“I have been recording this entire conversation, Callum,” Arthur said. “And the phone is connected to a secure cloud server. The federal marshals were alerted the moment you entered the hallway.”

Callum’s face went dark. He turned on Arthur, stepping toward him with his fists clenched.

“Delete it,” Callum snarled. “Delete it now, Arthur, or I swear to God you won’t walk out of this hospital.”

“He won’t have to,” a voice said from the doorway.

The door was thrown open.

Three men in dark suits and tactical vests stepped into the room.

The letters *U.S. MARSHAL* were printed in bold white across their chests.

The lead officer had his hand on his holster, though he did not draw his weapon.

“Mr. Prescott,” the officer said. “Step away from the bed. Put your hands where we can see them.”

Callum froze. He looked at the marshals, then back at Arthur, and finally at me.

“This is a private room,” Callum said, his voice rising in pitch. “This is my wife. I have a right to be here.”