My wife destroyed the suit I had spent three months sewing and told me not to attend my daughter's wedding.

The speeches began at seven.

Daniel's best man went first — cheerful, slightly too long, the kind of speech built around inside jokes that made half the room laugh and the other half smile politely.

Then Daniel's mother, who cried in a way that felt completely genuine and made several people at nearby tables reach for their napkins.

Then Garrett stood up.

He buttoned his jacket.

He picked up his glass.

He looked around the room with the comfortable ease of a man who had spent a lifetime making other people feel like guests in his presence.

"I'm Garrett," he said.

"Sabrina's father."

The room settled.

"I missed some years," he said, with a small self-deprecating smile that drew a sympathetic murmur from several tables.

"Life is complicated.

But I'm here now.

And watching my daughter today — watching the woman she has become — I can honestly say this is one of the proudest moments of my life."

Applause.

Genuine, from most of the room.

I watched Sabrina.

She was smiling.

But her left hand, below the table, was pressed flat against her thigh.

"Sabrina," Garrett continued, "you are extraordinary.

Smart, beautiful, determined.

Everything a father could want." He raised his glass.

"To Sabrina and Daniel.

May your life together be everything you deserve."

The room raised their glasses.

I raised mine.

Then Patricia appeared at my elbow.

"Mr.

Aldren," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry to interrupt.

There's a situation at the administrative office.

The lock has been tampered with."

I set my glass down.

"When?" I said.

"We noticed it twenty minutes ago.

One of the staff went to retrieve the weekend deposit records.

The door had been forced.

Nothing appears to be missing, but the filing cabinet was open."

I stood slowly.

"Call the police.

Don't touch anything else."

"Should I tell the guests?"

"No," I said.

"Keep it quiet.

This is still my daughter's wedding."

I moved along the edge of the room toward the corridor.

As I passed the head table, Garrett glanced up.

Our eyes met for half a second.

He looked away first.

In the corridor, I checked my phone.

The email from Keely had come through.

Four photographs.

Clear, timestamped, high resolution.

The surveyor.

The folder.

The corridor.

Garrett and Carol in the background, watching the door.

I forwarded them to my lawyer with three words: *Tonight.

Call me.*

Then I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned.

Sabrina was standing in the corridor in her wedding dress, her bouquet still in her hand.

"What's happening?" she said.

"Nothing that concerns tonight," I said.

"Don't do that," she said.

"Don't manage me.

I'm not fourteen."

I looked at her.

She was right.

"Someone tampered with the administrative office," I said.

"The lock was forced.

I've asked Patricia to call the police."

Her face changed.

"During the reception?"

"During the ceremony, most likely.

There are photographs."

She was quiet for a moment.

Then: "Is it Garrett?"

I didn't answer.

"Dad." Her voice was different now.

Smaller.

The voice she used when she was frightened and didn't want to show it.

"I need you to tell me the truth.

All of it.

What do you know?"

I looked at my daughter in her wedding dress, in the corridor of a building I had built with my own hands, on the day I had paid for, and I made a decision.

"Come with me," I said.

"There's a sitting room at the end of this hall.