The first folder held printouts of every keystroke Damon had made on my network, timestamped across all seven days I was supposedly at sea. I slid it toward my father, who had raised his glass to family just moments earlier. “That’s a log of forty-two restricted files accessed from this dining table,” I said quietly. “Federal files. The kind that come with federal consequences.” Damon finally moved, reaching for the folder, but I placed my hand flat on top of it. “I wouldn’t. There are three more copies, and only one of them is in this house.” The color drained from his face as he understood, at last, that the woman he thought was tanning in the Caribbean had been watching him from her own walls.

I opened the second folder before anyone could speak. Inside were the forged documents, the power of attorney with my name signed in a hand that was not mine, the mortgage transfer, the five hundred twenty thousand dollars pending against my house. Marguerite leaned in, still believing the papers protected her future, until I reached the last page and slid it toward her instead of Damon. It was a single airline booking, one seat, one name, dated two days from now, to a country with no extradition. Her husband’s name. Not hers. “He wasn’t saving your future, Marguerite,” I said. “He was buying his own. You were just the part of the plan that stayed behind to take the fall with me.”