8. Theo
THEO
I'm sitting in the team facility's film room at six in the morning, laptop open to a cascade of headlines that make my jaw clench tighter with each refresh.
SCANDAL SOCIALITE FLAUNTS WEALTH AMID CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION
AZARIA EMERSON'S MORNING WINE: PRIVILEGE OR PSYCHOSIS?
UNTOUCHABLE: How Rich Kids Think Rules Don't Apply
The photos from yesterday's balcony performance cycle through every major outlet.
Azaria in leopard print, wine glass raised like a toast to her own downfall.
The articles dissect every detail—the designer dress, the expensive wine, the gold face masks—as evidence of her callous disregard for the serious charges swirling around her.
"Brazen display of wealth while victims of the Paris jewelry heist await justice," I read aloud to the empty room.
My phone buzzes with a text from James: Saw the coverage. Distance yourself. Now.
I close the laptop harder than necessary. The narrative is crystallizing exactly the way these things always do—first forty-eight hours determine everything, and after that, facts become irrelevant. The story becomes the story, regardless of what actually happened.
But something about the timeline bothers me. The raid, the guest list, the way security handled the arrests. I've been in enough media storms to recognize when details don't align properly.
I pull out my phone and scroll to a contact I haven't used in months.
"Logan? It's Theo Tate."
"Tate! Christ, it's early. What can I do for you?"
Logan Moore runs a private investigation firm that specializes in corporate security.
Discreet, thorough, and expensive enough that only people with serious resources can afford his services.
We met through mutual connections—networking that happens when you move in circles where reputation is currency.
"I need information on the Paris raid last week. The jewelry theft investigation."
"The one with your girlfriend all over the headlines?"
"She's not my girlfriend. And that's exactly why I need accurate information."
A pause. "This is about clearing her name?"
"This is about getting facts that aren't filtered through tabloid editors."
"Fair enough. What specifically do you need?"
"Guest list, timeline of events, security footage if it exists. I want to know who was actually where when this went down."
"That's going to take some finesse. French authorities aren't exactly forthcoming with evidence from active investigations."
"How long?"
"Give me forty-eight hours. Maybe seventy-two if the paperwork gets complicated."
"Logan?”
"Yeah?"
"Money isn't a factor here."
I end the call and stare at the film room's blank projection screen. This is either the smartest thing I've done in years or the stupidest. Probably both.
The guest list alone will tell me if Azaria was specifically targeted or just unlucky enough to be in the wrong room. The timeline will show whether she had opportunity to be involved in whatever actually happened.
And the security footage—if it exists—will either confirm or destroy the narrative that's currently painting her as a privileged criminal who thinks wealth makes her untouchable.
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm using my own wealth and connections to investigate whether someone else's wealth and connections make them guilty of the crimes they're accused of.
My laptop chimes with another news alert: EMERSON HEIRESS PARTIES WHILE PARIS VICTIMS SUFFER
I close it without reading the article. Forty-eight hours. Maybe seventy-two.
Then we'll see what the facts actually say.
For two days, Azaria becomes a ghost in her own scandal. I catch glimpses—silk pajama sets, gold hydrogel patches under her eyes as she moves between the kitchen and her room. Always carrying that massive book, something about the intersection of power and political upheaval in post-war Europe.
Not exactly light reading for someone supposedly drowning in criminal allegations.
The house feels different with her hiding in it.
Logan's report arrives Thursday morning via encrypted email. Guest list, timeline, security footage timestamps. I read through it twice, then print the relevant pages and head upstairs.
I knock once on her door.
"Go away, Theo."
"We need to talk."
"I'm busy contemplating my life of crime from behind a cucumber mask."
I push the door open anyway. She's propped against pillows in silk pajamas the color of champagne, the book open across her lap, some kind of green sheet mask covering half her face.
Her hair is wrapped in a silk scarf, and she looks like she's been living in a luxury spa rather than hiding from felony charges.
"You weren't at the party when the theft happened."
Her fingers pause on the page. "Excuse me?"
I step into the room and place the printed timeline on her nightstand.
"The jewelry went missing between twelve-fifteen and twelve-forty-five PM.
Security footage shows you outside on the terrace from nine-twenty until ten-ten, talking to three different photographers and that designer from Milan—the one with the ridiculous glasses. "
She sets the book aside carefully, something shifting behind her eyes. "How do you?—"
"You were visible to at least twenty people during the entire window when the crime occurred. You couldn't have been in the private rooms where the jewelry was stored."
Azaria reaches up and peels off the face mask, her expression unreadable. "You hired someone to investigate me."
"I hired someone to get facts."
"Facts. How refreshingly direct of you."
I wait for the deflection, the sharp comment designed to redirect the conversation away from anything that might matter. The performance I've watched her perfect since we were seventeen and she used humor to avoid talking about her mother's funeral.
Instead, she looks down at the timeline, her fingers tracing the printed text.
"The guest list is interesting too," I continue. "Half the people at that party have connections to the same money laundering investigation that's been running for eighteen months. You were invited because you're a recognizable face, not because anyone thought you were involved."
"A prop."
"A distraction."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Of course I was. Beautiful, wealthy, and just scandalous enough to draw attention while the real criminals conducted business in the back rooms."
The resignation in her voice catches me off guard. No wit, no forward momentum, no verbal gymnastics to avoid the truth of what happened to her.
Just Azaria, sitting in expensive pajamas, finally seeing the shape of how she'd been used.
She picks up the timeline again, studying it like it might rearrange itself into something that makes more sense.
"I remember the security being different that night. Tighter. More people in earpieces than usual." Her fingers trace the margin of the paper. "But fashion events always have security issues. Someone's always stealing samples or sneaking into restricted areas."
"What do you mean, different?"
"Usually security at these things is about keeping crashers out and making sure no one photographs the unreleased pieces. But that night..." She pauses, her brow furrowing. "They were watching the guests."
I wait, recognizing the expression on her face. The same look she got when we were kids and she'd lose track of time reading, completely absorbed in trying to understand something that didn't quite fit together.
"Nothing seemed suspicious to you?"
“Not really. I mean, it was a little iffy. I didn’t think it was anything crazy.”
"The guest list makes more sense now," I tell her. "You weren't there because anyone thought you were involved. You were there because your presence would make the real business look like a normal fashion event."
"Window dressing."
"Expensive window dressing."
My phone buzzes with a text from James asking for an update. I glance at it and put the phone face down on her nightstand without responding.
The version being reported doesn't align with what I'm hearing. And I know the difference between someone performing innocence and someone actually carrying it.
I am not telling James about this.