“They thought they’d break me by taking my hands,” I said, without any heat in it. “Send the footage to the LAPD. Call the Chief of Detectives — I know you golf with him.

And Diana — file the suit.”

Diana gave a sharp, level nod. “Then let’s put it on the record, Doctor.”

She tapped the screen, sending the criminal evidence to the authorities.

Just as the progress bar hit one hundred percent, my phone buzzed on the metal tray. A text from David.

Don’t bother coming home tonight unless you’re ready to apologize to my mother. You ruined Thanksgiving. Grow up.