34. Theo
THEO
Six days of systematic destruction and I'm running on fumes.
Logan sits across from my kitchen table at seven in the morning, laptop open, feeding me updates while I pretend coffee can substitute for sleep. Dark circles shadow his eyes—he's been working around the clock on both fronts.
"FBI confirms they're moving on Massimo's network within forty-eight hours," he says, scrolling through encrypted messages. "The recording combined with the financial records you and Azaria compiled gives them everything they need for coordinated arrests."
I stare at the investigation board we built together, still mounted on my dining room wall like a shrine to her absence.
Red string connects photographs to bank statements, timeline markers to witness testimonies.
Her handwriting covers half the annotations—sharp, decisive strokes that cut straight to the point.
"The case is airtight," Logan continues. "Massimo goes down whether she's here or not."
The words should feel like victory. Instead, they settle like lead in my chest.
"And the other search?"
"Still nothing. Her father's security team is professional-grade. No digital footprint, no credit card activity, no cell tower pings. They've made her invisible."
I drain my coffee and immediately pour another cup. The routine provides thirty seconds of distraction from the gnawing certainty that I've lost her completely.
"There has to be something."
"Theo." Logan closes the laptop. "She doesn't want to be found. By you, specifically. Her father made that clear."
The conversation with Everett Emerson replays in my head for the hundredth time.
Telling me Azaria made her choice and I needed to respect it.
When I pressed him, demanded to know why she ran, he simply said she was protecting herself.
I so badly want to respect it but how can I when every moment without out feels like torture?
"Keep looking."
Logan studies my face. "When's the last time you slept?"
"I'm fine."
"You're functioning on maybe three hours a night. That us not healthy."
I glance toward the living room where her yoga mat used to occupy the space between the sofa and coffee table.
She'd roll it out every morning at six-thirty, moving through poses while arguing with whatever news program was playing.
Her commentary was brutal and hilarious—politicians, anchors, and advertisers all receiving equal doses of her razor-sharp observations.
I stand and pace to the window overlooking the street. Paparazzi still camp outside sporadically, hoping for shots of Azaria entering or leaving. They don't know she's gone. "I just don’t understand why she left. Without a word. She didn’t warn me."
"Theo."
I turn back to face him. “Yes?"
Logan hesitates, choosing his words carefully. "You've been together in this pressure cooker for weeks. High stakes, constant tension, forced proximity. Maybe she needed space to figure out what was real and what was just circumstances."
"You think this was just circumstances?"
"I think she's scared. People run when they're scared."
I watch strangers walk past the townhouse. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that mine has completely unraveled in the space of six days.
"Why won't she talk to me?"
"Maybe she's waiting for you to figure out why she left."
I push away from the window and return to the kitchen table, staring at the investigation board that represents weeks of collaboration.
"The FBI moves in two days," Logan says gently. "Massimo's network collapses, Azaria's name gets cleared, and the media narrative shifts completely. She'll be vindicated."
"Without me."
"Unless you find her first."
"Keep looking," I tell Logan again.
He nods and reopens his laptop. "I'll expand the search parameters."
I return to the investigation board, tracing the red string connections with my finger. Somewhere in this web of evidence and timeline markers is the answer to why she ran.
I just have to find it before it's too late.
Logan leaves at noon.
I change into workout gear and head to the home gym. The space is efficient—squat rack, bench, dumbbells arranged by weight, everything in its designated place. I pull on noise-canceling headphones and scroll through my playlist until I find MK.gee's latest album.
The first track starts with that signature guitar tone, all reverb and atmosphere, and I load the barbell with more weight than I've attempted in weeks.
Squats first. The bar settles across my shoulders, familiar pressure that grounds me in something concrete.
I sink into the first rep, thighs burning as I drive back up.
The guitar builds through my headphones, layered and hypnotic, matching the rhythm I establish.
I think about Azaria as the album plays.
Afterall, she introduced me to the album.
Ten reps become twenty. Twenty becomes thirty. Sweat beads along my hairline, then streams down my back as I rack the weight and move to deadlifts.
