Thud-crack.
Mark curled into a ball, vomiting on the expensive slate tiles.
I tossed the bat onto the lawn. It rolled into the wet grass.
I knelt down beside him. I grabbed a handful of his expensive hair and pulled his face close to mine.
“Listen to me,” I whispered. “If you ever go near her again. If you ever say her name. If you even look in the direction of my house… I won’t bring a bat next time. I won’t leave bruises. I will make you disappear. Do you understand?”
Mark nodded frantically, sobbing.
I stood up. I pulled out my phone. My hands were steady. My heart rate was resting at 60 beats per minute.
I dialed 911.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“My name is John Vance,” I said clearly. “I’m at 100 Hilltop Drive. I’ve been assaulted by the homeowner. He was drunk and violent. I had to defend myself. Please send an ambulance for him. And police.”
“Is he conscious, sir?”
I looked down at Mark, who was moaning in a puddle of his own making.
“He is,” I said. “Unfortunately.”
Part 4: The Court of Old Friends
The arrest was standard. They handcuffed me, but they didn’t rough me up. The responding officer saw the blood on my face, the bat on the lawn, and Mark screaming threats. He saw a messy domestic dispute.
But Mark had money. And money changes the narrative.
Three days later, I was sitting in the county courthouse. The charge wasn’t simple assault. It was “Attempted Murder” and “Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon.”
Mark sat at the plaintiff’s table in a wheelchair, his leg in a cast, his ribs taped. He played the part beautifully. He looked pathetic, victimized, and rich.
His lawyer, a slick man in a three-thousand-dollar suit named Mr. Sterling (Mark’s uncle, of course), paced the floor.
