I walked slowly to the door and looked through the peephole.

Uncle Michael was standing in the hallway, wearing a wet trench coat.

I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door a few inches, keeping the security chain engaged.

“What do you want, Michael?” I asked.

“Let me in, Elizabeth,” he said, his face pale and grim under the harsh hallway lights.

“No,” I said. “Your wife just tried to ruin my life on local television.”

“That was Patricia’s doing,” Michael said, leaning closer to the gap in the door.

“She was hysterical after the Georgetown letter arrived.”

“And you let her do it?” I asked.

“I couldn’t stop her,” Michael said. “But I can help you fix it.”

“How?” I asked, my voice flat.

“We can release a statement saying it was a misunderstanding,” Michael said.

“We can say the video was edited by an outside party, and that the family is united.”

“But there are conditions, I assume,” I said.

“Of course,” Michael said. “You support Jason. You help him get into another program. And you drop any ideas of filing police reports.”