Chapter 52
CHAPTER
FIFTY-TWO
The day started with a flurry of activity, Duke mused.
They had a show at The Wiltern, the historic Art Deco theater anchored in the heart of Koreatown. Eighteen hundred tickets had sold out fast. Mariella had practically been buzzing about this stop.
The Wiltern wasn’t just another venue, she’d told them. Prince, Tom Petty, and Radiohead had all taken this stage.
That morning, the team had briefly reconvened in Mariella’s room, but there were no real updates. Rupert was still trying to set up their surprise stop. No new podcasts had been released.
Now they just had to wait.
At the moment, they were in the prep room behind stage—fluorescent lights, concrete walls, the low hum of voices bleeding through from the auditorium above. Staff moved in practiced efficiency. Clipboards. Headsets. Lanyards. Controlled chaos.
Rupert strode in with his usual frantic precision, a stack of folders tucked under his arm like they were life preservers. He also handed them each their energy drink so they could flash it around.
“All right,” Rupert announced, breathless. “Schedules, talking points, emergency contacts. Please review quickly—we’re already seven minutes behind where I’d like to be.”
He began handing them out.
Duke took his and flipped it open.
Then stilled.
The first page was wrong.
The panel title had been altered. The moderator’s name was misspelled. A venue time had been shifted by fifteen minutes.
Enough to confuse. Enough to create chaos.
Enough to put people in the wrong places at the wrong time.
Whoever had done this was someone able to get close without being seen.
But who could that be?
Duke flipped another page.
Same thing. Minor deviations. Clean edits. No fingerprints of panic or error.
“This isn’t right,” Duke muttered.
Rupert froze mid-gesture. “What? What are you talking about?”
Duke slid the folder back across the table. “This isn’t the schedule you sent last night.”
Rupert frowned and snatched it up, scanning it quickly.
The color drained from his face. “That’s not—no. That’s not what I typed. I triple-check everything.”
Andi leaned in, her own folder open now. “Mine’s off too.”
Rupert’s hands began to tremble. “I—I uploaded the final versions from my laptop. They went straight to the printer.”
Duke’s jaw tightened.
That meant someone had accessed the files after Rupert finished them.
“Could this be a printer error?” Simmy asked, though her eyes showed she didn’t believe that theory.
“No.” Duke crossed his arms. “This was done by someone who knew what they were changing.”
Silence spread through the room, heavy and charged.
“Should we cancel?” Mariella asked.
Duke didn’t hesitate to jump in with his answer. “No.”
Everyone turned toward him.
“If we cancel, we give him exactly what he wants,” Duke said. “Control. Proof he can rattle us.”
He glanced around the room—at Andi, at the team, at Rupert clutching the folder like it might bite him.
“He didn’t sabotage the event,” Duke continued. “He altered our personal schedules just enough to show us he could. To send us a message that we’re not untouchable.”
“So what do we do now?” Matthew pushed his glasses higher on his nose.
“We don’t stop,” Duke said. “We tighten up. We stay visible. We don’t let him decide where we go or what we do.”
Andi met his gaze, admiration glimmering in her eyes, and she nodded. “We fix the files. Reprint. Lock down access. And we move forward.”
Everyone around them agreed.
As the room erupted into motion again, Duke scanned the exits, the corners, the spaces people never looked at twice.
The killer was testing boundaries.
And Duke knew one thing with absolute certainty: If they weren’t present—fully, visibly present—this would only escalate.
Whatever game this was, it had entered a new phase.
And Duke intended to stay one step ahead of this guy.
The applause rolled through the auditorium in waves—loud, sustained, energized.
Andi couldn’t help but think that the crowd was bigger than the ticket count Rupert had shown them that morning, bodies packed into every row, people standing along the back wall and aisles.
She knew Mariella had several friends from LA who were at the event. Many of them were influencers who’d helped promote the event online. Mariella had said she was excited to see them all again.
Andi stepped into the wash of stage lights, momentarily blinded. Heat bloomed across her skin as the brightness swallowed the audience, reducing them to a shifting mass of shadow beyond the footlights.
She forced a smile anyway.
They took their seats. The moderator launched into introductions—names, accolades, tour highlights—and the applause surged again. Andi let the rhythm of it steady her pulse.
Then the questions started.
At first, they were normal. Enthusiastic. Thoughtful. Fans asking about the cold case in LA they were covering. Asking about favorite investigations, techniques they’d used to find information, moments that had stuck with them.
But then the edge crept in.
A question about responsibility.
A question about influence.
A question about whether true crime ever created harm instead of exposing it.
Andi felt the subtle shift in the room.
The moderator hesitated before reading the next card. “The next question came from the audience. Someone in the back. We’ve got a microphone set up for him. Go ahead.”
The mic crackled before the man spoke. “Given the recent reports, how do you respond to claims that crimes seem to follow your tour locations? That your presence may be more than coincidental?”
The air in the room tightened.
Andi leaned forward, mic steady in her hand. “We don’t control where crimes happen. We respond to stories that already exist. Real people. Real harm. We take that responsibility seriously.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
She continued, measured but firm. “If anyone believes storytelling causes violence, they’re misunderstanding both crime and accountability.”
Polite applause followed—but thinner, uneven.
Her gaze swept the darkness beyond the lights, searching for the man who’d asked the question.
Whoever had asked the question was hidden—protected by glare and distance.
But the man’s voice had sounded familiar . . .
Almost like the man from the podcast, she realized.
Her pulse quickened.
What if he was here? What if he was goading them?
What if the podcaster was the killer?
The moderator moved on, but Andi barely registered the next question.
She caught Duke’s eye. He gave a subtle nod, indicating he’d had the same thought.
Then he rose from his chair and slipped offstage without asking permission or offering apology.
The audience buzzed, confused, whispering.
Andi remained seated, lights still blinding, heart pounding.
Maybe Duke would catch this guy. Maybe they’d finally find some answers.
It seemed too easy . . . but it was possible.