When she saw Jake’s face staring at her through the glass door of the restaurant, she stared back, thinking it was nothing more than the ghost of her agitated thoughts. Then he pushed open the door and slipped into the restaurant behind a group of women. He stopped in front of her table and she sat motionless, unable to look away from him. For one second, she thought that she might be mistaken, that her mind was playing tricks on her. But as different as he looked, it was definitely him. His dark suit and crisp, white shirt had been replaced by a ringer T-shirt for a band that she hadn’t heard of. He hadn’t shaved, and his eyes were bloodshot behind smudged glasses. His jaw was clenched and his hands were shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

She didn’t move, or speak. All she thought, as she watched the anger build in his face, was that something was going to happen, and whatever it was, she wanted it to happen. Even if he screamed at her, or hit her, or killed her, it would be better than the state of suspended animation in which she’d been living.

He took a step toward her, and she flinched and raised a protective hand. But he was only slumping into the chair across from her. It was as if his anger had been the only thing holding him up and giving him shape, and now it was gone. He put his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands. He took a deep breath and looked back up at her, his hands extended toward her. “Why?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

It wasn’t what she expected. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

But he didn’t hear her, because at that moment her father brushed past her elbow and grabbed Jake by the shoulders, nearly knocking him back in his chair. The buzz of the busy dining room came to an immediate halt. Before she could say anything, her father was clutching Jake by the front of his shirt and pulling him up to standing, holding Jake’s face close to his own. The image of her gentle father lifting a man like he was a fifty-pound bag of flour was so bizarre that it felt like a scene from a movie rather than her real, suddenly unrecognizable, life.

“I don’t care what the police say,” her father was hissing, his spittle hitting Jake’s face. “You’re a sick bastard. She’s a kid, and you need to stay the hell away from her.”

“Dad!” Rosie yelled, pulling at his arm. “Stop it! Stop!”