We had prepared for this possibility, but hearing him say it made the reality sink in.

The estate on the cliffs of Corona del Mar, the home I spent three years designing down to the last marble tile, would be locked.

The bank accounts that funded my legal defense would be locked.

“Keep going, Lila,” I said, my voice steady.

Lila looked at me, a brief flash of sympathy in her eyes, before she turned back to the lens.

“The financial records on this drive prove that Grant Whitmore diverted over twelve million dollars of investor funds into offshore accounts,” Lila said.

“The money was meant for the construction of the medical wing.”

“Instead, it went to personal acquisitions.”

The chat on the laptop screen was exploding with questions and emoji symbols.

“I am handing this evidence over to the authorities immediately,” Lila said.

She looked at me, her part of the bargain complete.

“Open it, Diane,” I said.

Diane turned the deadbolt.

The metal latch clicked.

The door was pushed open with such force that it slammed against the interior wall.