The rest of the stolen funds flowed straight into accounts the Dixon family controlled.

Reading the news on my phone, I felt a tangle of things I still can’t fully name. I took no joy in watching a family destroyed. But I couldn’t ignore the irony either — Tristan had humiliated my father for earning a living with a lawnmower, while he built his own name by stealing money meant for poor workers.

Shawn came by our house not long after the story broke, in civilian clothes, carrying a bag of fresh sweet bread. My father greeted him with hot coffee, though we both had questions.

“Did you cause this?” I asked him directly.

He set the bag on the wooden table. “No, Maisie. The federal investigation started almost two years ago.” He poured himself some coffee. “My unit only handled security and document transfer, because there were corrupt officials involved.

I knew the operation was happening today. I couldn’t tell you — it was classified.”