Dad gently placed the cake box on the counter. “Emily,” he said quietly, “who did this to you?”

I tried to speak, but Derek answered first. He actually laughed.

“Oh, that was me,” he said with a smug grin. “Instead of congratulations, I gave her a slap.”

Linda released a brief, uneasy laugh, the kind people make when they sense something is wrong but lack the courage to challenge it. Derek leaned farther back in his chair, clearly assuming Dad would chuckle along or at least complain and move on. Derek had always confused silence with fear and courtesy with weakness. He had absolutely no idea who my father really was.

Dad studied him for a long moment, face completely blank. Then he slowly unclasped his watch and set it beside the cake on the counter. He rolled the sleeves of his blue button-down shirt up with the same steady concentration he used to show while fixing engines in our garage. Nothing about his movements was hurried, and somehow that made the atmosphere far more frightening.

Then he turned toward me.

“Emily,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Derek, “step outside.”