The meeting with Remy Dubois took place in a nondescript office building in a quiet corner of downtown Los Angeles, far from the gleaming towers of Hollywood. There was no opulent decor, no elaborate waiting room. Just a plain door, a buzzer, and then a man who looked less like a digital wizard and more like a perpetually tired librarian.
Remy “The Archivist” Dubois was slight, with perpetually shadowed eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses, and a posture that suggested he spent most of his life hunched over a keyboard. He was laconic, almost to the point of rudeness, greeting Elena and me with a brief nod and a gesture toward two uncomfortable-looking chairs.
“Elena said you have a problem,” he stated, his voice a low monotone, pulling up a chair opposite us. His eyes, however, were sharp, assessing everything.
I quickly laid out the details: the staged accident, Elena’s findings about the targeted incendiary agent, and the damning revelation of Bernard Croft’s financial manipulations. Remy listened, entirely impassive, occasionally tapping a pen against a worn legal pad. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer a single reaction.
“The Kincaids are ruthless,” I concluded, trying to convey the scale of their power. “They have decades of connections. They control the narrative.”
Remy finally set his pen down. “Money upfront. Non-negotiable. My rate reflects the risk involved when digging into a Kincaid-level network. And you’ll need more than just financial fraud to bring them down. You’ll need something undeniable, something that proves malice beyond a reasonable doubt for their stunt.”
My heart sank. My limited liquid assets were barely enough for one of Remy’s retainers, let alone an ongoing investigation. Elena, sensing my despair, quickly interjected.
“Evelyn’s resources are currently… tied up, Remy. But the Kincaids have significant assets. If you can help her reclaim what’s rightfully hers, your fee can be substantial.”
Remy simply stared at Elena, then at me. “I work for cash or pre-negotiated contracts with verified funds. I don’t work on contingency, especially not against Kincaids. You pay for the intel, then you use it as you see fit.”
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. It felt like a test. A test of my desperation, and perhaps, my resolve. My frustration at Bernard’s theft flared.
“I have some funds I can access,” I said, trying to project confidence I didn’t entirely feel. “It’s not much, but it’s enough for a start. What do you need?”
Remy nodded slowly, a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps grudging respect, or just a professional interest in a challenge. “Access to any digital footprint you or the Kincaids may have left. Old emails, social media, deleted accounts, even devices you no longer use. Anything that might have been connected to them. I’ll start with their public-facing networks, then try to find the cracks.”
Over the next few days, I compiled everything I could: old phones, forgotten email addresses, even an old social media account I’d abandoned years ago. Remy took it all without comment. I waited, restless, feeling the weight of the Kincaids’ power pressing down on me. Elena kept in touch, offering medical advice and emotional support, but even she seemed subdued by the scale of the task ahead.
Then, three days later, Remy called. His voice was still flat, but there was an unusual undercurrent of… something.
“I found something,” he stated, cutting straight to the chase. “A private forum. Highly encrypted. Deleted years ago. But archives… they never truly disappear.”
My breath hitched. “What kind of forum?”
“Industry insiders. A very select group. Vivienne Kincaid was a regular. Under an alias, of course, but her digital signature, her linguistic patterns… it’s her.”
A cold dread spread through me. “What was she discussing?”
“Strategies for ‘talent management’,” Remy replied, the quotation marks in his voice clear. “Veiled discussions about ‘optimizing’ contracts, ‘repositioning’ troublesome assets. And then… more explicit discussions. About past ‘accidents’.”
“Accidents?” The word sent a shiver down my spine.
“Yes. She details methods for sidelining rivals, acquiring their intellectual property, even manipulating public perception through carefully engineered ‘mishaps’ on set. It’s chilling. She clearly saw these as strategic, almost artistic, maneuvers.”
I felt a wave of nausea. This wasn’t just about my stunt. This was a pattern, a playbook. Vivienne wasn’t just ruthless; she was a serial offender. My personal betrayal now felt like a drop in an ocean of her calculated cruelties.
“Did you find anything about my… stunt?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Specifically? Not in the explicit detail you’re hoping for yet,” Remy admitted. “These conversations are coded, but there’s a thread. A discussion between Vivienne’s alias and a user I’m tracing, but strongly suspect is Bernard Croft. They talk about a ‘controlled incident’ for the ‘Kincaid Krew’ finale. Detailed instructions regarding ‘pyrotechnic placements’ and ‘on-site modifications.’ They reference ‘Chad Jensen’ several times.”
Chad Jensen. The production assistant. A young, eager kid, just trying to make his way in the industry. I remembered him on set, always bustling, meticulously checking the pyro elements under the supervision of the special effects coordinator. Art and Vivienne had always made sure Chad was the one handling the ‘minor’ adjustments for my stunts, praising his attention to detail. I’d seen it as them nurturing new talent. Now, it was clear: they had been nurturing their own nefarious plans.
“Chad,” I whispered, the name a painful echo. “He was the one they gave the precise instructions to? He was manipulated?”
“From what I can tell, he was given specific tasks, without full knowledge of the intended outcome,” Remy confirmed. “He was a pawn. They told him exactly where to place certain elements, how to prime them for a specific, localized effect. It sounds like he believed he was doing his job, enhancing the visual impact of the stunt, perhaps creating a controlled, more dramatic ‘spark’ for the camera.”
The image of Chad, earnest and focused, carefully arranging the pyrotechnics, flashed through my mind. He would have followed instructions to the letter, eager to impress. He would have had no idea he was preparing the groundwork for my injury, believing he was enhancing a spectacle, not designing a weapon. My own culpability, trusting the Kincaids, settled heavily in my chest. I had been so blind.
“This forum… it’s concrete proof, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice tight. “Proof that Vivienne planned it, and that Bernard was involved?”
“It’s compelling digital evidence,” Remy clarified. “It shows a clear pattern of malicious intent and a specific plan for your stunt. It links Vivienne to Bernard in this scheme. It’s not a signed confession, but it’s the next best thing. And it points to Chad Jensen as the unwitting accomplice.”
A grim satisfaction settled over me, mingling with cold fury. The Kincaids had spent years cultivating an image of a benevolent, visionary dynasty, all while operating a criminal enterprise behind closed doors. Now, thanks to Remy, those doors were creaking open.
“What’s next?” I asked, my gaze hardening. “How do we get Chad to talk?”
Remy paused, then sighed, a rare display of emotion. “That, Evelyn, is where things get… messy. People who work for the Kincaids are very loyal. Or very afraid.”
He was right. Chad was a young, aspiring professional. He would be terrified of crossing the Kincaids, especially if he realized he had been an unwitting participant in a felony. But he was also the key. He was the physical link, the one who executed the instructions. I needed him. But a chilling premonition warned me that getting to Chad would not be easy. The Kincaids wouldn’t let their loose ends hang.
+ There are no comments
Add yours