The paramedics’ report and the photographs of my scalp and my knee.

The emergency key.

The folder my father had left sitting on my table, which — because I never touched it — stayed right where he’d set it, every page of it evidence.

And, above all, the call he’d made to Miriam’s office the day before, and the forged authorization behind it.

My father was charged over what he did to me in that kitchen, and charged again over what he’d tried to do to the estate.

He spent a great deal of money on lawyers who told him, one after another, that there was no argument to be won here, because the other side wasn’t arguing.