It was Christina, her voice thin and breathless, telling me she had collapsed and been admitted to the cardiology floor upstairs, begging me to come alone so she could hand me some “important family papers.” Something in it rang false — the too-convenient timing, the insistence that I come alone.

Fallon walked to the nurses’ station and, in under two minutes, confirmed there was no patient named Christina Ainsworth anywhere in the hospital.

Five minutes after that, a neighbor from my building in La Jolla texted a photo: a commercial moving truck idling at the curb outside my door.

Fallon drove there with two officers and recorded what she found.

My home had been gone through.

Drawers were dumped.