Truman Larson learned three things in his twenty years with Army intelligence: patience wins wars, information is the ultimate weapon, and evil men always believe they’re untouchable—right until the moment they’re not.
He’d left that life behind twelve years ago, trading classified briefings and overseas deployments for a quieter existence, running Larsson Security Consultants out of downtown Portland. The firm specialized in corporate risk assessment and private investigations, legitimate work that paid well and let him be home for dinner most nights. His military pension padded the bottom line, and his reputation for thoroughness kept clients coming back. The modest house in suburban Beaverton reflected his priorities: a good school district, a neighborhood where kids still played outside, and enough space for his wife, Amber’s, pottery studio in the converted garage. They bought it when their daughter, Karina, was seven, and the pencil marks tracking her growth still decorated the kitchen door frame.
“Dad, I’m heading out,” Karina called from the entryway that Friday evening. At twenty-one, she’d inherited her mother’s striking features and his stubborn determination, a combination that made her formidable when she set her mind to something.
Truman looked up from his laptop at the kitchen table. “Where to?”
“Study group at Powell’s, then maybe coffee with some friends.” She was double-majoring in political science and journalism at Portland State. His girl wanted to change the world, and he had no doubt she would.
“Text when you’re on your way home.”
She rolled her eyes with affection. “Always do, old man.”
Amber emerged from her studio, clay still dusting her forearms. “Be safe, sweetheart.”
After Karina left, Amber settled into the chair beside him. “You’re working late on a Friday.”
“Background check for a client. Guy’s hiring a CFO, wants to make sure there are no surprises.” He closed the laptop. “But it can wait.”
They met seventeen years ago at a gallery showing in Seattle. She’d been displaying her ceramic work; he’d been there because his unit was in town for a conference, and his commanding officer’s wife dragged them all along. Amber Moreno had been explaining the inspiration behind a series of vessels to a pretentious art critic, and Truman had watched her expertly dismantle the man’s condescending assumptions with grace and steel. He’d been smitten before they’d exchanged a word.
Her family story was complicated. Her parents had immigrated from Mexico when she was a baby, but her maternal uncle, Bruno, had stayed behind in Sicily, where the Moreno line originated. Bruno Moreno was a figure shrouded in family legend and careful silence, a man whose “import-export business” nobody discussed in detail. He’d visited twice during Truman’s marriage, both times for weddings, and both times Truman had noted the deference other men showed him.
“You’re thinking about something,” Amber said, her hand covering his.
“Just grateful,” he admitted. “We’ve built something good here.”
She squeezed his hand. “We have.”
Neither of them knew those would be the last peaceful moments for a very long time.
The call came at 1:47 a.m. Truman was already reaching for his phone before his eyes fully opened, that old combat instinct recognizing the wrong time, the wrong ring. Amber sat up beside him as he answered.
“Mr. Larson? This is Dr. Patel from Emanuel Hospital. Your daughter, Karina, was brought into our emergency department approximately forty minutes ago. She’s stable, but you should come immediately.”
The drive downtown was a blur. Amber sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands clasped so tight her knuckles were white. Truman kept his voice steady as he called Coleman Foster, his oldest friend and a detective with Portland PD.
“I need you to find out what happened,” Truman said. “Emanuel Hospital. They said she’s stable, but that’s all I know.”
“I’m on it,” Coleman said immediately. “I’ll meet you there.”
The ER waiting room’s fluorescent lights made everyone look like ghosts. A nurse led them back immediately—never a good sign when they don’t make you wait. Dr. Patel met them outside a room with a gentle expression Truman recognized, the one medical professionals wore when they had to deliver bad news.
“Your daughter was assaulted earlier this evening,” he began. “She has a concussion, a broken nose, three cracked ribs, extensive bruising, and defensive wounds on her arms. We’ve completed a full examination and collected evidence for…”
Truman stopped hearing words. He was aware of Amber’s hand gripping his arm, of Dr. Patel’s mouth moving, but the roaring in his ears drowned everything out. Through the window, he could see Karina lying in the hospital bed, her beautiful face a canvas of purple and black, her left eye swollen shut.
“Can we see her?” Amber’s voice was barely a whisper.
Inside the room, Karina’s good eye opened when they entered. “Mom… Dad.” Her split lip made speaking difficult. “I’m okay.”
