"She's eighteen," he says, sitting down beside her.

So that's how he wants to play it.

"And I love her," he says quietly.

Marah gives him a look and I realize how deep this trouble runs. Love. I sit slowly, looking at them.

Love.

What in the hell am I supposed to say to that? One thing I know for sure. "I have to tell your dad."

Marah gasps. Tears flood her eyes. "He'll make me move back to L.A."

"Tell him," Paxton says, taking Marah's hand. "He can't do a thing. She's an adult."

"An adult with no money and no job," I point out.

She pulls away from Paxton and comes toward me, kneeling in front of me. "You said my mom fell in love with Dad the first time she saw him."

"Yes, but-"

"And you had an affair with your professor. When you were my age, and everyone thought it was wrong, but you loved him and it was real."

I should not have told her so much. If I hadn't been caught up in my book and seduced by you're my best friend, I'm sure I wouldn't have. "Yes, but-"

"I love him, Tully. You're my best friend. You have to understand."

I want to tell her she's wrong, that she can't love a boy who wears guyliner and tells her what she feels, but what do I know about love? All I can do is try to undo the damage, to protect her. But how?

"Don't tell my dad. Please. It's not a lie," she adds. "Just don't say anything unless he asks."

It is a terrible and dangerous bargain I make. I know what will happen if Johnny finds out about this secret, and it will not bode well for me. But if I tell him, I will lose her; it's that simple. Johnny will blame me and take her away and she will never forgive either one of us.

"Fine," I say, and I know what I will do: I'll keep Marah so busy for the next three weeks she won't have time to see Paxton. Then she will start college and forget all about him. "But only if you promise not to lie to me anymore."

Marah smiles in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable, and I know why. She has been lying to me all this time.

What good is her promise?

In September, I am Marah's shadow. I barely work on my book. I am determined to keep her away from Paxton. Making plans-and executing them-takes all my time. The only time we are apart is when we're sleeping, and I check on her at least once every night and I make sure she knows it. Johnny and the boys move back into the house on Bainbridge Island. He calls three nights a week and asks how she is doing-every time I tell him she is doing well. He pretends not to be hurt that his daughter doesn't visit and I pretend not to hear the hurt in his voice.

As my warden grip tightens, Marah pulls away from me. Our relationship begins to fray. I can see her chafing at the bit, straining to be free. She has decided I am not cool anymore, that I can't be trusted, and she withholds conversation as a punishment.

I try to rise above all of it and show her that still I love her. In this cold war atmosphere, my anxiety begins to grow again. I go see a new doctor and get prescriptions. I lie and say I've never been on Xanax before. By September twenty-first, I am beside myself with guilt and worry, but I am holding on. I am trying my best to keep my promise to Kate.

When Johnny shows up, ready to take Marah off to college, there is a moment of stunned silence as we stare at each other. I feel sick at the trust he has placed in me and my failure.

"I'm ready," Marah says at last, breaking the quiet, as she steps toward her dad. She is wearing artfully ripped black jeans, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and about twenty silver bangles. Too much eyeliner and mascara accentuate her pallor and make her look tired. And scared. I am pretty sure she has powdered her face to look even more pale and gothlike.

I can see that Johnny is about to say the wrong thing-anything about her appearance is the wrong thing lately. Boy, do I know that.

I raise my voice to cover his. "Do you have everything you need?"

"I guess so," she says. Her shoulders slump, and in a second she turns into a kid again, hesitant and uncertain. My heart goes out to her. Before Katie's death, Marah was a bold, in-your-face-girl, and now she is someone else completely, vulnerable. Fragile.

"I should have picked a smaller school," she says, glancing out the window at the sunlit day, chewing on her black fingernail.

"You're ready," Johnny says from across the room. "Your mom said you were born ready."

Marah looks up sharply.

The moment feels charged. I feel Kate's presence in the air we're breathing, in the sunlight streaming through the window.

I know I am not alone in this feeling, either. In silence, we leave my condo and get into the car and drive north. I can almost hear Kate's off-key humming along with the radio.

"Your mom and I had so much fun here," I say as the gothic pink spires of the university come into view. I remember our toga parties and fraternity mixers and girls passing a candle at dinner to announce their engagements to boys who wore polo shirts and khaki pants and boat shoes without socks. Kate had thrown herself into sorority and collegiate life-she'd dated frat boys and planned social functions and pulled all-night study sessions.

Me, I'd had blinders on. I hadn't cared about anything except my future career.

"Tul?" Johnny says, leaning over. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I say, managing a smile. "It brings back a lot of memories."

I get out of the car and help Marah with her luggage. The three of us walk through the campus toward the dorms. McMahon Hall rises up into the cloudless sky, a collection of jutting gray buildings with decks that stick out like broken teeth.

"It's not too late to sign you up for Rush," I say.

Marah rolls her eyes. "A sorority? Gross."

"You used to want to be in your mom's and my sorority."

"And gummy bears used to be my favorite food."

"Are you saying that you're too mature to join a sorority?"

Marah smiles for the first time all day. "No. Just too cool."

"You wish, goth girl. If you had seen us in our parachute pants and shoulder pads, you'd be screamin' jealous."

Even Johnny laughs at that.

We haul Marah's luggage into the elevator and ride up to her floor, where we enter a dank, dingy hallway that is crammed with kids and parents and suitcases.

Marah's "suite" is one of a collection of prison-cell-sized rooms fanned out around a small bathroom. In her bedroom, two twin beds take up most of the space; there are also two wooden desks.

"Well," I say, "this is homey." Not.