Before we reached the altar, my three-year-old grandson squeezed my hand and whispered, “Grandpa, she was mean to Mommy.” Then he pointed toward my future wife and pulled a USB drive from his tiny pocket—one that would soon reveal the truth she had been hiding.

The ballroom waited downstairs.

One hundred and twenty guests.

Mariachi band.

Flowers.

Champagne.

Cake.

Nobody knew the groom was upstairs with police.

The coordinator kept the guests calm.

She announced.

“Brief delay due to a family emergency.”

Monica apparently smiled through it.

According to Martin.

She told guests I had become emotional because of my age.

Interesting.

Then she told one bridesmaid.

“Victor panics whenever Sofia causes drama.”

That sentence reached Martin.

Then me.

I almost admired the speed of her narrative management.

Almost.

PART 23