Amber broke then, careful tears falling as she held their daughter’s hand. Truman stood at the bedside, and for the first time in his adult life, he felt truly helpless. In Kandahar and Baghdad, in a dozen other hellholes, he’d always known what to do. Always had a mission, a target, a plan. But standing here, looking at his broken daughter, he felt that careful control he’d spent decades building start to crack.
“Who did this?” His voice was surprisingly calm.
Karina’s jaw tightened. She had his stubbornness, and he saw her decide to tell them despite her fear. “Stanford Phelps.”
The name meant nothing to Truman, but he would learn. Oh, he would learn everything.
“We met at a fundraiser last month for the campus advocacy group,” she whispered. “He seemed charming, interested in the cause. He asked me to dinner tonight, said he wanted to discuss funding.” She paused, wincing. “It was supposed to be at a restaurant downtown, but he changed locations last minute. Said his father’s penthouse had a better view, better privacy for discussing donations.” Amber’s hand tightened on Karina’s.
“He wanted…” Karina’s voice cracked. “He said spending the night with him was the prize for his donation. When I refused, when I tried to leave…” She couldn’t finish.
“Did he…?” Truman couldn’t complete the question.
“No. I fought. I screamed. I got away before… a doorman heard, called 911.” Her good eye met his. “But Dad, he wasn’t scared. Not even when the ambulance came. He just smiled and said his father would handle it.”
Coleman arrived twenty minutes later, his detective shield clipped to his belt and his expression grim. He’d been Truman’s roommate at basic training, had stood as best man at his wedding, and was Karina’s godfather. In the hallway outside her room, he delivered the news Truman had already suspected.
“Stanford Phelps, twenty-six, only son of Robert Phelps, real estate developer, worth north of three billion. The kid has a sheet, but nothing that ever stuck. Three prior assault allegations, all withdrawn. Two DUIs that vanished. A sexual assault complaint from two years ago that got buried.”
“How is that possible?”
“Robert Phelps owns half the city council, funds the DA’s campaigns, and has enough lawyers to form their own law firm,” Coleman’s voice was tight with anger. “Uniformed officers responded to the scene. Phelps’s attorney was already there. By the time I heard about it and made calls, Stanford was home free. No arrest, no charges filed. The DA’s office is calling it ‘insufficient evidence to proceed.'”
“My daughter is in a hospital bed with a broken face.”
“I know. And I’m telling you, Tru, this is bigger than what I can touch. The Phelps family is protected at levels that make my badge worthless.”
Truman stood very still. “Then I’ll handle it.”
“Tru—”
“Thank you for coming, Coleman. And for trying. But this is family business now.”
Something in his tone made Coleman step back. They’d known each other for thirty years, had seen combat together, had buried friends together. Coleman recognized that tone. “Don’t do anything that makes me have to arrest you.”
“You won’t,” Truman promised. “You won’t find anything to arrest me for.”
He returned to Karina’s room. She was asleep now, medicated and exhausted. Amber stood at the window, her reflection showing tear-streaked cheeks.
“Coleman says the man who did this will face no charges,” Truman said quietly.
“I heard.” Amber turned to face him, and he saw something in her expression he’d rarely witnessed: cold fury. “My brother. We should call Bruno.”
In seventeen years of marriage, Amber had never suggested contacting her uncle for anything beyond birthday cards and wedding invitations. The fact that she was suggesting it now spoke volumes about the Moreno family’s unspoken understanding. There were some problems the law couldn’t fix, and Bruno Moreno specialized in the other kind.
Truman’s phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
She refused to spend a night with me. My dad owns this city. You can’t touch me.
He showed it to Amber. Her face went pale, then hardened.
“Call him,” she said. “Call Bruno.”
Truman made the call from the hospital parking lot at 4:00 a.m. The number rang four times before a gravelly voice answered in Italian.
“Uncle Bruno,” Truman said in English. “It’s Truman Larson, Amber’s husband.”
“I remember who you are.” Bruno’s English carried the ghost of Italian vowels beneath American consonants. “Why do you call at this hour?”
“Karina was attacked. Beaten badly. The man who did it is untouchable. Billions in family money, owns half the police force, and the District Attorney won’t touch him.”
Silence on the line, long enough that Truman wondered if they’d been disconnected. Then, “Tell me everything.”
Truman laid it out with military precision: the assault, Stanford Phelps’s history, his father’s influence, the text message. He spoke for seven minutes without interruption.
“Karina is my blood,” Bruno said when he finished. “And you are family by marriage, which makes this my concern. I will arrive tomorrow evening. Do nothing until I get there.”
