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.

“I need to know what he’s actually planning,” I said. “Not just what he’s done before. If he’s targeting us… I want to hear it from his own mouth.”

The opportunity came sooner than I expected.

The following weekend, Tyler drove down to “help with some wedding setup,” as he put it. He arrived in a crisp polo shirt and jeans that looked new, carrying a six-pack of craft beer he’d probably researched to match my supposed rustic tastes.

We spent the morning setting up folding chairs under the big oak tree where Claire wanted to say her vows. He measured distances with the precision of someone who cared about angles and sightlines—as if he were staging a commercial.

“This is going to look incredible in photos,” he said, stepping back, hands on hips. “The mountains in the background, the barn to one side, the house behind the guests. Very… Americana.”

“Claire always did have a flair for drama,” I said.

After lunch, we moved to the front porch to rest. The sky had cleared completely, that particular shade of Western blue that still catches my breath.

“Robert,” Tyler said, settling into a chair across from me. “Got a minute? I wanted to run something by you.”

“Sure,” I said, already wary.