I stepped out from behind the line of federal agents, in my charcoal suit, with my manila envelope, and I walked far enough forward that Julian could see me clearly.

His eyes widened, and every drop of color drained from his face.

“Evelyn?”

“You broke the wrong laptop, Julian,” I said, and my voice carried clear across the silent ballroom.

“On Friday night, you swung a crowbar at a four-hundred-dollar display monitor.

A decoy.

It never held anything.

But while you were busy destroying it, you left behind seven years of digital banking records, three thousand forged wire receipts, an eight-hundred-page forensic audit, and a very clear, very high-definition video recording of you breaking into my home and smashing it with a crowbar, with your mother beside you telling you to.” The whole room was staring now, cameras and donors and politicians, watching the empire come apart.