Trixie said nothing. Something caught her eye, and she looked to the front of the Starbucks. A leather-jacketed guy with a heavy beard and sunglasses strolled in. Outside, I could see a big motorcycle, a Harley-Davidson or something like that with raised handlebars, parked up close to the door.

Trixie shrunk back into the chair, turned and looked away.

“What?” I said. “What is it? You know that guy.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then what’s the problem? It’s just some biker or biker wannabe. He’s not bothering anyone.”

“It’s nothing. You know what, Zack, don’t worry about anything.” Her voice had turned snippy. “I’ll just handle my own problems myself.”

She was trying to make me feel guilty, so I decided to repeat what I thought was sound advice.

“Really, just lay low,” I said. “This Martin Benson guy will finally go on to something else, and then you can get back to doing what it is that you do.”

Trixie, her shoulder still turned to the front of the coffee shop, folded up the clipping and shoved it down into her purse. The biker already had his coffee in hand and was heading out the front door. “There, he’s gone,” I said.

Trixie relaxed, but only slightly. She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

“You do not understand, Zack. I cannot have my picture in the newspaper. Not any newspaper. Not even a piece of asswipe like the Suburban. They may be small, but they still have an online edition too, you know. They run my picture and it’s all over the Internet.”

“I can’t imagine anyone outside of Oakwood is reading the Suburban online,” I said, trying to calm her.

“I can’t take that chance. I can’t have my mug shot showing up anyplace.”

“Mug shot?” I said. “Why do you call your own picture a mug shot?”

Trixie blinked. “Figure of speech,” she said.

He would come in to see her at night, supposedly to tuck her in.

But Miranda, with some tips from her older sister, Claire, figured out a way to deal with this. She would tuck the covers in as tightly as possible on both sides, then crawl atop the bed and slide under the sheet and bedspread from the top.

Once she was there, she felt trapped, like a leftover sandwich Saran-Wrapped to a plate, but secure as well, because any attempts her father might make to touch his fifteen-year-old girl could not be disguised as inadvertent. He was very good at accidentally brushing his hand across her private places when getting her ready for bed. But those supposedly innocent touches weren’t possible when she had herself so tightly cocooned. That, and pretending to already be asleep, tended to thwart his efforts, most of the time.

Sometimes Miranda almost wished he’d be more blatant. She wished he could be as direct with his perversions as he was with his violence. He made no attempt at excuses when he took out his belt to punish her or her sister for some perceived misbehavior. At those moments, she could scream back, run out of the house.