I tossed it onto the glass table. It popped open, displaying certified credentials from the USA Karate Federation and the American Kickboxing Association.

Black belt certificates. Coaching licenses. Embossed gold seals.

Christine stared at the documents, the sheer institutional authority of them short-circuiting her rage.

“Yesterday, your son tried to execute your brilliant advice,” I said, my voice dropping. “It ended with him weeping on the floor. I have his recorded confession.

I have the audio of you inciting a felony assault.” I tapped the red half-moon indentations her nails had left on my jaw. “And I have physical evidence of your battery.

If you ever scream hit her in my presence again, I will have the police walk you out of here in handcuffs.”