I watched it on a live broadcast from a conference room downstairs while Camila slept safely above me — federal agents marching into the sheriff’s department with sweeping warrants for every server, every filing cabinet, every private desk.

My phone rang.

It was Trent.

“Did you do this, you son of a bitch?” he screamed.

“No,” I said flatly.

“You did this to yourself, Trent.”

“My father will bury you!

He’ll bury your whole family!”