Lily stared at the documents. “He stole from me?”

“Not just from you,” Mara said. “From the charity fund too.”

The charity was Beckett’s crown jewel. Cameras loved him for it. Children’s hospitals praised him. His mother chaired every fundraiser.

And he had been draining it.

The next morning, Beckett came to my garage in a black coat and no conscience.

“You’re done playing hero,” he said, stepping over an oil stain like it was contamination. “Lily is coming home.”

I wiped my hands on a rag. “No.”

His smile sharpened. “Do you know what my family can do to you?”

I leaned in slightly.

“Beckett,” I said, “do you know what I used to do to families like yours?”

For the first time, his perfect smile flickered.

Part 3

The confrontation took place at the Vale Winter Benefit, beneath chandeliers, champagne, and a banner reading: PROTECTING THE VULNERABLE.

Beckett stood onstage in a tuxedo, one hand over his heart.

“My wife’s absence tonight pains me,” he told the crowd. “But mental illness is a storm, and love must be the shelter.”

Celeste dabbed her eyes with a silk handkerchief.

People applauded.

Then the screens behind Beckett went dark.

A video appeared.

My porch camera. 4:03 a.m. Lily stumbling through the snow. Bare feet. Torn sleeve. Beckett’s voice from her phone speaker, cold and unmistakable:

“Stay outside until you learn. No one will believe you.”

The room went silent.

Beckett spun toward the screen. “Turn that off!”

Another clip followed. Beckett in my garage, snarling, “Do you know what my family can do to you?”