Dr. Vance looked at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling.

“That camera is on a closed loop,” I said, guessing his fear. “Marcus has the feed scrambled.”

He let out a long, ragged breath.

“This compound has been running operations for five years,” Dr. Vance said.

“Five years,” I repeated, the timeline striking a chord deep in my memory.

That was exactly when Maren and I had divorced.

That was when the falsified photographs and financial records had emerged, destroying my trust in my wife.

“The files are in the main database,” Dr. Vance said, pointing a trembling finger toward a server rack visible through the gap in the wall panel.

“What files?” I asked.

“The forensic team that analyzed your ex-wife’s private servers,” he said. “They didn’t find anything.”

“They found offshore accounts,” I said, my heart rate spiking. “They found hotel logs.”

“We created them,” Dr. Vance said.

The sterile room suddenly felt very cold.

“We used the clinic’s digital signature network to verify the bank transfers,” he said. “Tessa needed you isolated.”