He reached into his pocket for his phone, but before he could dial, a shadow moved across the screen.

A tall man in a dark, waterproof security jacket stepped out from the side porch.

A second man, equally large, followed him.

Both wore the silver badges of the private security firm Marcus had hired.

Ethan froze, his phone halfway to his ear.

I tapped the audio icon on my screen, turning the volume to maximum.

The sound of rustling wind and falling rain filled my hospital room.

“…private property,” Ethan’s voice came through, thin and distorted by the wind.

“Sir, we need you to step away from the door,” the first guard said.

His voice was calm, professional, and entirely unmoved by Ethan’s stature.

“I own this house,” Ethan shouted, his voice rising in pitch. “Who the hell are you?”

“We are contracted by the trustee of this estate,” the guard replied. “The locks have been changed, and your access has been revoked.”

“That’s impossible,” Ethan said.

He opened his leather briefcase, his hands shaking as he pulled out a sheath of papers.