The human body is simply not designed to sustain a 104-degree fever.

Three miles away, in the quiet, affluent suburb of Oakridge, three black forensics vans stood parked outside our two-story brick home on Maple Street.

Detective Miller stood in the center of Tristan’s home office, wearing blue latex booties over her shoes and protective gloves. The room was sterile, meticulously organized, and smelled faintly of expensive cologne and copper.

Two crime scene technicians were carefully scanning the room with ultraviolet lights.

"Detective! Over here," a technician named Sarah called out from behind Tristan’s massive oak desk.

Miller walked over. Sarah was kneeling beside a heavy, fireproof safe hidden behind a fake mahogany panel in the wainscoting. The safe door was swung wide open—Tristan had been arrested before he could close it.

Inside the safe were three neatly stacked items:

First, a small amber glass jar containing two ounces of a thick, brown paste, labelled with a piece of blue painter's tape marked DMSO / MRSA-3.

Second, a life insurance policy taken out six months ago on Reese Vance, valued at $1.5 million, with a double-indemnity rider for accidental death from infectious disease.

And third, a black leather-bound ledger containing names, offshore account numbers, and dates.

Detective Miller carefully pulled out the ledger, flipping through the pages. The entries dated back three years, tracking massive wire transfers moving from Apex Capital accounts into an entity called Vance Global Holdings in the Cayman Islands.

"It wasn't just her trust fund," Miller muttered to herself, staring at the numbers. "He was embezzling from his firm. He used her trust fund as collateral for a short-position margin loan that went completely bust last month."

"Detective!" the second technician shouted from the hallway near the guest bathroom. "You need to see this!"

Miller rushed out of the office and down the hall.

The technician was pointing his flashlight at the deadbolt of the guest bathroom door—the door I had locked before escaping out the fire window.

The heavy brass deadbolt hadn't just been struck by a fist. The wood around the lock was splintered outward, and resting on the hallway floor was a heavy steel crowbar Tristan had retrieved from the garage while I was trapped inside.

He hadn't been knocking on the door to reason with me. He had been preparing to break the door down and force me back onto that bed.

Suddenly, Miller’s tactical radio clicked to life on her shoulder.

"Miller, this is Dispatch. We have an urgent situation at Central Processing."

Detective Miller hit her shoulder mic. "Go ahead, Dispatch."

"Tristan Vance’s legal team arrived with a high-court emergency writ. Because the forensic analysis from the hospital hasn't been formally certified by the state lab yet, a night magistrate just granted him a temporary conditional signature bond. He walked out of the precinct ten minutes ago."

Miller’s blood ran cold. "He’s out?! On a signature bond for chemical assault?!"

"His lawyer argued he’s a high-profile executive with no prior record and claimed the hospital's search was conducted without a preliminary warrant. He’s free until the formal arraignment on Monday."