“The security gate has already been reprogrammed.”

“Your clothes will be sent to a storage unit in Santa Ana tomorrow.”

I looked at the screen, then at his face.

The room was dead silent, save for the hum of the computer fan and the distant sound of traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway.

Diane stepped forward, her briefcase held firmly in her left hand.

“Mr. Whitmore,” Diane said, her voice dripping with ice.

“You’ve just committed a major violation of temporary asset preservation rules.”

“I don’t care,” Grant spat, glaring at her. “Let the judge fine me next year.”

“By then, Vivian will be broke and living in some cheap motel.”

He turned his gaze back to me, trying to find the panic in my eyes.

I refused to give him the satisfaction.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my buzzing phone.

The screen showed an incoming call from an unknown Newport Beach number.

I pressed the green button and held the phone to my ear.

“Vivian Whitmore,” I said.

A man’s voice, deep and measured, spoke on the other end.