“No. He chose to hurt you. The blame is entirely his.”

At 9:14 the next evening, Garrick bought ammunition. At 10:03, he texted my mother: Tonight, this ends. At 10:41, a traffic camera caught his black truck turning toward my neighborhood.

Ethan’s voice came through my earpiece. “Target’s moving. Ready?”

“Yes.”

My mother took my hand. For the first time in months, hers wasn’t trembling.

Outside, headlights swept across the living-room windows. Garrick had finally decided to prove that paperwork had no power. He was about to find out what evidence could do.