“Bruno—”
“Truman.” The voice carried steel now. “In my world, we have a saying: revenge served hot burns only the hand that pours it. You are angry, and you should be. But anger makes men sloppy. Wait for me. We will handle this the right way.”
The call ended. Truman returned to Karina’s room. She would be kept for observation for at least forty-eight hours. He sent Amber home at dawn to rest, promising he’d stay with their daughter. In the quiet morning hours, he opened his laptop and began researching. Stanford Phelps’s social media was a monument to privilege and narcissism: yachts in the Mediterranean, exclusive clubs, bottle service at nightclubs with different women every week. He’d attended Princeton but never graduated, instead joining his father’s company in a vague executive role that seemed to involve attending parties and ribbon-cutting ceremonies.
Robert Phelps was easier to research. His profile was everywhere: “self-made” billionaire, or so the story went. A real estate empire built on aggressive development and political connections. Three marriages, each wife younger than the last. His current wife, Stanford’s stepmother, was a former model twenty years his junior. Truman dug deeper, using skills and access protocols he’d maintained from his intelligence days. The surface was all legitimate business, but in the margins, he found shadows: lawsuits settled quietly, building code violations that vanished, competitors who mysteriously lost financing. Robert Phelps had built his empire on pressure and manipulation, and he’d raised his son to believe the same rules applied to people.
Coleman called around noon. “I’m going to tell you something off the record, and you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Go ahead.”
“Stanford Phelps was questioned this morning as a ‘courtesy’ by a junior detective who doesn’t know better. It lasted five minutes before the lawyer shut it down, but I got a copy of his statement. He claims Karina came to his apartment willingly, that they had a consensual encounter, and she only got upset when he wouldn’t commit to funding her ‘pet causes,’ so she became aggressive and he was forced to ‘defend himself.’ Then she ‘accidentally fell.'”
Truman’s knuckles went white around the phone.
“His lawyer also filed a counter-complaint,” Coleman continued. “Claiming Karina was attempting to extort money from Stanford through false allegations and that the Larson family should expect a defamation lawsuit.”
“He’s going to sue us?”
“It’s a pressure tactic, designed to shut you down before you make noise. Tru, I’m sorry. This system is broken when it comes to guys like this.”
After Coleman hung up, Truman sat with that information. Stanford wasn’t just confident he’d get away with it; he was actively on offense, weaponizing the legal system to threaten his victim’s family.
That evening, Karina was more alert. “I need to tell you something,” she said, her voice clear now, determined. “Before he smashed my phone, I was recording.”
Truman went very still. “Recording what?”
“When he changed the location, something felt off. So, I started a voice memo app before I went inside. It was in my jacket pocket. The whole thing—him propositioning me, me refusing, him attacking me. It’s all there. The phone was destroyed, but everything backs up to the cloud.”
Amber’s hand flew to her mouth. “You have evidence?”
“I gave the police my cloud password when they took my statement, but…” She looked at her father. “Coleman said it won’t matter. That evidence gets ‘lost’ when people like Stanford are involved.”
Truman pulled out his phone and called Coleman immediately. “The recording from Karina’s phone hasn’t been logged into evidence yet.”
A pause. “No, nothing in the system. Why?”
“Because it exists. Full audio of the assault, backed up to her cloud storage.”
Coleman’s voice dropped. “Tru, if I know about this, I have to submit it officially. And if I submit it officially, it’ll be in the system where his lawyers can see it and get it suppressed before anyone relevant hears it. Or it might just disappear.”
“Don’t submit it yet,” Truman said. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
“You’re asking me to sit on evidence.”
“I’m asking you to be strategic. Twenty-four hours, Cole. Then do whatever you have to do.”
Another pause. “Twenty-four hours. But Tru, be careful. These people don’t play fair.”
“Neither do I,” Truman said, and ended the call.
Bruno Moreno arrived at Portland International at 6:00 p.m. Truman picked him up alone. At seventy-two, Bruno was lean and weathered, wearing an expensive suit and carrying a single leather bag. His hair was silver, his face lined with decades of sun, and his dark eyes missed nothing.
At the hospital, Bruno sat beside Karina’s bed for a long time, studying her injuries with an expression of stone. He took her hand gently, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and in Italian—words Truman didn’t understand but recognized as some kind of vow. Then, Bruno turned to Truman. “Now, we talk somewhere private.”
They went to a 24-hour diner. In a corner booth, Bruno ordered espresso and listened as Truman laid out everything he’d learned.
