“It’s… it’s a setup!” Julian stammered, his eyes darting frantically around the room like a trapped animal. “It’s an AI voice generator! Nora is unhinged! She’s suffering from postpartum psychosis!”
I didn’t lose my temper. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply reached into my leather portfolio resting on the sideboard and pulled out a stack of heavy, printed documents.
“This isn’t AI, Julian,” I said, setting the first folder down in front of his mother. “This is your itemized phone bill from the past six months, showing over four thousand late-night text messages to Chloe’s personal line.”
I set the second folder in front of my father. “This is the surveillance log from a private investigator detailing their afternoon meetups at the Grand Hyatt downtown—paid for using our joint emergency savings account.”
And finally, I placed a third, legal-sized folder directly on Julian’s empty pie plate.
