So I did the opposite of what the bitter, unstable woman of their story would do.
I got quiet, and I got organized, and I took what I had to people whose job it was to care.
The hardest part of walking into the district attorney’s office was not the fear of Weston.
It was the fear of not being believed — again.
The last time I’d told my story in an official room, it had been a mediation, and my own best friend had sat across from me and rewritten it while people I’d known for years nodded along.
I had learned, in that room, that the truth is not self-evident, that a confident liar with an audience can make a true woman look mad.
So I did not walk into the prosecutor’s office asking to be believed.
I walked in with paper.
Two versions of a medical file.
An auditor’s trace of two million dollars.