“This recording,” Bruno said. “It is your ace. But played through their corrupt system, it will be neutralized. We must use it differently.”
“I’m listening.”
“You were intelligence, yes? You understand leverage and pressure points.” Bruno sipped his espresso. “Robert Phelps has built an empire on corruption, which means he has many enemies. People he has crushed, cheated, destroyed. These people want revenge but lack the means or the courage. We find them. We unite them. And we use your daughter’s evidence not to convict his son—though that will be pleasant—but to destroy the father’s empire. When the empire falls, the son becomes vulnerable.”
“You’re talking about a coordinated campaign.”
“I’m talking about war,” Bruno corrected. “Not with guns. Those are crude and draw attention. War with information, with pressure, with fear. You expose Robert Phelps as the criminal he is, you collapse his political protection, and Stanford becomes just another violent man without a shield.” Bruno’s smile was cold. “Then, we handle him properly.”
“This will take time.”
“Good things do. Your daughter needs time to heal. You need time to build your case. And I need time to make some calls.” Bruno leaned forward. “In Sicily, we have an expression: Al nemicu, mancu u cori. To your enemy, not even the heart. We are patient. We plan. We wait. And when we strike, we strike once and completely.”
Truman felt something settle in his chest: a sense of purpose, of direction. This was a mission now, with objectives and a strategy. “What do you need from me?”
“Everything you can find on Robert Phelps and his business. Every enemy, every rival, every person he has wronged. I will handle finding the ones with useful information and the courage to use it. You will handle the investigation. Together, we will build a trap.” Bruno’s eyes glinted. “And when it closes, both Stanford and his father will wish they had never heard the name Larson.”
Karina came home three days later, moving slowly and staying mostly in her room. Amber took leave from the community college where she taught art, and the house took on the quiet, careful atmosphere of a place where someone was healing. Truman converted his home office into a war room. Bruno had taken a room at a nearby hotel but spent his days at the house, making phone calls in Italian and occasionally disappearing for meetings he didn’t explain.
“I have made some progress,” Bruno announced on the fourth day, spreading documents across Truman’s desk. “Roberto Phelps has been busy making enemies for thirty years. I have found three who are willing to help if we can guarantee their safety and success.”
The first was Eric Ford, a former city councilman who opposed one of Robert’s development projects and found himself facing fabricated ethics violations that destroyed his career. The second was Harvey Moran, a contractor forced into bankruptcy after Phelps used legal pressure to steal his company’s largest project. The third was Andreas Wright, a journalist who’d written an investigative piece about Phelps’s business practices and been sued into silence.
“They all have pieces of the story,” Bruno explained. “But separately, they lack the evidence and the courage to act. Together, properly orchestrated, they become dangerous.”
Truman had been conducting his own investigation, mapping Robert Phelps’s empire: shell companies, offshore accounts, and the complex web of political relationships that protected it all. What he’d found was extensive corruption—bribes to city officials, falsified building permits, intimidation of competitors, and systematic tax evasion.
“The question is how to make this public in a way that can’t be suppressed,” Truman said.
Coleman Foster arrived that evening, officially off duty. In the war room, he studied the evidence. “This is good work,” he admitted. “Better than good. This is prosecutable, but the DA won’t touch it. Marsha Cantrell has been in Phelps’s pocket for years.”
“So, we go over her head,” Bruno said. “The federal authorities.”
“The FBI would need a reason to get involved,” Coleman said. “And they need to believe they have a case that won’t be killed by political pressure at higher levels.”
Truman had been thinking about this. “What if it wasn’t just about Robert Phelps? What if we connected his corruption to a broader pattern? Other developers, other politicians—a systemic problem that the feds couldn’t ignore.”
Coleman’s eyes narrowed. “You need a trigger. Something that forces their hand and makes it a PR nightmare if they don’t investigate.”
“A scandal,” Bruno said softly. “Something public that cannot be ignored. Something that makes Robert Phelps radioactive to his political allies, forcing them to distance themselves. And in that moment of weakness, we introduce the evidence through channels he cannot control.”
Truman turned to his laptop and pulled up Stanford Phelps’s social media again. “Stanford is throwing a party next weekend. Annual charity gala at his father’s downtown tower. Politicians, business leaders, media coverage.”
“You want to crash his party?” Coleman asked.
“I want to make it the last party he ever throws,” Truman said.
