"Then buckle up, because they're going to hit harder."
She was right.
January 7th, someone spray-painted "PERVERT" on my garage door.
I filed a police report.
The responding officer, not Torres, someone older named Patterson, took photos with the enthusiasm of a man filling out a DMV form.
"Any idea who did this?"
"Check the Facebook post going around. Probably someone who believed it."
He wrote something down.
"We'll increase patrols in your area."
That night, I slept with a baseball bat next to my bed.
January 9th, three days before court, my daughter Emma called crying.
Someone had sent her the Facebook post with a message.
"Your dad's a creep and everyone knows it."
I drove to her apartment in Fort Collins, found her on her couch with her roommate, both looking at me like I might be radioactive.
"Dad, just tell me the truth. Are you really stalking people?"
I sat down and explained everything.
The land, Cassandra, the lawsuit, the houses.
Showed her Grandpa's deed, the tax receipts, Lydia's court filings.
Emma read through them, and I watched her face change from fear to fury.
"So she's lying about everything."
"Everything."
"Then we need to fight back."
"Lydia says we wait for court."
Emma shook her head.
"Dad, you've been playing defense your whole life. Divorce, work, everything. Just once, hit first."
I didn't respond, but her words stuck.
January 11th, the night before court, I got one final message.
It was from a number I didn't recognize.
"Drop the lawsuit or everyone finds out what you really are."
I forwarded it to Lydia.
She texted back immediately.
"Perfect. Bring your phone to court tomorrow. We're going to bury them."
The Boulder County Courthouse smelled like floor wax and recycled air.
I met Lydia in the hallway outside Courtroom 3C at 8:45 a.m. She wore a navy suit that probably cost more than my truck, carrying a leather briefcase that looked like it could stop bullets.
"You ready?" she asked.
I wasn't.
My hands were sweating. I'd worn my only suit, the one from my daughter's high school graduation three years ago, that now felt too tight in the shoulders.
"Do we have enough?"
"We have a nuclear bomb. Trust me."