A retired federal judge got a 2:07 a.m. call from his new son-in-law demanding he pick up his "useless" daughter—unaware he had just declared war on a man who knew every procedural loophole in the state.

The rain was coming down in sheets, lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of a quiet, dimly lit Italian bistro tucked away in Old Town Alexandria. It was 11:30 a.m., two days after our meeting at Marcus’s office. The restaurant was officially closed for lunch, but a quiet arrangement with the owner had given us a private booth in the back corner.

Fallon Greer sat across from me.

She looked nothing like the polished woman clutching a Saint Laurent bag in Corbin’s hallway. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, her makeup was minimal, and her hands were trembling as she stared down at a porcelain teacup filled with chamomile tea she hadn't touched.

“I shouldn't be here,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward the front entrance. “If Lucinda finds out I’m talking to you—if Corbin’s lawyers catch wind of this—”

“Corbin’s lawyers are currently trying to figure out how to explain why their client attempted to hack an offline federal evidence server while wearing an ankle monitor,” I said calmly, keeping my voice low and steady. “And Lucinda is too busy liquidating her condo in Great Falls to pay his new retainer. You aren't talking to the police right now, Fallon. You’re talking to a retired judge who understands the difference between a co-conspirator and an accessory who woke up before the door slammed shut.”

Fallon swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly under a beige trench coat. “I didn’t know he was going to hurt her. He told me they were just reorganizing assets for tax purposes. He said Blythe knew all about it.”

“That was a lie,” I said.

“I figured that out the night the police showed up,” she snapped, a flash of defensive panic breaking through her fear. “When I saw your daughter on that marble floor, I knew my career was over. Do you have any idea what a forensic audit does to a boutique accounting firm? My license is gone. My reputation is shredded. All because Corbin Whitmore thinks he’s Gordon Gekko.”

“Then let’s fix it,” I said, sliding a manila folder across the white tablecloth.

She looked at the folder suspiciously. “What is this?”

“It’s an affidavit prepared by Marcus Webb’s office outlining the precise timeline of the offshore wire transfers, complete with digital signatures and IP logs matching your terminal at the office,” I said. “The prosecutor is willing to offer full immunity from corporate fraud charges if you hand over the master decryption keys to Corbin’s secondary ledger and testify regarding the asset concealment.”

Fallon stared at the folder as if it were a venomous snake. “If I do that, Corbin will spend the next fifteen years in federal and state penitentiaries.”

“He earned every single day of it,” I replied without blinking. “The question is whether you want to spend three of those years sitting right beside him in a federal holding cell.”

She opened the folder. Her eyes scanned the first page, her breath hitching as she reached the bottom where the prosecutor's signature waited like an open door. For a long, agonizing minute, the only sound in the restaurant was the rhythmic pounding of the rain against the glass outside.

“He threatened me, you know,” she whispered suddenly, her voice cracking.

I leaned in slightly. “When?”

“Two days before the wedding,” she said, staring down into her teacup. “I told him the numbers didn't add up, that moving corporate capital into personal accounts right before marrying a judge's daughter was insane. He laughed in my face. He told me that if I didn't execute the transfers, he’d make sure I never worked in Virginia again. He said his family owned half the commercial boards in Fairfax County.” She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “He’s a monster, Judge. Not just to Blythe. To everyone who ever depended on him.”

“Monsters rely on silence,” I said, pushing a pen across the table. “Writing your name on that line is how you take their power away.”

Fallon stared at the pen. Her hand shook as she picked it up, hovered over the paper for three agonizing seconds, and then pressed the tip down. The scratch of ink against paper sounded like a gavel falling in an empty courtroom.