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.

Now, though, looking at the deed and hearing Tyler’s voice in my head asking, “How far does your land go?” I felt exposed. Like I’d been walking around with my wallet sticking out of my back pocket in a crowded bus station.

The next morning, I called Margaret.

Margaret had been our attorney since we bought the ranch. Sharp as barbed wire, patient as a saint, she’d guided us through wills, health directives, property disputes, and the complicated paperwork that comes with patents and royalties. She was also, as it happened, one of the few people who knew the full scope of my finances.

“Robert,” she said, when she picked up. “To what do I owe the pleasure on a Saturday morning?”

“I need you to look into someone for me,” I said.

“Someone, or something?”

“Someone. Tyler Hutchinson. Says he’s an investment adviser in Denver. He’s engaged to Claire.”

There was a brief pause. “Is this about the fiancé?”

“Just a precaution,” I said. “Call it an old man’s paranoia.”

“Old men don’t usually request background checks on their future sons-in-law,” she said dryly. “At least not the ones I know.”

“Then I’m breaking new ground,” I replied. “Can you do it?”