"She's an adult," Tully said.

"Please, Dad? Please?"

He sighed. "Shit."

She knew then. It was done. He looked down at her. "I've given my notice in L.A. We'll be moving back into the house on Bainbridge Island in September. It was going to be a surprise. We want to be living here when you're at the UW."

"That's great," she said, not really caring.

He looked past Marah to Tully. "You better take good care of my girl, Tully."

"Like she was my own daughter, Johnny," Tully said solemnly.

It was done.

An hour later, Marah sat slouched in a chair in Dr. Bloom's office. She'd been staring at the ficus plant in the corner for at least ten minutes while Dr. Bloom scribbled something on paper.

"What are you writing? A grocery list?" Marah asked, staring at her hands.

"It's not a grocery list. What do you think I'm writing?"

"I don't know. But if you aren't going to say anything, why am I here?"

"Yours is the voice that matters in here, Marah. And you know you're welcome to leave."

"Tully and my dad are out there."

"And you don't want them to know you aren't committed to therapy. Why is that?"

"Do you only ask questions?"

"I ask a lot of them. It can help guide your thoughts. You're depressed, Marah. You're smart enough to know that, and you're cutting yourself. I don't think it's a bad idea for you to consider why you do it."

Marah looked up.

Dr. Bloom's gaze was steady. "I'd really like to help you, if you'll let me." She paused. "Do you want to be happy again?"

Marah wanted it so badly she felt sick. She wanted to be the girl she used to be.

"Let me help you."

Marah thought about the network of scars on her thighs and arms, and the way pain fascinated her, and the beautiful red of her blood.

Don't give up, baby girl.

"Yeah," she said. As soon as the word fell from her mouth, she felt a tightening of anxiety in her stomach.

"That's a start," Dr. Bloom said. "And now our time is up."

Marah got to her feet and followed Dr. Bloom out of the office. In the waiting room, she saw her dad first. He was sitting on the sofa by Tully, flipping through a magazine without looking at the printed pages. At her entrance, he got to his feet.

Before he could say anything, Dr. Bloom said: "Can we talk, Mr. Ryan? In my office?"

Tully said, "I'm coming in, too," and in a blink, they were gone, and Marah was alone in the waiting room. She looked back at the closed door. What was the doctor telling them? Dr. Bloom had promised Marah that their sessions were private. You're eighteen, she'd said, an adult. Our sessions are ours alone.

"Well, well, well."

She turned slowly.

Paxton leaned against the wall, with his arms crossed. He was dressed all in black again, and the sleeveless vintage vest hung on his pale chest, its V-neck revealing a tattoo that curled up from his collarbone and around his throat. It read: Won't you join me in my slow descent into madness? She stared at the scripty black words as he moved toward her.

"I've been thinking about you." He touched the back of her hand, barely, a sweeping little caress. "Do you know how to have fun, suburb girl?"

"Like what, animal sacrifice?"

The smile he gave her was slow and seductive. No one had ever stared at her so intently, as if she were edible. "Meet me tomorrow night at midnight."

"Midnight?"

"The witching hour. I bet you've only met nice boys for movie dates and pool parties."

"You don't know anything about me."

He smiled slowly, gazing directly at her. She could feel how sure he was of himself, of her. "Meet me."

"No."

"Curfew, huh? Poor little rich girl. Okay, then. But I'll wait for you at the pergola in Pioneer Square."

The pergola in Pioneer Square? Where the homeless people slept at night and bummed cigarettes from tourists?

She heard the door opening behind her. Her dad was saying, "Thank you, Dr. Bloom."

Marah pulled away from Paxton. He laughed quietly, a little cruelly, at her movement, so she stilled.

"Marah," Dad said sharply. She knew what he was seeing: his once-perfect, once-beautiful daughter talking to a young man wearing makeup and chains. The streaks in Paxton's hair were almost neon in the office's strong light.

"This is Paxton," Marah said to her dad. "He's in my therapy group."

Dad barely made eye contact with Paxton. "Let's go," Dad said, taking her hand, leading her out of the office.

CHAPTER Twelve