During my daughter’s wedding, she slipped a note into my palm: “Dad, help me.” Before the groom finished his vows, I stood up, stopped the ceremony cold—and the sheriff I’d invited quietly rose from the crowd. His smile vanished… because while he thought he was marrying into my Colorado ranch, I’d already spent months building the case that would destroy him.

“To Claire,” he said. “Who’s made me the luckiest man alive. And to Robert, who’s trusted me enough to let me join his family. Tomorrow is going to be perfect.”

Everyone echoed, “To Claire,” and “To Robert,” and “To tomorrow,” clinking glasses and beaming. I raised mine with the rest, feeling like an actor trapped in the wrong play.

Across the room, I caught Patricia’s eye where she stood near the open barn door, pretending to fuss with her camera. She gave the slightest nod. Everything was in place.

Later that night, after the last guests had drifted off to their hotels and the barn sat quiet and dim, I lay awake listening to the old house creak and settle. The breeze hissed through the trees outside. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote yipped, its lonely call swallowed by the dark.

I wondered what Linda would think if she could see us now—her dream ranch turned into a stage for a sting operation, her daughter about to walk down an aisle toward a man planning to turn our lives into a balance sheet.

“Help me get this right,” I whispered into the darkness. “Because if I get it wrong…”

I didn’t finish the sentence.