That night my family lawyer, Mr. Raymond, went through all the new recordings in his quiet office. He was a kind, white-haired man who’d known my mother for years, and he listened to every file without interrupting once.

“You did the right thing documenting all of this,” he said, taking off his glasses. “But understand something. Marvin will try to present himself as the victim, because he’s the one who ended up hurt.

We need to prove you acted to stop an active attack and left as soon as you safely could. No private meetings. No unrecorded calls. Everything in writing from here.”

We followed him exactly.

I submitted the photographs of the destroyed table, the finger marks on my arm, the scratch on my jaw, and the audio of Camryn’s instructions. Marvin received a legal notice to stay away from me while the police reviewed the facts.

He didn’t come to the sports center again, though he sent dozens of contradictory texts. First he apologized. Then he blamed me for his mother’s sudden hospitalization.