He was wrong.
“Are you insane?” he shouted.
I stood slowly, still shaking, still bleeding, but no longer afraid in the same way. The paperweight remained in my hand, slick against my palm.
“No,” I said. “I’m finished.”
Adrian lunged at me again, but this time I was ready. I stepped aside, and he crashed into the dining table, knocking over the vase my mother used to fill with yellow roses every Sunday. It shattered across the floor.
That sound hurt more than anything he had done.
I grabbed my phone from the cabinet and hit record.
Adrian saw it and froze.
“Put that down,” he said.
