My father’s face drained of color.

Wyatt turned and made for the house. I stepped into his path, my hand resting on the holster beneath my coat. “Don’t even think about it, Wyatt.”

“You can’t hold us here without a warrant!” he shouted, his voice cracking.

“I can secure a scene to prevent the destruction of evidence during a life-threatening emergency,” I said. “And a digital warrant is being signed by a circuit judge right now.”

For six months, my unit had been working a wide white-collar syndicate — one that preyed on wealthy, vulnerable elderly people through forged competency orders, fraudulent trusts, and bribed medical evaluators.

Three of the shell companies in our ledger traced straight back to Wyatt’s holdings. A single transaction had quietly moved two million dollars out of my grandfather’s estate.