My students froze. I calmly pulled out my phone and hit record.

“Christine,” I said, projecting across the turf. “You’re trespassing. Do you recall the audio recording where you ordered your son to batter me? Should I play it for the crowd?”

The two cronies faltered, exchanging glances. Christine hadn’t disclosed that particular detail.

“You’re a nobody!” she shrieked, doubling down. “Your drunken father beat you, and he was right to! You deserve misery!”

I laughed. It was a cold, absolute sound that echoed through the complex.

“You’re entirely correct,” I said, stepping toward her. “My father was a monster. The difference between us is that I stopped being afraid of monsters.