Willa made me eat first.
Pasta. Garlic and oil. Parmesan from a green can. I didn't care. It was hot and it was food and I ate it standing over the sink.
While I ate, she researched.
"Julian Croft," she said, reading from her laptop. "Thirty-four. Founder of Croft Security. Valuation four hundred million. Specializes in encryption and data protection. Clients include Fortune 500s. Quiet. No social media. No interviews. Keeps a low profile."
"Any connection to Sloane?"
"Half-sister. Same mother, different fathers. Mother remarried when Julian was twelve. Sloane was born two years later. He paid for her college. Got her the job as Head of Strategic Partnerships three months ago."
"Head of Strategic Partnerships," I repeated. "That's a real title?"
"It's a real title at a real company. She's not just an influencer. She's an executive."
I finished the pasta. Put the plate in the sink.
"She's been selling user data for eighteen months. That's before she got the job."
Willa scrolled. "The screenshots show payments starting last year. She wasn't an employee then. Just a contractor. Doing brand partnerships."
"So she had access."
"Enough access. And when she became Head of Strategic Partnerships, she had more."
I sat down next to her. Looked at the laptop screen. Julian Croft's company website. Clean. Minimal. No photos of employees. Just product.
"His security is supposed to be the best in the industry," I said.
"Apparently not."
"Or he knows."
Willa looked at me. "You think he's in on it?"
"I think we don't know. And I think before I do anything, I need to know."
My phone buzzed. Dorian.
I stared at the screen.
"Answer it," Willa said.
I answered. Didn't speak.
"Mara." His voice. Strained. "Mara, please."
I waited.
"I need to see you. We need to talk. This is—it's out of control. The videos, the comments, everything. My mom called me. My mom. She saw the live stream."
Still waiting.
"Mara, say something."
"You filmed me dying."
"I didn't know you were dying."
"You filmed me unconscious on the floor and posted it for views."
"It was a joke. A stupid joke. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think."
"Mara, please. Let me explain. In person. I'll come to you. Where are you?"
I looked at Willa. She shook her head.
"No," I said.
"Mara—"
"No. You don't get to explain. You don't get to apologize. You don't get to cry and make it better. You left me. You filmed me. You went to a hotel with another woman while I was on a steel slab with a toe tag."
Silence.
"Where's Sloane?" I asked.
"I don't know. She won't talk to me. Her lawyer called. Said I shouldn't contact her."
"Her lawyer?"
"She's lawyered up. Already. She has a whole team. PR, legal, management. They're spinning it. Making me the villain."
"You are the villain."
"I know. I know. But she's—Mara, she's good at this. She knows how to play the game. She'll come out of this fine. I'll be the one who goes down."
I almost laughed.
"You should have thought about that before you filmed me."
"Mara—"
I hung up.
Looked at Willa.
"He's right about one thing," I said. "She's good at this."
Willa turned the laptop toward me. Sloane's new video had thirty million views now. Comments overwhelmingly positive. "She's so brave" "Leave her alone" "Dorian is trash"
"Her PR team is working," Willa said. "They're flooding the comments. Buying likes. Shaping the narrative."
"That fast?"
"That's what they do. She probably had them on retainer before this happened. Influencers always do."
I picked up Sloane's personal phone again. Opened her email. Scrolled.
Found it. A thread from three weeks ago. Subject: "Retainer agreement."
Her lawyer. PR firm. Management company. All on one thread. Discussing strategy for "potential controversies."
They'd been preparing for this. Not for me specifically. For something. Anything. The influencer playbook.
I kept scrolling. Found another email. From her lawyer. Dated yesterday. Before I woke up.
Subject: "Dorian Voss - Contingency."
Content: "If the wife situation escalates, we go with the manipulation angle. You're a victim. He lied to you. You had no idea. We'll need to scrub any evidence to the contrary. Do you have anything that needs deleting?"
Her reply: "I'll handle it."
I looked at the date. Yesterday. While I was dead.
"She knew," I said. "Yesterday. Before I woke up. She was already planning how to spin it."
Willa leaned over. Read the email. Went quiet.
"Her lawyer told her to delete evidence," I said. "She said she'd handle it. But she didn't delete everything."
I held up her phone.
"She kept this. All of it. The screenshots. The messages. The data sales. Why?"
Willa thought about it. "Insurance. In case Dorian turns on her. She keeps proof that he was complicit. That he knew about you. That he filmed you because she told him to."
"So she has leverage."
"Exactly."
I looked at the phone. At the data. At the offshore account. At the name of the buyer. Julian Croft's competitor.
"She's playing everyone," I said. "Dorian. Her followers. Her brother. The company she works for."
"Yeah."
I stood up. Walked to the window. Looked out at Venice. The street below. People walking dogs. Getting coffee. Living normal lives.
"What are you thinking?" Willa asked.
"I'm thinking I need to talk to Julian Croft."
"Her brother? The one she's stealing from?"
"He's also the one with four hundred million dollars and the best security in the industry. If anyone can help me take her down, it's him."
"You don't know him. You don't know if he's on her side."
"I know she's stealing from him. That's enough."
Willa was quiet for a moment. Then: "How do you even get to him? He doesn't do interviews. Doesn't do events. Doesn't have social media."
I looked at Sloane's phone. At her calendar.
"He has a coffee order," I said.
"What?"
"Her calendar. She has a reminder every Tuesday and Thursday. 'J's oat milk latte - Blue Bottle - 8:15 AM.' She picks it up for him. Brings it to the office."
Willa stared at me.
"You're going to stalk her brother at a coffee shop?"
"I'm going to have a conversation with him. In a public place. With witnesses."
"That's still stalking."
"That's research."
I checked the time. 7:45 AM. Thursday.
"Blue Bottle," I said. "Where is it?"
Willa pulled up the location. Arts District. Twenty minutes from her apartment.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Sweatpants. Sweatshirt. Bedhead.
"I need clothes."
Willa went to her closet. Came back with jeans. A sweater. Sneakers. All her ex-boyfriend's. All too big.
"They'll have to work."
I changed. The jeans sagged. I rolled the cuffs. The sweater swallowed me. I tied the sneakers tight.
"You look like a teenager who got lost on the way to school," Willa said.
"I'll take it."
She handed me a jacket. A hat. Sunglasses.
"Just in case."
I put them on. Looked in the mirror. Unrecognizable.
"Text me every hour," Willa said. "If you don't, I'm calling the police."
"On what grounds?"
"I'll make something up."
I hugged her. She hugged back. Tight.
"Be careful," she said.
"I'm always careful."
I left.
The Uber dropped me two blocks from Blue Bottle. I walked the rest. Hat low. Sunglasses on. Hands in pockets.
The coffee shop was busy. 8:10 AM. Line out the door. I found a spot against the wall. Watched.
At 8:14, a black car pulled up. Town car. Tinted windows.
A man got out.
Tall. Dark hair. Suit. No tie. He walked like someone who didn't need to hurry.
Julian Croft.
He got in line. Waited. Ordered. Oat milk latte. Paid. Stepped to the side.
I watched him. He didn't look at his phone. Didn't look around. Just stood there. Waiting.
At 8:17, his drink came. He took it. Turned to leave.
I stepped in front of him.
"Mr. Croft."
He stopped. Looked at me. Gray eyes. No expression.
"I need five minutes."
"Who are you?"
"Mara Cross. Your sister is sleeping with my husband. She's also selling your user data to your competitor. I have proof."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then:
"Buy you a coffee?"