That’s when I noticed Vanessa filming me with her phone. Not openly, but holding it at an angle while pretending to take selfies, getting me on camera while I was drinking, while I was talking about financial matters, building some kind of evidence.

The pieces clicked together with horrible clarity. The surgery I’d had. They’d insisted on handling all my paperwork afterward. The power of attorney documents they’d brought to the hospital, claiming it was “just temporary.” The way my financial adviser had stopped returning my calls.

“David,” I said carefully, setting down my glass. “I’d like to go back to shore now.”