I moved silently around the perimeter, pouring iced tea, my face an unreadable mask. In the ICU, you learn to push one hundred milligrams of epinephrine into a crashing patient with hands as steady as stone.
But Derek was getting nervous. Liars possess an internal radar for impending doom, and my utter silence was triggering his. He cornered me in the hallway as I carried the salad bowls.
“Whatever game you think you’re playing tonight, Iris, knock it off,” he hissed.
I didn’t blink. “I am serving dinner, Derek. Go sit down.”
He searched my eyes, searching for the little sister he used to bully, but he only found a void. He swallowed hard and backed away.
At 7:15 p.m., the main course was cleared. My phone vibrated in my apron pocket. The locksmith was parked two houses down, precisely on schedule.
Derek stood up, tapping a butter knife against his wine glass, demanding the room’s attention. I knew this routine. Humiliating me was always his favorite appetizer.
