My Husband Thought He Erased Me At 2:14 A.M.—Until 64 Cell Phones Buzzed In The Dark

Before Arthur could explain, Sergeant Cross stepped between David and the porch steps.

"Dr. Miller, put your hands behind your back."

"On what charge?!" David shouted, backing away toward the tow truck. "This is a civil property dispute! You cannot arrest a licensed surgeon without a warrant!"

"Warrant issued at 2:20 a.m. by the state attorney general's special crimes unit," Sergeant Cross said smoothly, unhooking the steel cuffs from his belt. "Grand larceny, corporate embezzlement, and falsification of regulated pharmaceutical manifests."

David tried to turn toward the lawn, but the second deputy caught him by the elbow, forcing his arm behind his shoulder blade.

Click.

The ratchets bit deep into his wrist.

"Elena!" David bellowed as he was forced down onto the hood of his disabled Mercedes. "Call your uncle! Tell him to pull the warrant! You don't know what you’re touching! If that warehouse ledger goes public, it won't just destroy me—it takes down your family's entire trust!"

Mrs. Gable took three steps forward from the curb, snapping a high-resolution photograph of David’s face pinned against the hood.

"The board will be reviewing this at the 7:00 a.m. breakfast meeting," she said loudly.

"Elena, please!" Chloe wept, dropping the Birkin onto the grass and reaching for my hand. "I didn't know about the drugs! I swear I thought it was just about the money! Don't let them take me to jail!"

"Get off my property, Chloe," I said, stepping back into the doorway. "Take the bag. The deputies will impound it as evidence anyway."

Sergeant Cross guided David into the back of the cruiser, slamming the door with a dull, heavy thud.

The tow truck engines revved, hauling the Mercedes backward off the pavers, leaving two dark streaks of transmission fluid across our clean driveway.

The cul-de-sac slowly went quiet, the flashing lights fading into the damp pre-dawn fog.

Arthur closed the front door, sliding the heavy security chain into place.

He didn't look victorious.

He leaned against the entry table, staring down at the glowing terminal on his iPad.

"Elena," he said quietly.

"Tell me," I said, crossing my arms. "Who is the Executor?"

Arthur looked up, his face pale under the foyer chandelier.

"The IP address didn't route to an offshore server, Elena. It came from an apartment three miles away. On Elm Street."