I sat at my terminal, typed the phrase, and hit enter. Hundreds of hidden files lit the screen — bank routings, recorded conversations, forged acquisition contracts, photographs of the abuse, and every written threat my family had ever made against him.

I stood and looked through the one-way glass at Wyatt’s relaxed, smug face. He hadn’t destroyed the evidence. By forcing the old man into that shed, he’d only sealed his own cell.

Part 3 — The Price of Mercy

At sunrise I walked into the interrogation room and dropped three color-coded folders onto the steel table.

Wyatt didn’t move. “Ready to apologize and drop these ridiculous charges?”

I slid the first folder across. Inside was the full financial audit of six stolen estates, routed through his shell logistics firms. I slid the second forward — high-definition audio of my father threatening to starve Franklin to death unless he signed over controlling shares of Caldwell Industries.

Then I opened the third. It held my mother’s last text to the corrupt doctor, timestamped hours before I arrived.