“It most certainly is not!” he chokes out. “I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

He fiddles with his tie. “I have viewed the footage Mr. Becker is referring to. Although behavior on both sides was less than exemplary, I feel given the violence of Raymond’s assault, he does warrant harsher punishment.”

And now I’m laughing. “So because Raymond is the better fighter, you’re gonna come down harder on him?”

He starts to speak, but I wave him off. “Let’s put a tack in that for now and discuss your ‘zero-tolerance’ policy. Where was that policy when Raymond was being bullied since January?”

Chelsea’s head turns sharply to me. “What?”

I keep my focus on the principal, and my voice is deadly calm. “I have it on good authority that Jeremy has punched, pushed, tripped, and demeaned Raymond numerous times. Either you’ve chosen to ignore those instances, or you don’t know what’s going on in your building, Mr. Janovich. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for you.”

His face goes red, but I don’t let up. I lean forward. “And let me be perfectly clear on this point: if there are any further instances of harassment in any form against Raymond McQuaid from this day on, I will sue the ever-loving hell out of this school and you personally.” I tilt my head toward Chelsea. “By the time I’m done with you, she will own every building on these grounds—and your house.” I pin him to the wall with my stare. “I don’t make threats often, Mr. Janovich, and when I do . . . they are never idle.”

I turn my head to the seething blond shark. “That goes for you and your son, too.”

And the seething turns to a full boil. “You wait just a damn minute! My son is the victim here! He was—”

“Lady, I hate to break it to you, but your son is a mean-spirited little shit who enjoys lording it over those who are weaker—and smarter—than him. And it stops today.”

She stands up. “Jeremy would never do such a thing!”

Oh boy—she’s one of those. I see a lot of parents like this in my line of work: people with selectively blind not-my-angel syndrome.

“And if Raymond McQuaid said he did, then he is a filthy, disgusting little liar!”

And now Chelsea is on her feet, too. “I’m not going to listen to you call my nephew names. He is kind and thoughtful, and if your son hurt him in any way—”

She gets in Chelsea’s face. “Perhaps if your brother had been a better father, he wouldn’t have a son who acts like an animal!”

The breath rushes from Chelsea’s body. And her face goes white. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me! Instead of going out and getting himself splattered across the highway, maybe he should have stayed home and—”

I’ve heard the expression Fathers will die for their children; mothers will kill for them. But I’ve never fully understood it until this moment. Gone is the sweet, smiling woman I know, and in her place is a scrappy cage fighter gunning for the Hulk.

It’s hot.

“Fuck you, you mean cunt!”

“Chelsea!” I yell, totally astounded.

I get to my feet and grab her arm, just as she moves to take a swing at the blonde. She struggles to get out of my grip as I push her behind me.

“I’ll shove those pearls down your throat, you miserable bitch!”

And the miserable bitch isn’t taking it quietly either.

“No, you little whore, fuck you! I will end you!” Her husband valiantly tries to hold her back.

Chelsea grabs for her, almost making it past me. “I’ll break your face, you plastic-surgery-addicted freak!”

This may be getting out of control. So I pick Chelsea up and throw her over my shoulder, legs kicking and cursing a blue streak into my back as I hold on to her with one arm.

“We’ll take a one-day suspension,” I tell the principal. “As long as Jeremy gets the same.”

“Done,” Janovich agrees, more eager than anyone to get us the hell out of his office.

I keep Chelsea out of the screeching hag’s reach. “Good luck with that, man,” I tell her husband, and walk out the door.

In two chairs lined up against the hallway wall sit Raymond and—judging by the bloody rag held against his nose—the ginger-haired Jeremy.

“Nice face,” I tell Carrot Top. Then to Raymond, “Let’s go.”

Raymond stares aghast at the still-raving woman hanging down my back. “What’s wrong with Aunt Chelsea?”

“Oh . . . ,” I say, trying to play it off, as we walk down the hall, “she’s just lost her mind a little bit.”

• • •

By the time we make it out to the parking lot, Chelsea is a little quieter—slightly calmer. “Put me down, Jake! Right now—I mean it.”

I set her on her feet.

And she proceeds to walk around me, right back toward the school.

I plant myself in front of her. “A, I’ve already spent countless unbillable hours keeping members of your family out of jail.”

She marches forward, undeterred. I cut her off again. “B, CFSA will not look kindly on you assaulting the mother of your nephew’s classmate at his school.”

That does the trick. Chelsea looks up at me, eyes blazing with fury . . . and pain. “That woman is a heartless bitch!”

I move in closer, my voice dropping. “I couldn’t agree more. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” I rub her shoulder. “Are you good with that?”