Whitlock spun around. "Who are you?" he growled.
"I am his kin," she replied, eyes unblinking. "And the one who has spent the past two years gathering everything needed to send you to federal prison."
The back door of the cabin creaked open. Sheriff Carter stepped forward, his badge gleaming in the sunlight. Behind him stood three other men—representatives of the families Whitlock had deceived. Each one held a copy of a forged contract, ready to sign their names as witnesses.
Malcolm's face went pale. He turned to Harrison Jr., but the young lawyer was already unraveling.
"This cannot be," Harrison muttered. "They have no proof."
"The proof is right here," Ayana cut in, tossing the file onto the wooden table. "Every forged signature, every testimony, and the letter you wrote to Harrison Jr. about dividing up the stolen land."
Silence fell. The desert wind swept through the porch, scattering a few loose pages across the cracked earth. Malcolm swallowed hard, his eyes darting like a cornered animal.
"You will regret this," he growled, but his voice had lost all trace of confidence.
Jonathan stood, facing him for the first time—not with fear, but with the unshakable gaze of a man backed by justice.