She cut too deep. She knew it instantly.

Blood rushed down her arm, splatted on the floor. She needed help. And not just to stop the bleeding. She was out of control somehow.

She went downstairs. In the living room, blood splattered the stone floor at her feet.

"I need help," Marah said quietly.

Tully was the first to respond.

"Jesus, Marah," her godmother said, tossing her camera onto the sofa. She swooped forward and grabbed Marah's other wrist and dragged her into the nearest bathroom, forcing her to sit on the closed toilet.

Dad rushed into the bathroom behind them as Tully burrowed through drawers, throwing out bars of hand soap and hairbrushes and tubes of hand cream.

"What the hell happened?" her dad yelled.

"Bandages," Tully snapped, kneeling beside Marah. "Now!"

Dad left them. He was back in no time with gauze and adhesive tape. He stood back, looking confused and angry, while Tully applied pressure to stop the bleeding and then bandaged the wound. "There," Tully said. "But I think she'll need stitches." Tully stepped back, allowed Dad to move in. "Jesus..." he said, shaking his head. He bent down to be eye level with Marah.

He tried to smile, and she thought: This isn't my dad, not this man who can't straighten his shoulders and rarely laughs anymore. He wasn't himself any more than she was the daughter he remembered. He was even going gray-when had that started?

"Marah?" he said. "What happened?"

She was too ashamed to answer. She'd already disappointed him so much.

"Don't be afraid," Tully said. "You asked for help. You mean therapy, don't you?"

Marah stared up into her godmother's warm brown gaze. "Yes," she said softly.

"I don't understand," Dad said, looking from Tully to Marah.

"She did it on purpose," Tully said.

Marah could see how confused her father was. It made no sense to him that cutting herself helped. "How could I not know that you were hurting yourself?"

"I know someone who can help her," Tully said.

"Here in L.A.?" Dad asked, turning to look up at Tully.

"In Seattle. Remember Dr. Harriet Bloom? From my show? I bet I could get Marah in to see her on Monday."

"Seattle," Marah said. It was a lifeline being thrown to her. How often had she dreamed of going back to see her friends? But now that the opportunity was here, she found that she didn't care. It was more proof that she was sick. Disturbed. Depressed.

Dad shook his head. "I don't know..."

"She did it down here, Johnny, in Los Angeles," Tully said. "Today of all days. I may not be Freud, but I can tell you this is a cry for help. Let me help her."

"You?" he said sharply.

"You're still angry with me? What the hell for? No, don't answer that. I don't care. I am not going to back down this time, Johnny Ryan. I'm not giving you space or cutting you slack. If I didn't fight you right now, Katie would kick my ass. I promised her I would take care of Marah. You obviously haven't done a great job."

"Tully." The warning in his voice was unmistakable.

"Let me take her home and get her in to see Harriet on Monday, or Tuesday at the latest. Then we can decide what comes next."

Dad looked at Marah. "Do you want to see Dr. Bloom in Seattle?"

The truth was, Marah didn't care about Dr. Bloom. She didn't want anything except to be left alone. And to leave Los Angeles. "Yeah," she said tiredly.

Dad turned to Tully. "I'll come up as soon as I can."

Tully nodded.

Dad didn't look convinced. He stood up and faced Tully. "I can trust you to take care of her for a few days?"

"I'll be like a mama hen sitting on precious eggs."

"I will want a full report."

Tully nodded. "You'll have one."

CHAPTER Ten

Marah didn't go to her high school graduation after all, and it was a relief. Instead, she boarded a plane with Tully and flew back to Seattle. True to her word, Tully got Marah a two o'clock appointment with Dr. Harriet Bloom on the following Monday.

Today.

Marah didn't want to get out of bed. She hadn't slept well last night and now she was exhausted. Still, she did what was expected of her. She took a shower and washed her hair and even bothered to dry it. Although it took a lot of effort, she picked her clothes from her suitcase instead of from the pile she'd left on the floor last night.

When she put on her 7 for All Mankind jeans-once one of her favorite possessions, in that other life-she was horrified at how much weight she'd lost. The jeans hung on her, exposed the sharp knobs of her hip bones. She chose a heavy Abercrombie sweatshirt to give her slight frame a little bulk-and to hide the scars on her upper arms.

Zipping the hoodie up to her throat, she started to leave the bedroom. She meant to just walk out, slam the door shut behind her, and get started.

But as she passed her open suitcase, her gaze landed on the pocket sewn into the side, where her pocketknife was hidden. For a second, the world seemed to blur and slow down. She heard her heartbeat thudding and felt the blood flowing through her veins. She imagined it: bright red, beautiful. The thought of hurting herself for a second, just once so that this terrible pressure in her chest would ease, was so tempting she actually took a step forward, reached out.

"Marah!"

She yanked her hand back and glanced quickly around.

She was alone.

"Marah!"