The paper began to rattle violently in Richard’s hands. The aggressive, booming patriarch transformed into an ashen, hyperventilating ghost. “Wh-what is this garbage?” he stammered, backing away from the television as if it were radioactive. “That’s a deep fake! That’s illegal wiretapping!”
“It is a security camera inside my own home, placed for medical monitoring, capturing a conversation in a shared living space,” Mr. Harrison countered smoothly. “Fully admissible.”
“No!” Mark shrieked, throwing his own uncle under the bus with zero hesitation. “Richard made me do it! He manipulated the contracts! I didn’t know it was fraud!”
Before the chaos could escalate into a physical brawl between uncle and nephew, a heavy, authoritative knock echoed through the hallway.
“Our final guests have arrived,” Mr. Harrison announced softly, standing up to open the door.
Standing in the doorway was an imposing older gentleman in a bespoke charcoal suit. He possessed sharp, unforgiving eyes that immediately locked onto my husband. Behind him stood a broad-shouldered woman in a windbreaker that bore three unmistakable yellow letters: FBI.
