From the climate-controlled cabin of the transport, I opened my phone’s smart-home app. It connected to the security camera Preston had installed in my room, once, to show the board what a devoted husband he was.

At 4:30 a.m., the feed showed the door swing open. Preston stumbled in, trench coat thrown over his scrubs. He carried a plastic bag of lukewarm diner soup—his patented peace offering.

“Elena, stop sulking. Sit up and eat,” he slurred toward the bed. “You started this by assaulting Khloe. She’s just a kid. Eat this, and we’ll pretend today didn’t happen.”

His voice died as he registered the empty, perfectly made bed. He checked the bathroom. Empty. Panicking, he spun back, his eyes locking onto the nightstand.

I watched him toss the soup aside and pick up the divorce decree. His body seized. Then he saw the malpractice suit. Trembling, he reached out and pressed play on the recorder.

“Hold her down.”