THE INVESTIGATION

I read the message three times, then deleted it. Not because I wanted to forget it, but because I needed to think clearly. Someone was pointing me toward Beck's best friend. Someone on the inside knew something.

I sat at my desk in my room, my laptop open, and typed Theo's name into the search bar.

What came up was exactly what you'd expect from a college hockey player. I*******m full of party photos. T*****r posts about games and teammates. A few news articles about his performance on the ice. Nothing suspicious. Nothing that screamed guilt.

But absence can be suspicious too.

I dug deeper. His social media history was spotty. Posts from two years ago existed, but there were weird gaps. Months where he hadn't posted anything. Then suddenly, activity resumed like nothing had happened.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Victoria: Tomorrow's shoot at 8 AM. Early call. Beck will pick you up at 7:30.

I didn't respond. I just kept digging.

I spent the rest of the night searching every database I could access. Old newspaper archives. Social media posts from friends who mentioned him. Photos tagged with his location. Nothing jumped out. Nothing screamed guilty. But the absence itself was damning.

I thought to myself. Why did the anonymous messenger want me to look into Theo Mercer?

By the time my alarm went off the next morning, I had a plan.

The shoot was scheduled for early, which meant it would be done by mid-afternoon. And right after, while most of campus was in classes or at work, I'd slip into the athletics building basement and access the security footage from two years ago. I'd find out what really happened that night and if Beck was trying to convince me about not being totally guilty was true.

Beck picked me up at 7:30 AM sharp.

He looked exhausted. Dark circles under his ice-blue eyes. His blond hair was messier than usual, like he'd run his fingers through it too many times. He barely said hello as I climbed into his truck.

"Morning," I said curtly.

"Yeah, morning," he replied.

The drive to the filming location was silent. Victoria had booked a small boutique hotel downtown for the shoot. Something about the intimate setting being perfect for their "relationship development arc," as she'd called it in an email.

We arrived at 8 AM. The crew was already set up in one of the hotel suites. Cameras positioned at angles. Lighting rigs casting everything in warm, romantic tones. A bed carefully dressed with neutral linens.

"Okay, you two," Marcus said, clapping his hands together. "Today we're filming the scene where things get intimate. Not sexual, we want to keep it PG, but emotionally intimate. Vulnerable. This is where your fake relationship starts feeling real to the audience."

I felt my stomach tighten.

"We want you sitting on the bed," Victoria continued. "Close together. You're having a conversation about your fears. About what you're scared of. Deep stuff."

Beck and I exchanged a look. Neither of us wanted this.

"Let's start rolling," Marcus said.

The camera lights came on. We sat on the bed, maintaining careful distance even though the script called for us to be close.

"So," I said, reading the lines they'd written. "What are you actually afraid of? Not the public persona. The real Beck."

Beck shifted closer to me, his shoulder nearly brushing mine. The cameras captured every moment.

"I'm afraid of losing everything," he said, and his voice sounded genuine. "Hockey is all I've ever known. If I lose that, I don't know who I am."

I turned to face him, our faces now close enough that the audience would feel the intimacy. "That's honest."

"Your turn," Beck said. "What are you afraid of?"

"Becoming someone I hate," I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. "Compromising who I am for money or success or... anything."

Beck reached over and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. The gesture was tender. Careful. His fingers lingered against my cheek for a moment longer than necessary.

"I don't think you'd ever do that," he said softly. "You're too stubborn."

"Cut!" Victoria called out. "That was perfect. Let's do it again, but this time I want you to actually touch. Hold her hand. Make it real."

We did it again. Beck took my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. We repeated the dialogue. His voice was soft when he spoke about his fears. Mine was steady when I talked about my own.

By the third take, the lines started to blur. It almost felt real. It almost felt like we were actually vulnerable with each other.

"Okay, one more," Marcus said. "This time, I want you to lean in. Almost like you're going to kiss, but pull back. Let the tension sit."

"So what are you afraid of?" I asked again, reading the script.

"Losing you," Beck said suddenly, deviating from the script entirely.

"Beck, that's not the line," Victoria said through the headset, but he ignored her.

"What?" I looked at him, confused.

"Nothing. I'm sorry. Let's just do it again," Beck said, pulling back.

Beck and I moved closer. His hand came up to my face. My breath caught as he leaned in, his eyes searching mine. The camera captured everything, the moment his lips were inches from mine, the second where the world seemed to hold still.

Then he pulled back, just like the script said.

"Cut. Perfect," Victoria said. "That's exactly what we needed."

We filmed for two more hours. Different angles. Different takes. Different moments of fake intimacy that somehow started to feel less fake with each repetition.

By the time we wrapped at 1:15 PM, I was exhausted.

"Great work today," Marcus said as we packed up. "This is going to make incredible television. People are going to eat up the tension between you two."

Beck left immediately after wrapping without saying goodbye. I watched him drive away, then checked my phone.

3:00 PM. The athletics building would be mostly empty by now. Classes were still in session. The hockey team was at practice. This was my window.

I drove straight to the athletics building and used my journalism credentials to get past the security guard in the lobby. He barely looked at me. Just nodded and went back to his phone.

The basement was dark, cold, lit only by the red blinking lights on the server equipment. I found the hard drives labeled with dates. Two years ago. August. The right month. The right timeframe.

My hands shook as I plugged one into my laptop and started searching for the parking lot footage from that night.

The video loaded slowly, grainy and dark. But as I watched, the image became clearer.

Two figures. A locker room entrance. A moment of escalation.

And then I saw it.

A third figure appeared. But it still wasn't clear and they backed the camera.

They were wearing dark clothing, their faces partially obscured by shadows. But their build was unmistakable. Their walk was unmistakable. Those figures should definitely be Beck and Julian out of instinct but the Third figure. I can't seem to recognize the person.

I watched them approach the fight. Another figure said something to the third figure. Watch the third figure nod and do exactly what one of the figures wanted.

I squinted at the grainy footage, trying to make out the face of the person commanding.

That's when I heard the footsteps.

Someone was coming down the basement stairs.

I shoved the flash drive into my pocket and closed my laptop, but it was too late. The door at the top of the stairs opened, and a silhouette appeared against the dim light from the hallway.

My heart stopped.

A figure descended the stairs slowly. Deliberately. And as they stepped into the light from the server equipment, I froze.

"Ms. George," the figure said, voice echoing through the empty basement. "I didn't realize you had access down here.”