My father was completely terrified when he met my boyfriend.

I was really anxious for Allan to meet my parents.

He was my first boyfriend after a long time. We met at the store where I worked, where he came in looking for running shoes and left with my number. We had been together for just over two months, and he was already insisting on meeting my parents.

When he finally arrived at our house, my mom greeted him at the door with her usual warmth and gave him a big hug. He thanked her and came in shyly. He was tall, a few years older than me and had a lot of tattoos.

I greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and led him to the dining room, where my dad was already sitting, drinking a beer and messing with something on his phone.

But when he looked up and saw Allan, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped slightly. Allan stepped forward and raised his hand to greet him, and my dad just stared at it for a few seconds before slowly lifting his own, like he wasn’t sure.

I was pretty upset by that reaction. I expected some resistance, he was a protective dad and a retired police officer, but Allan’s look clearly made him uncomfortable, and he didn’t hide it. I thought that was rude.

My mom noticed the awkward silence and quickly stepped in. She told Allan to sit across from my dad at our small four-person table and told us to go ahead and serve ourselves.

***

During dinner, my mom asked Allan about his family. He said they were immigrants and that he grew up in San Antonio before moving here.

My mom let out a surprised sigh and said she loved San Antonio. We had lived there before my father got transferred.

From that point on, the conversation got livelier. Between compliments about the food, Allan started to relax and talked with my mom about his life in San Antonio and his job at a car dealership.

But while the three of us kept chatting, my dad stayed quiet, poking at his food like he had no appetite. He didn’t say a word. Every time my mom nudged him to join in, he’d turn to her looking pale, like he’d seen a ghost, then go back to staring at his plate.

When we finished eating, my mom mentioned she had made a special dessert to welcome Allan. Her famous cheesecake — the one I’d spent the whole afternoon running around town to get the exact ingredients for.

She excused herself and headed to the kitchen, and I told Allan I’d go help her. I figured leaving the two of them alone might help. Someone had to break the ice.

When I got to the kitchen, my mom went straight to check the fridge, and I took the chance to ask her why my dad was acting so weird that day.

She said she wasn’t sure either, but it might have something to do with some bad news he got that morning — something about two former coworkers from the PD I vaguely remembered.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Two of them died last month. Tragic stuff,” she said, dividing her focus between explaining and testing the texture of the cheesecake. “One died in a car crash on the highway, with his whole family. The other died in a house fire.”

I felt bad for them, and I wondered if his behavior was just him grieving old buddies. Still, that didn’t explain taking it out on Allan.

My mom said the dessert was almost ready, she just needed to finish the topping, and asked me to check with my dad where he’d put the offset spatula.

I grabbed the dessert plates and forks on the way and walked back to the living room, hoping they’d maybe broken the ice with some football talk or whatever. But as soon as I stepped in, I froze.

My dad was crying. Not just tearing up — crying hard, like I’d never seen before. Allan was still in the same seat, staring at him with a cold, piercing look.

***

I walked over, confused, set the plates down and asked what was going on. Neither of them looked at me. My dad paused his crying for a second and spoke to Allan.

“This is not fair. I was only doing my job,” he said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know anything when I arrested you.”

“When you framed me,” Allan cut in, his voice sharp and unfamiliar to me. “And I got fifteen years for it.“

“I was just following orders,” my dad replied, almost begging.

Allan grinned, like he’d been waiting for that line.

“Every one of them,” he said. “Every single one told me you gave the orders. It didn’t take long after I… played with them.”

Before Allan could finish, my dad leaned forward, shot me a side glance, and spoke with panic in his eyes. “At least leave my family out of this. They didn’t do anything.”

“Did you know my mother killed herself?” Allan said, his voice low and deadly calm. “She couldn’t bear to think I’d done the things you accused me of.”

“So I’ll have to think about it,” he continued, flashing a disturbing smile. Then, for the first time since I’d walked in, he looked straight at me. His eyes were wild — like a beast caged and about to break loose.

I was ready to scream, or run, or anything. But my dad suddenly grabbed my arm hard.

“The spatula is in the second drawer of the pantry.”

“Dad, this isn’t the—”

“The second drawer,” he said again, low and firm. “Go get it for your mother. Now.”

My heart was pounding. Why was he saying that now? But then, like a lightning strike, I remembered: that was where he kept his extra Glock, like the paranoid retired cop he was.

I didn’t say anything. I turned and walked slowly down the hallway, under Allan’s terrifying gaze. As soon as I was out of his sight, I ran to the pantry, past my mom’s confused face.

The Glock was exactly where I remembered. I loaded it, turned around, and sprinted back to the dining room, ready to aim and shoot if I had to.

But when I got there, only one person was still at the table.

Allan was gone. No sign of him.

My dad sat still, head hanging low like he’d fallen asleep. But as I stepped closer, I saw he wasn’t breathing.

Buried deep into his neck was a dessert fork.Almost halfway in.

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