“What the hell is this?” my father stammered, eyes darting to the front door.

“This,” Agent Miller said, standing and smoothing her jacket, “is a federal ambush, Mr. Whitaker. We’ve been sitting in the dark for the better part of an hour, listening to a live feed from a microphone your daughter put in the hall chandelier — with the recorded consent of the man who owns this house.

Which, I’d note, is more consent than you obtained for anything in that briefcase.”

“You… you set us up?” Caleb whispered, staring at me in horror.

“You set yourselves up.” I picked the red folder up off the console table — the one I’d carried out of my father’s own safe that morning — and let it drop at his feet.

“The joint accounts are frozen. The bank has already traced your wires to the offshore lender. Dr. Thorne, the medical board has your undated diagnostic reports and the three other certificates you signed this year for patients you never examined.