“This looks like a down payment on a silence,” Ward said.

He handed the envelope to the lead agent.

“Log this as evidence,” Ward said. “And get these people out of here.”

The agent nodded and tapped Mercer on the shoulder.

“Stand up, Sheriff,” the agent said.

Mercer stood, his boots heavy on the rug, and held out his wrists.

The metal cuffs clicked shut around his thick wrists.

He did not look at me as they led him out.

Charles Whitmore stood up slowly from his chair.

He looked at my father, then at me.

“You think this holds?” Charles asked, his voice shaking but still full of arrogance. “I have judges on my payroll. I have senators.”

“Not the one who was here tonight,” Ward said.

“He left twenty minutes ago,” my father added. “With a copy of your offshore ledger.”

Charles looked as if he had been struck in the chest.

He sank back into his leather chair, his mouth slightly open.

“We have the domestic abuse records too, Charles,” I said, my voice steady. “The medical reports you paid to have deleted from the local hospital.”