window at the pine trees gilded by afternoon sunlight, the blue dazzle of water in the distance, the red-gold leaves drifting slowly down. Then I turned back to Dr. Minta.

  “Okay,” I said. “I will.”

  . . .

  I’d been home only a couple of days when Constable Deckard rang the front doorbell and handed me back my grandmother’s ring, which I supposed was the closest thing I could expect to an apology. “Stay safe,” he said, but there was an edge in his voice that chilled me. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, it said. This isn’t over yet.

  He’d only just driven away when Mel called and asked me to come over. I told her I wasn’t talking to the press right now, and hung up.

  That same week, the Beaugrands put their house up for sale and went on vacation to somewhere hot and sunny. By the time they got back, the house had sold. And an improbably short time after that, their wine-colored Mercedes sat idling at the end of our driveway while Tori and I hugged each other in the front hall, saying good-bye.

  She hadn’t told me where she and her parents were moving. Not because she didn’t trust me, she said, but because it would be safer for all of us if I didn’t know. After what she’d been through, she couldn’t take the risk of anyone finding her again. With a catch in her voice, she wished me good luck—

  And just like that, Tori Beaugrand was gone.

  Almost as though she’d never come back at all.

  INFINITY (IS EVERY COLOR THERE IS)

  You may not believe any of what I’ve just told you. Or you may think only part of it is true. For all I know, you may decide that the explanation Tori gave Dr. Minta is what really happened, and that the parts about the space station and the wormhole were all in my crazed imagination.

  Or maybe it’s easier for you to believe that Tori was never found, and Faraday never existed, and I’m still locked up somewhere in Red Ward beating my head against the wall. Maybe you even think you can prove it.

  But you’ll be wrong. Because I know what happened, and I know what’s real. No matter what you or anyone else says.

  . . .

  Once upon a time there was a girl who was extraordinary. She could hear colors, and see sounds, and taste the difference between truth and lies. But hardly anybody knew that, and she preferred to keep it that way.

  People thought she’d killed someone, but she hadn’t. They didn’t believe her—some still don’t—but that doesn’t bother her much anymore. Because she has her family and her music and her freedom, and somewhere in the universe is a man with violet eyes who loves her.

  And deep down, part of her still believes that one day she’ll see him again.

  This is my story.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Pine Hills, like St. Luke’s, is not a real hospital. It is a compilation of numerous psychiatric institutions for young people in Canada and elsewhere, based on my own research and personal interviews with a number of former psychiatric patients and their families. However, every psychiatric institution is different, even if they operate by similar policies; and every individual’s experience of psychiatric care also varies widely according to their circumstances, personality, and diagnosis. Alison’s story is not meant to represent a normative experience of psychiatric care, and I hope readers will not take it as such. If you are experiencing depression or other symptoms that you fear may indicate mental illness, please talk to your doctor or local mental health organization.

  Synesthesia is, as Faraday tells Alison, not a mental illness. It is a testable and well-documented neurological phenomenon which is being studied by researchers around the world. Many synesthetes are unaware that their perceptions are unusual; others are aware of the difference but have no name for it. If you think you or someone you know may be a synesthete, you may find it interesting to go online and check out some of the free tests at The Synesthesia Battery (synesthete.org), or visit the information pages and discussion board at Mixed Signals (www.mixsig.net).

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Sarah Lilly at Orchard Books and Andrew Karre at Carolrhoda Lab, whose sage editorial advice helped me work out many a narrative tangle; and to Josh Adams and Caroline Walsh, my fantastic US and UK agents.

  I am also hugely indebted to a number of friends and family whose warm hospitality and encouragement, perceptive critical observations, candid testimonials and/or professional insights into synesthesia, psychiatric care, mental health law, police procedure, and astrophysics helped me greatly as I was researching and writing this book. These include Mark and Lisa Anderson, Pete Anderson, Liz Barr, Nicholas Bohner, Erin Brown, Tad DiBiase, Deva Fagan, Anthony Freeman, Holly Hammershoy LMHC, Brittany Harrison, Edward M. Hubbard PhD, Jonathan K. and the K. family, Doug McNeil, Saundra Mitchell, Hallie and Becca O’Donovan, and Andrew Slater. Thank you all.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  R.J. Anderson (known to her friends as Rebecca) was born in Uganda, raised in Ontario, went to school in New Jersey, and has spent much of her life dreaming of other worlds entirely.

  She is the author of several books for young readers, including Spell Hunter and Wayfarer, which VOYA called “a thrilling, addicting read.”

  Visit Rebecca online at www.rj-anderson.com.

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