Finally, you’re going to get what you deserve,” my mother-in-law muttered before tossing the running hairdryer into the water-filled tub.

I slipped the fireproof pouch inside my jacket, dropped to the floor, and slid into the deep shadow behind the shower curtain.

The front door squeaked open. Mauricio walked in, holding a flashlight, accompanied by two private security contractors in dark suits.

“Find that USB drive,” Mauricio hissed, kicking a discarded suitcase aside. “If my mother’s name or my signature ends up on the prosecutor’s desk before the morning press release, we’re finished!”

“What if your wife has it?” one of the men asked, his voice low and guttural.

Mauricio didn’t hesitate. The man I had shared a bed with for four years spoke with cold, venomous clarity.

“If Mariana is here, take her phone and the drive. If she resists, make sure she has an accident. Just like Daniela. People won't question two accidents in one tragic week.”

A chill settled into my bones. He wasn't just complicit. Mauricio was a full participant in murder.

The men moved toward the master bedroom. Seizing the sound of their heavy boots tearing through the bedroom closet, I pushed the bathroom window open, squeezed through the narrow frame, and dropped three feet onto the fire escape.

I ran through the alleyway in the freezing rain, never looking back.

I couldn't go back to Leo’s apartment—they might track me there. Instead, I drove to an all-night diner on the outskirts of the county, plugged my laptop into a secluded booth’s outlet, and inserted the USB drive.

The files were an absolute goldmine of corporate fraud, forged signatures, and tax evasion. But as I stared at the screen, a dark reality pressed down on me.

Financial crimes take months—sometimes years—to prosecute. Elena had the money to hire top-tier attorneys, post bail, and drag this through appellate courts while keeping me locked up on fabricated reckless endangerment charges.

I didn't just need to prove she was a thief.

I needed to prove she was an attempted murderer. *Tonight.*

I closed my eyes, picturing the second-floor hallway of the Vance mansion on the morning of the attack.

The hair dryer. The outlet. The breaker tripping.

Then, a sudden memory flashed behind my eyes like a flare in the dark.

Six months ago, after a string of package thefts in our neighborhood, Mauricio had installed a high-definition smart doorbell camera on our front porch—and a matching smart climate-control hub directly on the wall opposite the second-floor master bathroom.

The hub had a built-in optical sensor and wide-angle microphone designed for ambient motion control.

Elena had thrown the main electrical circuit switch *after* she dropped the hairdryer into the water. But what about the hub?

The smart hub had an internal lithium-ion backup battery that kept it powered for twenty-four hours in case of blackouts. And more importantly: it saved local video cache onto a MicroSD card embedded under the plastic backplate, entirely separate from the cloud network Elena had tampered with.

If the hub’s optical lens had been facing the doorway…

It had captured everything. Elena walking with the hairdryer. Elena muttering those words. Elena dropping it into the water.

The SD card was still inside that hub, mounted on the wall of the master bedroom hallway.