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…

My phone buzzed. It was Anna.

“Dad,” her voice came through the speaker, breathless. “We’re in the truck. But… I was thinking. The bank accounts the police showed us… they only had about fifty thousand dollars in them. The penthouse is mortgaged. Where is the rest of the half-million?”

I stared out the window, my reflection ghosting over the glass. Mark had bragged about bleeding us dry. He was too greedy to just spend it all on cars. He had tucked it away.

“Take Emma home, sweetheart,” I said, my voice hardening. “Lock the doors. Order a pizza.”

“Dad? Where are you going?”

I turned back to the mahogany desk where the laptop had been. “Mark thinks he’s hidden a nest egg in offshore accounts. He thinks he can wait out a prison sentence and come home to a fortune.” I picked up my briefcase. “I’m going to find his money, Anna. I’m going to burn his safety net to the ground.”