The speakers crackled, and Evan’s drunken, venomous voice filled the air. “You think anyone in this city will believe you, Clara? You’re just a pathetic housewife.

I’ll tell the judge you’re clinically crazy, and my mother will swear on a Bible to it. You are nothing without me.”

When it ended, the silence was heavy enough to crush bone.

Helen Park was called next. In less than twenty minutes, my former mentor corroborated my analysis point by devastating point. But Dr. Park didn’t stop there.

She asked to view the photograph of Evan’s so-called “defensive bruise.”

“This contusion,” she noted with a dismissive wave, “lacks the central point of impact typical of a strike. The angle and lividity strongly suggest it was self-inflicted—likely by pressing the forearm forcefully against a hard, stationary edge.