“She was recovering from a difficult pregnancy,” I said.
“The internet doesn’t care about context, David,” Mark said. “If you don’t drop the police report about the fourteen thousand dollars, those videos go on every local parenting group in Brooklyn.”
I stared at him, my hand tightening around the strap of my laptop bag.
“She will never get another teaching job,” Mark said. “People will think she is a danger to her own child.”
“You are bluffing,” I said.
“Try me,” he said. “I can have the first clip uploaded before you reach the corner.”
He took a step back, his eyes fixed on mine, waiting for me to break.
I did not answer.
Mark walked away with a cruel smile, tapping his phone screen.
Julian’s office smelled of old paper and stale coffee. He sat behind a walnut desk piled with printouts, his finger tracing a column of numbers. Outside, the cold afternoon light was already beginning to fade over the brick buildings of downtown Brooklyn.
