IAM MURPHY CLOSED the door behind him and locked the door. Then he unlocked it. Then he relocked it, just to make sure the dead bolt was solidly in place. It was. At least, he thought it was. He unlocked it, then sort of slammed the dead bolt back. Maybe that was too hard, though, maybe he’d thrown something off, so he unlocked it again, then relocked it once more. Just to be sure that being sure was really sure.

He sighed, shook his head in self-disgust. Pretty soon, this…this obsessing…it had to end.

“Nicole? I’m home,” he called. There was no answer, which didn’t mean that his daughter wasn’t home. It could just mean she was in a Mood—and, yeah, the capital letter was definitely needed. Ah. The thumping of a bass guitar began. His daughter was home indeed, and had recently “discovered” the Ramones. At least her taste in music was improving. If Liam had had to listen to one of those prepubescent boys for another hour, he thought he might have to shove a screwdriver in his eardrums.

He went into the kitchen, turned on the water, counting to fifty-five as he soaped up. When Emma was dying—there was no reason to sugarcoat it, to say When Emma was sick or When Emma was in the hospital—when Emma was dying, the doctor had told him that thirty seconds almost always killed the germs, but forty-five would do it for sure. And so forty-five it was…until six months ago. Since then, Liam had started to worry about little things more and more. Case in point: hand washing. What if he counted too fast? What if there were a few really strong germs that could hang on for forty-five seconds? So, fifty-five it was. Nicole, watching him in this little ritual, had already told him he had OCD due to PTSD brought on by Emma’s death, which was close. In truth, it was his own brush with death that seemed to trigger the OCD—the lock-checking, the germ phobia. It tended to be worse in times of stress, and as the single father of a teenage girl, Liam was pretty much stressed as long as he was awake. But since Nicole didn’t know about his…brush…he let her think it was grief. Seemed safer that way.

Drying his hands on a paper towel (who knew what lurked on the dish towel?), he walked down the hall to greet his daughter.

“Hi, honey,” he said, knocking before he opened the door.

“Hi, Dad!” she said, sitting up on her bed. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She smiled, and Liam’s heart did that thing where it seemed to pull in a nearly painful way, same as it had the instant he’d first seen her, slimy and squalling, fifteen and a half years ago.

“How’s my girl?” he asked.

“Not horrible,” was her answer. “Want me to help with dinner?” And Liam felt such a rush of love and gratitude that his chest ached.

“Sure,” he said.

When Liam found out that his girlfriend was pregnant, he’d been surprised…and surprisingly thrilled. Emma wasn’t, which was understandable. She’d been a senior in college, already accepted at UCLA Law, and a baby was most definitely not on her list of things to do at that moment. Breaking up with him…that might’ve been on her list. But she’d said yes when he suggested marriage, especially after he promised he’d do the brunt of the childcare so she could continue with her plans for school.

A baby. At age twenty-one, Liam found himself reading books on childbirth and parenting, asking Emma what she thought about epidurals and sleep training. And when the great day came, it seemed to Liam that his purpose in life had finally been revealed.

To the surprise of everyone—Emma, her parents, the guys at the garage where he worked, and Liam himself—he was a great dad. He got up in the middle of the night and fed the baby, walking her back and forth or taking her for drives at 3:00 a.m., since Emma had to get up early for class. He didn’t flinch at changing diapers, figured out that red and white don’t mix in the laundry, bought organic baby food, cut back on his hours so he only worked when Emma was home or when her parents came out to stay for a week or two. The garage where he worked made custom motorcycles for the very wealthy, and the owner liked Liam. Even part-time pay was enough to cover the bills. When Emma started work as a corporate tax attorney, with its long hours and healthy salary, Liam was the one to take Nicole to school, the one to go to the parent-teacher meetings or pick up Nicole if she felt sick.

