Diane called twenty-six times.
I answered once.
“You need to tell them it was a misunderstanding,” she hissed.
“It wasn’t.”
“He could lose everything.”
“He should have thought of that before he put his hands on me.”
Her voice grew quieter. “You think you’re better than us because you used to fight in some cage?”
“No,” I said. “I think I’m better than you because I stopped when I could have kept going.”
Silence followed.
Then I added, “Do not call again unless it’s through an attorney.”
The criminal proceedings advanced quickly because Derek had supplied the evidence himself. To avoid trial, he pleaded guilty to assault and battery. His sentence included probation, mandatory anger-management courses, community service, and a no-contact order protecting Ryan and me.
But the most rewarding consequence involved Marissa.
Two weeks after the barbecue, she arrived at our home with swollen eyes and a box of paperwork. Derek had opened credit cards using her name, and Diane knew. They’d insisted Marissa was “too emotional” to understand finances.
