Story code: ST-001222
Part 3: The Smoking Screen
Marcus held the tablet out so Sarah and I could see the screen. The footage was clear enough to show the quiet back corridor of Studio 41, illuminated by the harsh overhead fluorescent lights. On screen, a figure in a distinct beige trench coat with a checkered pattern lining the collar walked quickly toward my dressing room. The figure paused, pulled a blank white plastic card from a pocket, and swiped it against the digital scanner. The indicator light flashed green, the lock clicked open, and the door was pushed open. The figure slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. Three minutes later, the same person hurried out, holding a smartphone screen-up, checking something before walking fast toward the lobby exit. Avery’s hand flew to her collar, pulling her beige trench coat closer to her chest to hide the checkered lining. Her breathing became noticeably faster, and she kept her eyes fixed on the concrete floor rather than looking at any of us. ‘That’s not clear at all,’ she said, her voice rising to a defensive, strained pitch. ‘You can’t even see the face. The resolution is terrible. Lots of people wear trench coats in the city, Chloe. You can’t accuse your own cousin based on a generic coat.’ I looked from the screen to the production monitor table nearby. Avery had left her large, open designer bag resting on one of the folding chairs. Inside the main compartment, sitting right on top of her makeup pouch, was a small black electronic device with a digital display screen, along with a couple of blank white plastic cards. I stepped over and reached into the bag. ‘Don’t touch my things!’ Avery yelled, taking a step toward me, her fingernails dug into her palms. Marcus immediately stepped in front of her, his large frame blocking her path. ‘Let her look, Avery,’ he said, his voice dropping to a low, stern register. ‘We’re trying to figure out how a secured door was breached on my set.’ I pulled out one of the white cards. On the back, written in tiny, faded black marker, was the number 402. I held it up so everyone could see it. ‘This is the exact ID number of my backup keycard,’ I said, looking directly at Sarah. ‘The one I kept in my apartment drawer. Avery had my keys in her hand for a full minute when we shared that cab on Tuesday. She used a portable card writer to copy the digital signature, programmed it onto this blank card, and used it to enter my room.’ Sarah’s face turned pale, her eyes darting from the white card to Avery. ‘Is this true, Avery? You cloned your cousin’s access card?’ ‘No! She’s planting things in my bag!’ Avery cried out, her hands shaking as she looked around at the lighting crew and the camera assistants who had gathered near the monitors. ‘She’s always been jealous of me. She’s setting me up because she wants to cut me out of the family and keep all these brand deals for herself!’ At that exact moment, Avery’s phone, which was lying face-up on the black production table, vibrated against the metal surface. The screen lit up with a banner notification. The sender was listed as ‘Rival Talent Agent’. The message preview was fully visible to everyone standing around the table: ‘Did you get the shot of Chloe’s cosmetics contract? We need the signature page and the payout terms to pitch the override.’ Below the text, a small image attachment preview showed a clear photograph of my signature page, with the bold logo of Sarah’s cosmetics label and the million-dollar figure highlighted in yellow ink. The room fell into a dead silence, the text message blinking on the screen like a beacon of absolute guilt. The lighting technician, Leo, stepped back a few inches, his eyes shifting from the phone to Avery’s pale face. Marcus slowly folded his arms, his gaze dropping to the screen where the contract preview was still visible. Sarah took a sharp, audible breath, her fingers tightening around her own portfolio. Avery reached out a trembling hand toward the phone, but she stopped halfway, her fingers twitching as she realized every single person in the room was staring at the screen. The trap had closed around her, and the weight of the evidence was undeniable.