Over the next five days, they planned. Bruno reached out to their new allies. Coleman used his connections to identify which FBI agents were clean. Truman focused on Stanford. The young man’s arrogance was a gift; he documented everything online. Truman identified a pattern: multiple women who’d appeared in Stanford’s photos and then vanished. He tracked them down. The first, Diana Hurley, now living in Seattle, didn’t want to talk until Truman said, “My daughter was assaulted by Stanford Phelps. I’m not a reporter. I’m not a cop. I’m a father trying to protect my child.”
After a long pause, she whispered, “He assaulted me two years ago. I went to the police. His lawyers made me sign an NDA and accept a settlement. Said if I ever spoke about it, they’d bury me.”
“Would you be willing to break that NDA if I could guarantee he’d face consequences?”
“Do you really think you can touch him?”
“I’m working on it.”
Diana gave him three more names. By the end of the week, Truman had spoken to seven women. Six had similar stories: assault, intimidation, NDAs. None would go on record. The fear was too deep.
“This is valuable,” Coleman said, reviewing the notes. “But without testimony, it’s still not enough.”
“We have Karina’s recording,” Truman reminded him.
Bruno had been quiet. Now he spoke. “You are thinking like men bound by their laws. We are not. The recording does not need to be evidence in a court. It needs to be heard by the public.”
Truman understood immediately. “A leak.”
“Not yet,” Bruno cautioned. “First, we set the stage. The charity gala is in three days. We use that event to create chaos in Robert Phelps’s world. Then, in the midst of that chaos, we release the recording through channels that cannot be suppressed. Social media, multiple news outlets simultaneously, directly to the FBI. By the time his lawyers react, it will be everywhere.”
“And Stanford?” Truman asked.
Bruno’s smile was cold. “For him, we have a different plan. One that addresses the personal nature of his crime.”
The charity gala was scheduled for Friday night at the Phelps Tower, a glass and steel monument to Robert’s wealth. The plan had multiple components, each designed to converge at the event. Eric Ford would attend and circulate among the politicians. Harvey Moran had prepared a detailed report on the Tower’s building code violations, ready to be delivered to the media. Andreas Wright had primed journalists he trusted with hints of a major scandal. Coleman had connected with an FBI agent, Brett Hayes, who was not in Phelps’s pocket. And Bruno had arranged for over two hundred protesters—families displaced by Phelps’s projects, workers who’d been cheated—to gather outside.
The day before the gala, Truman visited Karina. She was healing, but he saw the shadows in her eyes. “I want to help,” she said when he explained the plan.
“Absolutely not. You’ve been through enough.”
“Dad,” her voice was firm. “He did this to me. I can’t just hide in my room while you try to fix it. I need to be part of this.”
Amber appeared in the doorway. “She’s right, Truman. This is her fight, too.”
He looked between his wife and daughter, seeing the same determination. “What do you want to do?” he asked Karina.
“The recording. When you release it, I want to release a statement with it. My name, my story. No anonymity. If other women see me stand up, maybe they’ll find the courage to come forward, too.”
“His lawyers will come after you.”
“Let them try,” her jaw set in that stubborn way that was pure Larson. “I’m done being afraid.”
Friday arrived cold and rainy. The Phelps Tower glowed against the dark sky. Limousines delivered guests in designer gowns. Outside, protesters began gathering, their numbers swelling to over three hundred. At 7:03 p.m., Truman and Bruno entered, blending into the crowd. He spotted Robert Phelps near the bar, and beside him, Stanford. The young man looked like a recruitment poster for inherited privilege, a champagne flute in his hand and a smug smile on his face. Truman felt his hands clench. Every instinct screamed to cross the room and break that face. But Bruno’s hand touched his elbow briefly. A reminder. Patience.
At 8:00 p.m., Andreas Wright triggered the first domino, sending a coordinated message to fifteen journalists: Phelps corruption scandal breaking NOW. Check social media & secure inboxes. Then he posted a thread online—a narrative of Robert Phelps’s criminal empire, complete with documents. Inside the gala, guests began checking their phones. Conversations shifted. Truman watched Robert Phelps’s face as someone showed him a screen, confidence cracking.
“Now,” Bruno said quietly. “We add fuel to the fire.” He nodded to Eric Ford, who began showing documents to city officials. At 8:15, Harvey Moran released his building code report to every news outlet. By 8:30, the party was in chaos. Half the guests had left. Robert Phelps stood in the center of the room, barking orders into his phone. And Stanford… Stanford looked genuinely frightened for the first time, isolated as people who’d been laughing at his jokes minutes ago pretended not to see him.
