Probably when I got my first period, she thought, only half-joking. It was funny how the onset of that rite of passage seemed to coincide with so many other unpleasant realizations.

She picked up a paperback and opened it. It took reading half a page before she even remembered what the story was about. She’d chosen the book almost at random from a stack her mother had set out to take to Goodwill. It was a mystery, something about a woman who was being stalked by a man who might or might not be the same man who killed her mother twenty years before. The character interested her not at all, and the author’s clunky style didn’t make things any more appealing. Still, she wanted to see how it ended.

When she next looked up, it was a few minutes past eight. She shut the book and sat on the edge of the bed, preparing herself mentally for the ordeal of dinner with her father. She located her shoes, slipped them on, and waited for his knock on the door.

Ten minutes later, she was still sitting. There was no sound of her father’s footsteps in the hallway. In fact, there was no sound in the house at all. Maybe he fell asleep, Caddie thought. That would solve her dilemma nicely.

But she knew that wasn’t likely. If she knew anything about her father, it was that he was practically a slave to schedules and routines. Predictable, she thought. He was predictable.

Her stomach rumbled. For its sake, she decided to go in search of her father. She couldn’t avoid him forever, she reasoned; she might as well get it over with.

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Probably, she thought, he was downstairs. Perhaps he was even making dinner, although she couldn’t imagine it. But that might explain his lateness. He was probably expecting her to come down on her own.

She headed for the stairs, but paused when she heard a popping sound. It was coming from her father’s office. Then she heard the music. Low. Jazzy. Sad, although she couldn’t say why.

The door was open a crack, and she peeked inside. Her father sat at his desk, typing. His fingers moved steadily but awkwardly over the keys, striking them like a chicken pecking at grain. His forehead was furrowed, and his lips moved silently as he worked.

He didn’t see her. For a moment she thought about saying something, maybe just clearing her throat to get his attention. But clearly he was more interested in whatever he was working on than he was in having dinner with her. After watching him for another half a minute, she stepped away from the door, leaving him alone.

The stairs let out only the slightest of creaks as she descended. The lower half of the house was darker, the light thinner and the shadows creeping in around the furniture as dusk settled over everything. Caddie walked quickly to the front door and opened it, stepping out into the warm air.