You plaster that smile on and open the door.
"Mr. Peterson," you say. "How can I help you?"
"Wipe that smile off your face," he growls. "I'm onto you."
Oh god. He's taller than you remembered.
"What do you mean?"
"I know about you," he says as he makes a point of towering over you. "You're one of those kids who thinks they're a big fish in a small pond, so you get restless, start thinking about what would make life a little more exciting, get into some trouble because it makes you feel alive. These are people's lives you're messing with. This isn't a game."
You replay his words, looking for something that makes at least a little bit of sense. You find nothing.
"I don't understand what you're talking about," you tell him.
"You were supplying Rex Keller and you were supplying Quentin Brown," he says. "You're responsible for what happened to them."
You can't help but openly gawk at him. "You think I'm a drug dealer?"
"Don't act all innocent and offended, I know your type, and you're never coming anywhere near my daughter again," he says, his voice reaching a dangerous level again. "This town has enough to worry about without you polluting it with your filth!"
A dog starts barking next door. A couple from a few doors down pauses during their walk to watch. On top of that, across the street there is at least one face watching this from a window.