Over the next few weeks, the truth about Tristan Vaughn came out, piece by piece, in the newspapers.

His real name was Travis Vogel. He was from a small town in Ohio. He'd been convicted of fraud once before, ten years earlier, under his real name.

The Lamborghini was leased. The penthouse in Miami was rented by the month, and three months behind. The private jet was booked by the hour. The yacht where he proposed was rented for the afternoon, with the crew.

And the six-carat diamond ring on Kelsey's finger was cubic zirconia. Worth about two hundred dollars.

Kelsey took it off and put it in a drawer.

“The only real thing in the whole relationship,” she said, “was the sunburn I got on the yacht.”

The investigation found that he'd taken money from three hundred and twelve people. Retired teachers. Nurses. Small business owners. A pastor in Raleigh who'd invested his church's building fund.

Because Dan's team had caught it early, and the FBI had frozen the accounts, a lot of that money was still there.

Most of the investors would get at least half of it back.

Dad would get back most of his first hundred thousand. And most of the eighty thousand for the venue.

“It's not everything,” said Agent Holt, when she called to tell us. “But it's a lot more than they'd have got if he'd made it to the Caymans.”