Instead, I let out a long, quiet breath.
And then, I laughed.
It wasn’t a hysterical laugh. It was a clear, ringing sound that cut through the suffocating tension of the living room like a diamond blade slicing through plate glass.
Travis blinked, stunned. “You think this is funny?!”
“I think you are the most pathetic creature I have ever seen in my life, Travis,” I said calmly.
I walked over to the dining table. I set my heavy leather briefcase down on the polished wood.
*Click. Click.*
The brass latches popped open with the sharp, distinct sound of a shotgun chambering a round.
“Arthur Vance,” I said, looking at the lawyer. “Before I sign your little confession of judgment, I have a few documents of my own that I think you, as an officer of the court, might want to review. Because if you file that lawsuit tomorrow, you are going to be entering these documents into public record. And I don’t think your client is going to like what happens next.”
I reached into the briefcase, pulled out Clara Dubois’s black-bound forensic appraisal report, and slammed it onto the mahogany table.
“Document number one,” I announced, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. “A certified, state-licensed forensic authentication analysis of the burned handbag, conducted by Clara Dubois, senior appraiser for the American Society of Appraisers.”
Vanessa’s smirk vanished. Her face froze.
“What is that?” Travis demanded, looking between me and the folder.
“That,” I said, pointing a finger at the document, “is scientific proof that the bag I threw into the fire was not an authentic Louis Vuitton Speedy 30. It was a counterfeit piece of toxic junk manufactured in China, constructed from polyester scrim, cheap PVC, and electroplated zinc pot-metal. Retail value: forty-five dollars.”
“That’s a lie!” Vanessa shrieked, instantly jumping to her feet, her voice losing every shred of its fragile victimhood. “She’s lying! She paid someone to make that up!”
“Shut up, Vanessa,” I snapped, turning on her with such terrifying, cold authority that she physically took a step back. “I’m not finished.”
I reached back into the briefcase and pulled out the second document.
“Document number two. An official affidavit from the store manager of the Louis Vuitton boutique at the Mall of America in Minneapolis. It states that the receipt Travis submitted—the one you attached to your legal threat—is a forged document. The transaction ID is fabricated. The suite number is four years out of date. And no purchase under the name Travis Mercer or Vanessa Mercer has ever occurred at that location.”
Arthur Vance’s face went entirely pale. He slowly pulled his hands back from the confession of judgment on the table as if the paper had suddenly caught fire.
“Mr. Mercer…” Vance whispered, turning to Travis. “Is this true? Did you provide a forged receipt for a legal demand?”
“I… I didn’t forge anything!” Travis stammered, looking wildly at Vanessa. “Vanessa gave me the receipt! She told me she bought it when she went to the Twin Cities with her sister!”
“Vanessa?” I turned to my sister-in-law, whose face had transformed from pristine porcelain to a sickly, mottled ash gray. “Did you buy it in Minneapolis? Or did you buy it through your wholesale supplier on WhatsApp? The same supplier you use to stock *Vee’s Chic Vault*?”
“You… you went through my business?” Vanessa choked out, her hands trembling violently.
“No,” I said, pulling out the third and final file from my briefcase—the thick manila folder from the Pennington County Sheriff’s Financial Crimes Unit. “I didn’t have to. The Sheriff’s Department was already doing it. Because when you filed that bogus police report claiming two thousand dollars in property loss, the deputy had to log the serial number from your fake receipt. And do you know what happens when you submit a forged document to law enforcement to pursue felony criminal charges against someone, Vanessa?”
I leaned across the table, locking my eyes onto hers.
“It’s called filing a false police report. It’s called attempted extortion under color of law. And when you do it across state lines using the United States Postal Service, like Travis did when he mailed that demand letter to my house, it becomes mail fraud.”
My mother gasped, dropping her teacup. It shattered on the hardwood floor, spilling dark brown liquid across the Persian rug. Nobody moved to clean it up.
“And here’s the grand finale, Travis,” I said, turning my gaze back to my brother, who looked as if he had just been hit by a semi-truck. “You might want to ask your loving, devoted wife where the twenty-eight thousand dollars from your joint equity line went last August. You know, the money you thought was sitting in a high-yield certificate of deposit for Harper and Nolan’s college fund?”
