She hears footsteps coming down the stairs and closes her notebook, waiting for him to knock. He has a key, but he doesn't use it when he knows she's in here. And she never locks the door. She learned that in rehab. Not even the bathroom door. Especially not the bathroom door. This knocking thing is a game they play: he gets to think he's being kind and considerate, and she gets to think she has some control over who comes into her room. "Daphne?" Sometimes she ignores him. When that happens he usually creeps back upstairs with his tea getting cold, careful not to spill on the carpeted stairs. Maybe he assumes she's sleeping, or taking a shower, or on the toilet. But sometimes, after standing there for ten seconds, he knocks again, a touch harder, with more authority, and calls her name a little louder, with an inquisitive lift at the end: "Daphne?" Is he imagining her lying unconscious on the floor with a needle sticking out of her arm? Or does he know she's sitting at the dining table, keeping very still and waiting for him to leave? So this is another little game they play. Sometimes she gives in and calls back to him. She didn't used to, but these days she almost always does. "Hey, Dad." Excerpted from The Good Father by Wayne Grady All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.