He immediately sped back to the estate with his defense attorney, desperate to seize my personal laptops and destroy the hard drives before a police search warrant could be executed.

He marched up to the grand mahogany front doors, arrogant as ever, and punched his personal six-digit code into the smart lock.

A harsh electronic beep pierced the air. The keypad flashed a violent crimson red.

Access Denied.

Confused, he peered through the frosted glass sidelights. His breath hitched. Inside the grand foyer, a team of burly movers was systematically packing his designer suits, expensive watches, and golf clubs into heavy cardboard boxes.

And standing perfectly still in the center of the marble floor, wrapped entirely in white medical bandages, was me. Right beside me, holding a cup of coffee, was Detective Hale.