My son h.i.t me 30 times in front of his wife… so the next morning, while he sat in his office, I sold the house he thought was his.

The fallout did not stop with Trevor’s career. As Arthur Vance liked to say, once the foundation cracks, the plumbing always bursts next.

Three days after Trevor was evicted, Kristen showed up at my private office in the industrial district near the ship channel. She didn't arrive in a luxury SUV; she arrived in an Uber, clutching a designer handbag that looked ridiculously out of place against the backdrop of diesel storage tanks and heavy equipment yards.

My receptionist, a formidable woman named Martha who had been screening my visitors since the Reagan administration, didn't even let her sit down. But I waved her through to my office. I wanted to see this.

Kristen walked in, her nose wrinkled in disgust at the smell of motor oil and blueprint ammonia that permeated the building. She tried to muster the condescending smile she had worn at the birthday dinner, but her eyes were frantic.

"Gloria," she began, her tone sweet, coated in southern-belle syrupy poison. "I think you and I need to have a woman-to-woman conversation."

"Sit down, Kristen," I said without looking up from the site plans for a new distribution hub in Baytown. "You have five minutes before my concrete dispatcher comes in."

She perched on the edge of the leather armchair across from my desk. "I want you to know that I had nothing to do with what Trevor did to you. I was terrified! He’s an aggressive, unstable man, Gloria. I was a victim in that house just as much as you were."

I slowly lifted my head and looked at her. "Is that why you laughed when my lip split open?"

Kristen blinked, her fake smile faltering. "I... I was in shock! People laugh when they're nervous, you know that!"

"You didn't look nervous," I said. "You looked like a spectator at a prizefight who had bet on the winning horse. What do you want, Kristen?"

She swallowed hard, leaning forward. "Trevor is ruined. He has nothing left. But I have spent the last four years building a social reputation in this city. I have obligations. If you provide me with a private settlement—say, two million dollars from the sale of the Inverness house—I will sign a non-disclosure agreement. I won't testify on Trevor’s behalf in your criminal case. In fact, I will provide the District Attorney with full sworn testimony detailing his domestic abuse history."

I stared at her for a long moment, genuinely amazed by the bottomless depth of her selfishness.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You want me to pay you two million dollars to testify against the man you cheered on while he beat his own mother?"

"It’s an investment in justice," she said without a shred of shame. "And it ensures the family name isn't dragged through the mud in the tabloids."

I reached over and pressed the button on my desk intercom. "Martha, call the gate guard. Have them escort this young woman off the industrial park premises. If she sets foot past the weigh-station again, have her cited for criminal trespassing."

Kristen stood up abruptly, her face turning crimson with rage. "You stubborn old crone! Do you have any idea who my family is? We will drag you through probate court! We will claim you are senile, incompetent, unfit to manage Cedarline!"

"Arthur Vance already filed my certified cognitive evaluations with the probate judge yesterday morning," I replied, standing up to face her. "Clean bill of health. Sharp as a razor. Now get out of my office before I show you how an old woman who spent forty years on construction sites handles trash."