I hired a ruthless family law attorney. When he heard the recordings, he actually chuckled.

“This isn’t a divorce trial. It’s a hostage negotiation where we hold all the hostages. He’ll sign whatever we put in front of him to avoid criminal charges.”

That evening I led the advanced kickboxing class. Word had leaked. My students — grizzled blue-collar workers, fierce young women, hardened teenagers — could see the makeup failing to cover the marks on my face.

Jake, an eighteen-year-old giant from the rough side of town, came up to the mat, brow furrowed with lethal concern. “Coach, you bust some glass doing dishes?”

He eyed my forearms.

“Exactly, Jake. Ceramics are treacherous.”