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My mother threw scalding soup in my face for saying no to her stepdaughter. “Give her all your things — or get out!”
On the third day, my lawyer, Marcus Hale, arrived at my hotel suite in a dark suit with a leather folder.
He looked at my bandaged cheek and went still.
“Do you want criminal charges?”
I looked out at the city lights. “I want them to understand exactly what they tried to steal.”
Marcus opened the folder.
