Chapter 6 #2
Running the newsroom meant more than assigning stories.
It meant running interference with corporate, pushing back against executives who only saw profit margins, and making sure reporters had what they needed before they realized they needed it.
Flint had been fighting battles on my behalf for years without ever mentioning them.
The realization settled somewhere behind my ribs. I turned back toward the board, letting my eyes drift over Guy's photograph.
"I always assumed he tolerated me because the ratings justified the expense."
"You were wrong." There wasn't an ounce of doubt or play in Flint's voice. "The ratings mattered," he admitted. "But they existed because of you."
I looked back at him.
“You don't just report stories, Mallory. You make people care about them. That's not something you manufacture in a focus group.”
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. "You turning into a fan, Flint?"
His own smile appeared, slow and unmistakably genuine. “Been one longer than you think.”
The words landed somewhere beneath my ribs.
For one impossible heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink until it held only the two of us. The murder board faded into the background. So did the cold takeout, the coffee, the endless questions we'd been chasing for days.
My stomach performed an unsettling little somersault. Not because Flint had admitted he'd believed in me. Because I'd believed in him for just as long.
He must have seen something change in my expression. Thankfully, whatever it was, he let it pass.
Clearing his throat, Flint broke eye contact first and turned back toward the whiteboard. He uncapped the marker again. “We'll unpack that another day.”
An unspoken promise underscored that statement. It would happen. I could put money on it.
He drew a clean box around Guy Reardon's photograph before looking back at me. “What if he wasn't funding you?"
I looked at him and frowned.
"What if he was funding one investigation?"
My pulse quickened. Funding my investigation. Flattering, yes, but also—terrifying. What about my work had stood out to him enough to want to underwrite it?
I replayed the last eighteen months in rapid succession.
The stories Guy had personally approved. The fights that nearly boiled up between him and Flint. While I hadn’t had a lot of contact with him, there was gossip.
No one gossiped like a newsroom full of journalists. We might not be in the room for those meetings, but it took no time at all for the word to get around.
Guy had championed a few of the investigations, apparently liking their optics. Others he’d been dismissive of—more than once, he only let those stories slide if we prioritized the bigger investigations.
Then there were the tips. Not too many, but a couple that suggested I interview some people. At least one of those had given me my first taste of what the Auditor was after.
My stomach tightened. “Flint…”
"I know." The rough sympathy in his voice offered a comfort I didn’t want. Not right now.
"No." I shook my head slowly. "You don't."
"What?"
"I thought I was choosing those stories."
He didn't answer, nor did he have to. Somewhere along the way, someone might have been choosing them for me.
I began pacing.
Three steps.
Turn.
Three steps back.
The room suddenly felt smaller than it had five minutes earlier.
Turn.
“What if none of this started with the Auditor?” The questions began to scroll through my mind. A new one popping up each time I pivoted for the next three step pace.
"What if it started with Guy?"
Three steps. Turn.
"What if he was pointing me toward something?"
Three steps. Turn.
"What if—"
"Mal."
I kept walking.
"Mallory."
Still walking.
Flint crossed the room and stepped right into my path. I had to stop or go around him. He held out one of the food containers.
I stared at it, bemused, then took it. It was the sesame chicken with the chopsticks still poking out of it. The smell of it teased me.
"Look at me."
I did.
His expression hadn't changed. If anything, he’d grown steadier. His full mouth firmed into a tough line, but he wasn’t scowling.
“The facts first.” It was a good reminder. A solid one.
One I needed.
I let out a slow breath. “The facts."
Flint nodded once. ”Guy changed the budget."
"Yes." That was an indisputable fact, one Flint could source himself since he’d been there.
"He changed your assignments." He canted his head. “He attempted to manipulate your assignments by heavily suggesting.”
“So that’s a maybe?” I couldn’t help it, I nearly smiled and Flint shrugged.
“He kept getting in my lane.” He wasn’t going to apologize. “He might know budgets, but I know the news.”
“Yes,” I said, not so much to soothe him but because Flint was right. He did know the news and I hated it when people cut into my lane too. “Do you think he was personally approving investigations he would've rejected two years earlier?”
Marker capped again, Flint tapped it against his chin as he stared at the board. “I think he might have. I’ll need to go through my notes and the meeting minutes to verify it…”
To see what had been said. “Then we look into each one he touched, suggested, or supported.” I tilted my head from side to side. “We also look into anything he vehemently rejected.”
With another slow nod, Flint said, “Looking as closely at what we were pointed away from is as important as what was put in our path.”
Half of all good investigations, and sometimes three-quarters of them, was all about the tedium. Verify. Verify. Backstop. Source. Verify.
"Then we ask why." Flint tapped the question in the center of the board. “Why did he want us to do any of it that goes beyond ratings or optics.”
I laughed quietly. “No pressure.”
He snorted. “Admit it. You love how my brain works.”
“You learned from the best,” I quipped rather than just say it. Though, I did love how his brain worked even when he frustrated me.
A grin finally escaped him and for one, seemingly impossible moment, everything else disappeared.
The murders.
The FBI.
The Auditor.
It was just Flint and me in a room full of impossible questions. He not only understood the way my mind unraveled a mystery, he also got how to help me weave it all back together.
My phone buzzed against the conference table and shivered a couple of millimeters under the force of it.
Flint and I looked at it simultaneously. Unknown Number flashed across the screen. Neither of us reached for it. Not right away.
Breaking the silence first, Flint asked, “You expecting anyone?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But then nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
The Monty Python line earned me a faint smile as the phone ceased, the call kicking over to voicemail. A few spare seconds later, the phone vibrated again.
Unknown number.
A second attempt.
"You don't have to answer it," he said.
I stared at the screen. “Actually..." I murmured. "I think I do."
"Why?"
"Because whoever's on the other end knows I won't ignore a question."
His expression tightened. “Or they know you'll chase one."
I couldn't argue with that.
Curiosity had carried me through war zones, political coups, and more crime scenes than I cared to count. It had also nearly gotten me killed.
The phone noise ended. Ten seconds later, it buzzed for a third time.
Persistent.
Patient.
“They know I’m going to answer.” It was just a matter of when.
Flint met my eyes. “If this is him...”
“I know.” The Auditor hadn’t been this bold since he sent me a finger. To be honest, I preferred the call to a finger.
"If it's Brewster..." Flint continued.
A sigh escaped me. I’d made mistakes with Brewster. I’d let that simmering attraction drive a decision or four. So, yes, if it were Brewster. “I know. I can handle it.”
Not saying anything, Flint brushed his knuckles down my arm before he took the container of food. ”And if it's neither...”
We’d handle that too. I picked up the phone but didn't swipe to answer. Instead, I just hit speaker as I accepted the call.
"Mallory McBryan."
Silence. But it was a populated silence, like someone was there. This wasn’t just dead air.
“You're closer than the FBI.” A voice—flattened, distorted beyond recognition—said. “You finally stopped looking at the bodies.”
Then the line went dead.