His own childhood had been bumpy—his mother died when he was nine, and his father was in and out of jail, so Liam became well acquainted with the foster-care system. He was a crappy student—a whopping case of dyslexia undiagnosed till he was ten didn’t help his attitude. Aside from a better-than-average knowledge of engines, thanks to his father, who ran a chop shop, Liam didn’t have much going for him. Once, a preppy, pain-in-the-ass kid in one of the schools he’d joined mid-year called him “no one from nowhere,” and Liam couldn’t help thinking that it was a little bit true. That hadn’t stopped him from punching the arrogant little dick in the mouth and getting a week’s suspension.

Then, around eighth grade, Liam discovered the power of sex appeal. Suddenly, females of all ages loved him. No one from nowhere was suddenly prince of the city, and he tomcatted around for a while until he met Emma Tate and fell. Hard. And she loved him, too, for a while, anyway, and when she told him—grimly—that she was three weeks late, Liam discovered what destiny felt like.

Nicole—she was perfect. Moody these days, yes, and not the best at math, and she had a temper, and she thought she’d be prettier with pink streaks in her reddish-blond hair, and she’d thrown a huge hissy about the move…but she was perfect. The best thing in his life, the best thing ever.

“So, my math teacher, she, like, hates me,” Nicole said as they stood in the kitchen, working on dinner. They were eating late, still adjusting to the time change from California. Nic was peeling carrots, which had been her favorite veggie since she was eight months old. “She made all these totally snide comments about me being allowed to slide last year in algebra, and I was like, lady, hello? My mother died, okay? Sorry they didn’t bring out the whip and chains, but maybe in California, they actually like children.”

“Did you say that?” Liam asked, nudging the chicken as it sizzled in the pan.

“Duh. No, Dad,” she said, fondness softening her words. “So then we go to science, and it’s exactly what I was doing last year, and I was so bored I wanted to cry.” Nicole went on, detailing the shortcomings of the Bellsford school system, the cliques of her school, her fear of not fitting in—people had been nice so far, but you could never tell if they were being fake till they stabbed you in the back, right?—her dilemma over doing spring track or the school play or maybe trying lacrosse, the ugliness of mud season in New England, and the cold weather.

Her words were music, though. She was talking, and talking was good.

“One really good thing did happen today, though,” she said as they sat down at the table.

“What’s that?” Liam asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“I met a really cute boy.”

Good? This wasn’t good. Not at all. “What kind of boy?” he asked.

“The nice kind.”

“What does that mean? What did he do that was nice?”

“He just was.” She smiled, a sweet, private smile, and Liam felt sweat break out on his back.

“How? How was this niceness demonstrated, Nicole? How is someone nice just by being? There must’ve been something he did or said—”

“Jeez, Dad. Chill. You don’t have to wig out. I’m not pregnant or anything.”

He lurched to his feet. “Of course you’re not pregnant! Because you’re not having sex! Because you wouldn’t do that. Ever. Are we clear on this?”

Nicole rolled her eyes. “Dad. Relax, okay? I was joking.”

“Yeah, well, this nice boy is not nice. Trust me. I’ve been a boy. You have no idea how not nice we are.” He sat back down.

“We might go to the movies.”

“No. You’re too young to date.”

“Daddy,” Nicole said, that sweet little-girl note in her voice that worked so well. “Don’t be a jerk, okay?”

“Not dating. Too young. Eat your supper.”

“Fine! I won’t ever date! Like I’m not enough of a freak because Mom died, I’ll just stay locked in this stupid apartment for the rest of my life. Would that make you happy?” She shoved her plate back, stood up and stormed off to her room.

“Nicole,” he called. Her door slammed. “Don’t forget you have that Spanish test tomorrow.”

The Ramones began again—“I Wanna Be Sedated.” They weren’t the only ones.

Liam looked at his plate, sighed and pushed it away. His beer, on the other hand, was most welcome. He took a long pull, then looked at the ceiling. “Thanks, babe,” he said quietly. “You had some nerve, leaving me alone with a teenage girl.”

