Chapter 6 - The Fall of the Algorithm
The internet does not forgive the clumsy.
By Sunday afternoon, Tiffany’s livestream disaster had metastasized across every major social platform. The five-minute clip of General Hayes identifying my rank and exposing Brad Miller’s fraudulent defense contracts had garnered seventeen million views on TikTok under the hashtag #FakeHeiressBusted.
Commentators who had spent years analyzing Tiffany’s "lifestyle" content began tearing it apart with ruthless efficiency. The leased cars were documented; the "charity galas" she attended were revealed to be public-ticket events she had snuck into; and her former college roommates began posting videos detailing years of staged behavior and unpaid debts.
Her main sponsor, Bloom Botanicals, issued a corporate statement at noon:
*“Bloom Botanicals maintains a zero-tolerance policy regarding fraud, military misrepresentation, and unethical conduct. Effective immediately, we have severed all promotional ties with Tiffany Vance and are pursuing recovery of advance fees paid for upcoming campaigns.”*
I watched the statement scroll across my tablet while sitting at Margaret’s kitchen table. Opposite me sat Captain David Chen, my junior intelligence officer who had arrived from Peterson Air Force Base to assist with the digital transfer of the patent archives.
"Colonel," Chen said, tapping his keyboard. "The Denver Post just ran the headline. *Former Aerospace Supplier Indicted in Multimillion-Dollar Probate Scam.* They’ve named your father, Brad Miller, and the notary."
"Has Tiffany been charged?" I asked.
"Not federally," Chen replied. "The U.S. Attorney’s office considers her an unindicted co-conspirator for now—she’s cooperating with investigators to avoid accessory charges. She gave them Brad’s secondary laptop this morning."
I took a sip of black coffee. It was predictable. Tiffany was a creature of self-preservation; she would throw anyone into the path of an oncoming train if it bought her ten more minutes of sunlight.
The front gate intercom buzzed.
I glanced at the security monitor mounted near the pantry. A small white rental car was idling at the cattle guard. Sitting in the driver’s seat was Tiffany.
"Do you want me to turn her away, ma'am?" Chen asked, already reaching for his radio.
I shook my head. "No. Let her through."
Five minutes later, Tiffany walked into the kitchen. She looked hollowed out. Her phone was off—a minor miracle—and she was wearing an oversized hoodie with the hood pulled halfway over her forehead, as if hiding from cameras that weren't there.
She stopped at the edge of the kitchen linoleum, looking around the wood-paneled room.
"I haven't been here since I was twelve," she murmured. "Grandma told me I couldn't come back until I learned how to close a screen door without slamming it."
"Grandma had a low tolerance for noise," I said.
Tiffany pulled her hands into her sleeves. "Everyone hates me, Nora. My agency dropped me. My management locked me out of my accounts because they said my brand is toxic. Brad's family is suing me for defamation because of what I yelled on the stream."
"You made your choices, Tiffany."
"I thought Brad was real!" she burst out, her voice cracking with self-pity. "He had the suits, the car, the connections—he talked about General Dynamics and Lockheed like he had lunch with their CEOs! He told me if we got Grandma's patents, we’d have fifty million dollars by next summer! He said Dad was going to lose everything anyway, so why shouldn't we take it?"
"Because it wasn't yours," I said simply.
She looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed and pleading. "Can't you do something? You're a Colonel. You know the General. Just tell them it was a misunderstanding! Tell the news that you authorized the paperwork! Nora, please. I have eighty-four dollars in my checking account. That's all I have left."
I stood up, walked to the refrigerator, poured a glass of cold tap water, and set it on the counter in front of her.
"I won't lie for you, Tiffany. Not for eighty-four dollars, and not for forty million."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" she wept, collapsing onto one of the wooden barstools. "What am I supposed to be?"
May you like
"You're going to have to find out what you are when the camera is off," I said. "And for the first time in your life, you're going to have to do it with your own hands."
***
