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I had brought a flood of my own.
My pregnant daughter ran into my office, her face covered in fresh b:ruises. Her husband, a beloved local politician, casually strolled in behind her, shutting the door.
The live feed cut to a split screen.
On the left: Grant threatening Elena in my office.
On the right: a secure recording from my daughter’s kitchen, dated three weeks earlier, obtained legally after Elena came to me with shaking hands and a hidden phone full of apologies he had forced her to record.
