They thought they had won.

I set my mug in the sink, walked upstairs, locked the guest room door behind me, opened my secured laptop, and called the one person who would appreciate the scale of their mistake.

Marcus Reed picked up on the second ring. “Tell me.”

“The bait got hit,” I said. “Not by our target. By my stepmother and her daughters.”

A pause. Then rapid typing.

“How much?”

“Over a hundred grand already. Greece. Yacht. Jewelry. They’re heading to the airport.”

Marcus exhaled slowly. “Natalie… do they know what card they took?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said. “Then let them fly.”

I stood by the window, looking over the immaculate lawn while downstairs Vanessa laughed at something one of her daughters said.

For the first time in years, I smiled too.

They posted everything.

That was the best part.

For two weeks, while my father played golf and pretended peace had returned, I worked remotely from the guest room and watched my stepfamily build their own federal case on Instagram.

Chloe in an airport lounge, clinking champagne glasses with Madison, captioned Best girls’ trip ever. Madison filming a slow pan of a private infinity pool carved into Santorini cliffs. Vanessa in oversized sunglasses on a white yacht, holding a silk scarf against the wind like she’d been born into wealth instead of marrying toward it.

Every purchase triggered a record.

Every tagged location placed them precisely.

Every smiling post became evidence.

Marcus updated me daily.