"I can't—" But she breaks off. She can believe it, believe that her parents were collaborators with the slug army.
"And don't try to sugarcoat it as being for my own good," she adds. "Watching you stop care about me, about everything, that's not freedom."
She runs up the stairs to cry again, Marjorie stays put, and I just shake my head. Not about Melissa—she'll come around in time, he I know—but I still can't believe one of her old, young friends was, before anything else, mature enough to almost hold them at bay for three years.