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…

They never smiled after I was done with them.

I reached into the safe, bypassing the gun, and pulled out a blank, thick red folder. I walked over to my heavy oak desk, grabbed a thick black Sharpie, and wrote a name on the tab in block letters.

MARK ELLIS.

I walked back into the living room and dropped the folder onto the coffee table in front of Anna. It landed with a heavy smack.

She stared at it, her eyes wide, the color slowly draining from her face.

I looked at my daughter, the rage inside me finally condensing into something cold, sharp, and highly functional. “He made a critical error, Anna,” I said quietly. “If he wanted to destroy you, he should have left you on my doorstep. He left you on the street. He left you for dead.”

I tapped the red folder. “And I do not forgive the dead.”