“It is time,” Bruno said.
Truman’s phone buzzed. A message from Coleman: FBI en route to Phelps Tower. ETA 10 minutes. Things were moving faster than planned.
Bruno had pulled out his own phone. “The recording,” he said. “Karina gave me permission to upload it to multiple platforms simultaneously. Once I press this, it will go live. It cannot be stopped.”
“Do it,” Truman said.
Bruno’s finger touched the screen. Within seconds, Karina’s voice filled the internet, followed by the audio of the assault—Stanford’s ugly threats, her screams, his casual laughter. It was damning, crystal clear, and already viral.
Truman watched Stanford’s face go white as someone showed him a phone. Robert Phelps grabbed his son’s arm and pulled him toward a private elevator, but before they could reach it, FBI agents entered, led by Hayes.
“Robert Phelps,” Hayes announced, his voice carrying across the now-silent room. “We have a warrant to seize records. We’re also placing you under investigation for fraud, bribery, and racketeering.”
Robert’s face went from red to purple. “You have no authority!”
“We have plenty of authority, sir. Federal jurisdiction supersedes your local connections.”
As FBI agents spread through the tower, Bruno leaned close to Truman. “The empire falls. Now, we handle the son.”
But before they could move, Stanford ran—not toward the elevator, but toward the emergency stairs. “Stop him!” Robert shouted, but no one moved.
Truman and Bruno followed. Coleman’s voice came through Truman’s earpiece: “I’ve got eyes on the back exit. He’s heading for the parking garage.”
Stanford burst into the underground garage. Truman emerged from the stairwell behind him, blocking the exit. “Stanford Phelps.”
The young man spun around, genuine fear in his eyes. “Stay away from me! My father will have you arrested!”
“Your father’s currently being placed under federal investigation. His protection is gone. His money is about to be frozen. His lawyers are busy saving themselves.” Truman took a step forward. “Which means you’re all alone.”
“I didn’t do anything to your daughter! She wanted—”
“Finish that sentence,” Truman said very softly, “and I will break your jaw. We both know what you did. So do the seven other women I found. So does everyone who’s heard that recording.”
Stanford’s bravado crumbled. “What do you want?”
“Justice.”
“I’ll pay! My father will pay!”
“Your father is bankrupt. The FBI is seizing his assets. There is no money coming to save you.”
Bruno emerged from another stairwell, cutting off Stanford’s other escape route. “In Sicily,” the old man said conversationally, “when a man harms a daughter of our family, there is only one acceptable response. It is very old-fashioned. Very permanent.”
Stanford’s legs buckled. “Please… I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”
“You made many mistakes,” Bruno said. “The first was believing you were untouchable. The second was sending that arrogant text. The third was existing in a world where men like me still exist.”
Coleman’s voice in Truman’s ear: “Tru, I’ve got two PD units responding. You need to clear out.”
But Truman wasn’t finished. “Do you know what my daughter is doing right now? She’s preparing to testify, to put her name and face to what you did so that every other woman you’ve hurt knows they’re not alone. That’s courage, Stanford. Something you’ll never understand.”
“I’ll confess!” Stanford said desperately. “I’ll turn myself in! Just… don’t hurt me.”
“You’re going to face consequences, Stanford. Legal, social, personal.”
Bruno produced a phone and showed Stanford the screen, a news article with his face next to headlines about assault allegations. “Your name is ruined. Your life is over. The question is whether you survive long enough to see the inside of a prison cell.”
That was when Stanford broke completely, dropping to his knees on the concrete, crying. Truman felt no satisfaction, only cold calculation. This man had hurt his daughter, and this moment of fear was only the beginning of what he’d pay.
“Let’s go,” Truman said to Bruno. “He’s not worth any more of our time.”
They left Stanford sobbing. By the time police arrived, he was still there, incoherent and broken. Coleman later told Truman that Stanford had been taken into protective custody because he was an active threat to himself.
The next morning, the news was everywhere. Robert Phelps’s empire was collapsing. Stanford Phelps faced charges from multiple assaults. The recording had been played on every major news outlet. Three more women had come forward. But for Truman, watching the news with Amber and Karina, it still wasn’t enough. The legal system was moving, yes. But the personal accounting, the real price for what Stanford had done, was still unpaid. Bruno seemed to read his thoughts.
“Patience,” the old man said. “The trap is closed. Now comes the final part. The part where we ensure this ends properly.”