My daughter was left freezing and homeless in an alleyway. Her husband had secretly forged her signature, sold their home, and stolen my granddaughter to live in a luxury penthouse with his mistress. I didn’t scream or break down. I took my shattered daughter home, made one phone call, and drove to his high-rise building the next morning. When he confidently opened his penthouse door, what I had waiting for him would ensure he never saw sunlight as a free man again…

The next two weeks were a blur of caffeine, eye strain, and the familiar, intoxicating rhythm of the hunt. I converted my dining room into a war room. Corkboards leaned against the floral wallpaper, strung with red yarn connecting printouts of shell companies, wire transfers, and property deeds.

Anna spent the first few days sleeping, her body finally surrendering to the exhaustion it had held at bay. When she woke, she was fragile, but the hollow look in her eyes had been replaced by a flickering ember of anger. That was good. Anger we could use. Despair was useless.

I started with the house. I accessed public property records through a backdoor portal my old partner at the DA’s office conveniently forgot to revoke my access to. The quitclaim deed was a masterpiece of arrogance. Mark hadn’t just forged her signature; he had used a notary public who was practically a ghost.