Maybe this hadn’t been the right move after all. Maybe he was screwing up Nicole beyond repair, and she’d end up tattooed and pregnant and on the back of some idiot’s motorcycle… Shit. Aside from the tatt, Emma had ended up just like that, and he’d been the idiot in question.

But Emma had turned out just fine—a successful lawyer, a good mother. But it was one thing to have a motorcycle-mechanic boyfriend who picked you up from your dorm and took you out for a drive along the coast, then back to his apartment for sex. It was another to marry him.

She’d tried. They both had. She’d tell him about the other people in her classes, he’d tell her about work, they’d acknowledge that their daughter was not only the most beautiful baby ever born, but also the smartest and sweetest. But as the years passed, their conversations grew shorter. They fought more. Spent less time together. Pretty typical story for two people who got married too young.

It was a bad, bad feeling, knowing the gap between you and your wife was spreading into a canyon, being helpless to breach it. He loved her; that never stopped. Hoped that things would turn around someday. Then came the call from that doctor, and though he knew it wasn’t exactly sane, Liam would’ve cheerfully killed Elliot Kramer, because with that phone call the doctor had taken away any chance Liam and Emma might’ve had at working things out. Eight months later, Emma was gone for good.

Liam stood up and started clearing the untouched dinner. Despite Nicole’s complaints, it felt good to be back in New England, back where there was real weather, away from the relentless perfection of San Diego. Away from the site of his marriage and those complicated memories. Bellsford was the first place he’d landed out of juvie, his great-uncle finally agreeing to let Liam come live with him. He liked this little town with its twisting alleys and odd little shops, the river on one side of town, Maine just across the bridge.

It’d been nice to see the Osterhagens today. Good people, those two. Funny how little that restaurant and the two of them had changed. Cordelia, too, didn’t look a day past sixteen—still looking a little like a chick fresh out of its shell, still staring at him as if he had two heads.

But being back in the kitchen where he’d worked in high school…it brought back a lot. The whole time he was there, he’d half expected to see Emma come in, same way she had back in high school. Back when she was on her way home from whatever after-school club she’d been running at the time. Her ponytail would swing, and she’d smile at him as he scraped plates and washed pans, and that smile would make Liam forget that he was some asshole juvie who’d followed in his family’s footsteps toward a life of petty crime.

He’d only been back in Bellsford a week, but already the apartment felt safe, housed in a solid old factory building that had been converted to apartments five or ten years ago, according to the Realtor. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, living room, kitchen, den. No memories of Emma walking through the door, which was both good and bad. In his closet hung Emma’s bathrobe… Sunday mornings had generally been their happiest times, when she didn’t work and he made pancakes and she looked so damn sweet in that pink puffy thing…?.

Well. Memories and all that.

“Things’ll be okay,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand across his face. He was astonishingly tired. Not that he’d done much today, aside from overseeing a shipment of equipment at the shop. Hopefully, a custom bike shop could bring in as much money here in New Hampshire as it did in Southern California. One thing that always surprised his in-laws—the blue-collar idiot their daughter married always made a decent living. Not as much as their daughter, but pretty good nonetheless.

Nicole’s door opened, and she stomped down the hall. “I have something to say,” she said, giving him the Slitty Eyes of Death. “You’re totally unfair, and if I run away, you shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Don’t make me put a computer chip in your ear,” Liam answered.

“It’s not funny! I hate you.”

“Well, I love you, even if you did ruin my life by turning into a teenager,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Did you study for your test?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He looked at his daughter—so much like Emma, way too pretty. Why weren’t there convent schools anymore? Or chastity belts? “Want some supper? I saved your plate.”

She rolled her eyes with all the melodrama a teenager could muster. “Fine. I may as well become a fat pig since I can’t ever go on a date.”

“That’s my girl,” he said and, grinning, got up to heat up her dinner.