Chapter 4 - The smear Machine
By eight o’clock the following morning, the narrative had already been fabricated, polished, and distributed across every social circle Delphine and Serafina inhabited.
I was sitting at our kitchen island, sipping black coffee with my left arm tucked into a loose sling to prevent fabric friction against the bandages, when my phone pinged with a link sent by my head boxing coach, Marcus.
*Marcus: Hey champ... you seeing this garbage on Facebook?*
I clicked the link. It redirected to a public post authored by Delphine Vance, accompanied by a picture of Serafina looking frail in an oversized knit sweater, cradling her right forearm in an elastic wrap.
The caption read:
*"A mother’s worst nightmare. During our peaceful Thanksgiving dinner, my precious daughter Serafina was brutally assaulted by an unhinged, violent woman who has wormed her way into our family. Serafina merely asked for help clearing the dishes, and this beast—a woman with a history of documented violence—snapped, broke dishes over her, and twisted her arm until the bone nearly snapped. Evander is being held emotionally hostage. Justice will be served. #StopDomesticViolence #PrayForSerafina"*
Below the post, hundreds of Delphine’s country club peers and Serafina’s high-society acquaintances had already chimed in:
— *"Oh my God, Delphine! Call the police immediately!"*
— *"I always knew that girl looked thuggish. Look at how broad her shoulders are. Disgusting!"*
— *"Richard needs to step in. His father has judges on speed dial!"*
Evander walked into the kitchen, carrying two plates of scrambled eggs. He caught sight of the phone screen, his jaw hardening instantly.
"Don't read it, Maya," he said softly.
"I'm not hurt by it, Evander," I replied, scrolling past the vitriolic comments without a spike in my heart rate. "I'm analyzing it. Delphine is deliberately omitting the fact that Serafina was arrested on the spot. She’s trying to build a public smear campaign to pressure the district attorney into dropping the indictment."
"It won't work," Evander said firmly, setting the plate in front of me. "The police have the raw, unedited footage from the ceiling camera. They have the 911 audio. They have Dr. Patel’s medical records."
"Public pressure does funny things to local prosecutors when old-money families start threatening political donations," I pointed out.
Right on cue, our doorbell rang. Not a polite, single chime, but a furious, continuous hammering that echoed through the house.
May you like
Evander stood up, but I caught his wrist with my good hand.
"Sit," I said, my voice dropping into the quiet, lethal register I used when stepping into the Octagon. "Let me see which clown they sent to do their dirty work."
