Christian had no idea he was on the FBI's radar. Not yet, anyway.
The heat came courtesy of Westwood, a man with a slippery conscience and a knack for trouble.
At the time, Christian was buried in post-production for the Wrong Turn flick that didn't exactly keep him up at night.
To his surprise, the film came together with fewer headaches than expected.
The blood, gore, and creature effects had all been handled practically, right there on set—no endless CGI work, no fixing it in post.
That left him mostly tweaking the soundtrack and finessing the title sequence.
Still, something bugged the editor.
"How'd you get these shots?" he asked, eyes narrowing as Charlize filled the screen.
"I remember them looking different."
Christian shrugged, casual but careful.
"Shot them a few times. Played with the angles."
"Hmm."
The assistant director leaned in.
"But when did you stitch them together? We're barely into post."
Christian gave a small smile.
"I did it during the shoot."
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
No one needed to know the woman on-screen wasn't Charlize at all—but Alexis, wearing her face like a mask.
He remembered how it all started—hacking the camera's feed, overlaying footage that shouldn't have existed.
Addison Young nearly pulled the plug on the whole project when he found out.
"What, you were planning this from the start?"
Richard asked now, stroking his red beard, always suspicious.
Christian didn't bother to deny it.
"Maybe it'll help the box office," Richard muttered.
"But the Academy's not gonna hand you a statue for trickery."
Christian's voice was flat. "I'm not making this for the Academy."
Actors had it easy by comparison.
Once the cameras stopped rolling, they walked away. Directors? They stayed behind to pick up the pieces.
Charlize, meanwhile, was enjoying a lazy morning.
She'd slept in, still floating in the quiet after filming wrapped.
When she looked in the mirror, a message shimmered faintly on the glass.
"Trust me, your next role's coming."
The reflection smiled—her face, but not quite hers.
"Alexis," Charlize gasped, heart thudding.
"We talked about this. Don't just show up uninvited."
"Sorry," the reflection said, mimicking a sheepish grin.
"Old habits."
Charlize exhaled. "You're supposed to stay quiet unless I call you. We agreed."
"I know. I forgot."
The reflection's face shifted slightly—still Charlize, but with something extra behind the eyes. Something watching.
"Didn't you have a talk with Jodie Foster?" Alexis asked.
"Thought she might pull some strings."
Charlize hesitated. "It was just a chat. I'm a nobody to her."
"Don't sell yourself short."
Before Alexis could say more, a knock echoed from the door. In an instant, the mirror went still—just glass now, nothing behind it.
Charlize ran a hand through her hair and pulled on an oversized T-shirt.
Her mind raced, but her face gave nothing away as she opened the door.
"FBI?"
Charlize blinked, pressing one eye to the peephole. The badge was real, no doubt about it.
You want me to grab the gun? Alexis's voice echoed faintly in her head, amused.
Charlize hesitated.
Before she could decide, the woman on the other side spoke.
"Is Miss Charlize Theron in? I'm Agent Kate Todd, FBI. I'd like to ask a few questions about Alan McElroy."
She didn't sound hostile—just tired. Official. Charlize slowly opened the door.
"So," Charlize said, settling into the living room with practiced calm, "you're here because Alan's body turned up yesterday. You're checking alibis."
Kate nodded slightly.
Charlize had watched enough crime dramas to know how this worked.
The only difference was that she wasn't playing a part this time.
Still, she had nothing to hide—not about this.
"In the morning, we were filming. The afternoon was the wrap party. Nothing fancy. That evening..."
She paused, flashing a mischievous smile.
"I was with Director Christian."
Kate's brow twitched.
"In the morning, our crew was filming, and in the afternoon, we held a simple wrap party," Charlize began.
"As for the evening, I was with Director Christian—"
Seeing the other person's "I understand" look, Charlize smiled mischievously before continuing.
"Also with the assistant director Richard Arsenal, and the Cinematographer Addison Young"
Seeing Kate's widened eyes, Charlize hurriedly continued
"And Judy Foster and her assistant. We are watching a sample of "Wrong Turn" that had just been filmed."
"..."
'Return my admiration, shock, and sympathy,' Kate felt a little depressed.
Kate blinked, surprised by the star-studded list. Charlize caught it.
"Yeah," she said, a little smug.
"We like to keep things low-key."
Kate tried not to react. If Charlize was telling the truth, half the key people on the crew had airtight alibis.
But something didn't sit right. The case had already run cold once, and Westwood—the producer—had been cagey during their last talk.
"Did you know Alan personally?" Kate asked.
Charlize looked genuinely puzzled.
"No. Never met him. You'd have better luck asking Christian or the others."
Kate gave a noncommittal nod.
"Would you mind introducing me to Christian? I don't have a number for him."
Charlize hesitated too long.
"Sorry," she said finally.
"We're not as close as you might think. You should ask Mr. Westwood."
Kate filed the hesitation away. Charlize had just lied to her, or at least dodged the question. And that was something.
As the actress made polite excuses, Kate stood and thanked her for the time.
But she left with more suspicion than she came in with.
Something about Christian Booth didn't add up—and Charlize's carefully chosen words only deepened the mystery.
Meanwhile, across town, news of Alan's murder continued to circulate.
In the quiet of his office, Producer Westwood stared at his calendar and began sketching a new schedule that might keep certain secrets buried just a little longer.