The music shifts to something more driving, bass line pulsing underneath distorted melodies.
I grip the bar and pull, engaging every muscle from my calves to my shoulders.
The weight fights me, gravity demanding surrender, but I hold the position at the top of each rep until my grip threatens to fail.
Azaria used to work out beside me sometimes. She'd commandeer the yoga space in the corner, moving through poses that looked deceptively simple until you tried to hold them. She never wore headphones, preferring to provide running commentary on whatever I was lifting.
"You know you're allowed to show strain, right?" she'd said once while I worked through a particularly brutal set of overhead presses. "Normal humans make faces when things are difficult."
I'd finished the set before responding. "This isn't difficult."
"Everything's difficult for someone, Theo. Even you."
I drop the barbell and move to the rowing machine, needing something that demands full-body coordination.
The MK.gee track shifts again, guitar lines weaving through each other like conversations. I match the stroke rate to the tempo, pulling hard on each beat. The machine's display tracks distance, time, calories burned—metrics that usually satisfy my need for measurable progress.
Tonight, numbers feel meaningless.
I row until my shoulders scream, then transition to burpees. The exercise is brutal by design—drop, push-up, jump, repeat. My heart rate spikes into zones that should require recovery, but I push through anyway.
The music becomes a blur of sound and sensation. Guitar feedback bleeds into synthesized textures, rhythms shifting from driving to ethereal and back again. I lose track of reps, sets, time itself.
By the time I finally stop, the basement feels like a sauna. I'm drenched in sweat, muscles trembling from exhaustion, but the gnawing emptiness in my chest remains untouched.
I strip off the headphones and climb the stairs to the main floor.
I shower until the hot water runs cold, then order takeout I don't want and eat while reviewing game footage on my laptop.
I get a phone call at 11:50 PM. Kofi's name appears on the screen.
I answer immediately. "Hello, Kofi"
"Theo.” His voice carries the slight distortion of an international connection. "I hope I'm not waking you."
"No. Where are you?"
"Singapore. Business that couldn't wait." He pauses. "I've been thinking about our conversation."
I wait, not trusting myself to push him.
"Azaria made her decision to leave," he continues. "But I've been watching the news coverage of this Massimo situation. Seeing how it's developing."
"It’s developing well, I’d say. The FBI will do the right thing."
"Yes. And when they do, the narrative changes completely. She'll be vindicated, but she'll also be alone."
My grip tightens on the phone. "She doesn't have to be alone."
"That depends on whether you're willing to have a difficult conversation. Something seemed to have happened between you kids.”
"Where is she?"
"Westchester. Private property we use for situations requiring discretion. 47 Ridgemont Road." He pauses. "The security team has been instructed to expect you."
Relief floods through me so completely that I have to sit down.
"Theo."
"Yes?"
"I expect you to be careful with my daughter.”
"I understand."
"Do you?"
"Yes. I understand."
"Then go to her. Tonight. Don't give her time to build more walls."
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, but they're all I have.
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you've convinced her to stop running."
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for thirty seconds, then grab my keys.
The drive to Westchester stretches longer than I like. I take the FDR Drive north, then merge onto I-87, the city lights fading behind me as the landscape shifts to rolling hills and gated communities.
MK.gee continues playing through the car's sound system, the album cycling back to the beginning. The music that couldn't touch the emptiness during my workout now feels like a soundtrack to possibility.
Ridgemont Road appears exactly where the GPS indicates—a private lane marked only by a discreet stone marker. The entrance is guarded by wrought iron gates that part automatically as I approach, security cameras tracking my progress.
The property unfolds like something from a magazine spread. Manicured lawns stretch toward a colonial-style mansion, lit by strategically placed landscape lighting.
Security personnel in dark suits nod as I pass the gatehouse. They know who I am, know why I'm here. Kofi's influence reaches even into the details of late-night reconciliations.
I park in the circular drive and kill the engine. The silence feels profound after an hour and a half of highway noise and music.
The engine ticks as it cools, metal contracting in the cold air. I sit in the driver's seat for another moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel, watching those windows and wondering what I'll say when I see her.
Then I get out of the car.