“Diane,” I said. “Get ready to open the door, but not until she starts talking.”

Diane nodded, her hand still resting on the lock.

Lila took a step toward the microphone.

She cleared her throat, her chest rising and falling.

“My name is Lila Monroe,” she began, her voice shaking.

The live chat on the laptop screen seemed to pause for a second.

“I am the director of public relations for the Maribel project,” she said, looking directly into the lens.

Outside, the rattling stopped.

For a brief second, there was absolute silence in the hallway.

Then, Grant’s voice came through the wood, lower this time, cold and sharp.

“Vivian, if you do this, I will strip you of every dollar you have before the sun sets.”

I didn’t blink.

“Go on, Lila,” I said.

“The Maribel is not a non-profit development,” Lila said to the camera.

Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, the adrenaline taking over.

“The documents submitted to the Newport Beach City Council were falsified by Grant Whitmore,” she said.

I watched the viewer count on the corner of the screen jump by five hundred in a single second.