Chapter 1
Ziggy Bowie leaned forward and pressed her hands on the console, careful not to touch any of the actual controls.
She stared at Noah Chase and his guest through the glass, rather than via the screens.
Sometimes, it was better to see the final segment without all the camera angles and tight zoom shots.
Tonight was about the best damn broadcast a producer could ever dream of from her anchor. Noah was on fire. One rapid, precise question after the other, not giving his guest a chance to breathe.
And that was the point.
Her pulse thumped in her chest. Every person watching at home was sitting on the edge of their seat, waiting for the moment this guest broke. It didn't always happen in big ways, but the truth would always seep over the airwaves, no matter how well hidden a person believed they'd kept it.
On the center monitor, the businessman's hand drifted to his collar.
He tugged once and kept talking, digging himself deeper without realizing it.
For forty minutes, Noah had been walking him toward this moment—one reasonable question at a time, building the kind of corner that looked like open road until they crashed into a wall.
"Change to camera three," Andrew Morgan, the director of the show, said.
The shot tightened, and the atmosphere in the control room shifted—that specific charge when a live broadcast was about to break open, and everyone felt it simultaneously.
Noah leaned forward with a warm smile and asked the question. The hard one. The one the businessman never thought he'd ask, much less knew how to ask.
It never ceased to amaze Ziggy that people with something to hide came on this show. The irony was never lost on her—or Noah.
Four seconds of silence.
The guest's mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing came out. He sat staring at Noah, anger and confusion etched across his face in equal measure.
"That's the clip," Kylie Davidson said. "Push it on social. That's pay dirt."
"That's why Noah gets the big bucks." Ziggy picked up her tablet—numbers still climbing with four minutes left in the broadcast. She made a note, moved to the graphics station, and checked the close sequence.
She ran a tight ship—anticipated problems before they happened.
Accounted for every detail, so all Noah had to do was sit in that chair and do what he did best.
Find the truth.
Fifth year in. Three years at the top of the ratings. That didn't happen by accident.
On the monitor, Noah wrapped the last few sound bites, his voice unhurried and warm, giving the man a graceful exit he hadn't earned.
That was the other thing about Noah—he never made them bleed out completely.
He got what he needed, let them walk away with some dignity intact, and somehow that made it worse for them because there was nothing to push back against. Just Noah Chase with a mix of courteous and devastation, and a handshake at the end of the worst forty-five minutes of their professional life.
Her crew locked in for the final countdown. Graphics rolling, Kylie's social feeds running live across every platform.
Ziggy paced the back of the room one last time. Nothing was wrong—if something were going sideways, it would've happened long before now. But she had a ritual, and she never broke it.
Never.
"Relax," Andrew said. "You and Noah nailed it again."
She planted her hands on her hips and held her breath until the green light went red and Noah looked through the glass and smiled.
Then she let herself breathe.
"Great show." Andrew squeezed her arm. "I'll be honest—I wasn't sure he'd bring that one home. But he did."
Ziggy pulled off her headset. In five years, Noah had let a few stories go belly up, a few more end flat. But not often. "I always had faith."
“I’m not surprised.” Andrew smiled. "I'll be in my office for another half hour. See you tomorrow."
She worked her way through the post-broadcast routine, checking each position and releasing her crew for the night. She was gathering her things when Claire Harlow, one of the station's news researchers, appeared in the doorway, holding an envelope in both hands.
"This came for Mr. Chase during the broadcast." Claire kept her voice down like Ziggy had drilled into all of them, but Claire always had this annoying high-pitched squeal, even when she was whispering.
"Private courier at the front desk. I thought it might be story-related.
A source, maybe?" She smiled like she’d done a great service.
Ziggy took it. Noah's name was handwritten on the front. No return address. She always worried when anything came, especially on his birthday. "Thanks. I'll make sure he gets it."
"Could I have your ear for one more minute?
" Claire hooked a hand behind her elbow and rocked on her heels—a nervous habit Ziggy had clocked early on.
"I was hoping to follow some leads on the Carlson story.
It's two months out, not a huge story, but I have some background in data mining, and my brother’s in the field. He could help."
"Sure." Ziggy nodded. "Just run everything by Noah and me first, and remember the shows and stories you’re actually assigned to come first. I’m only allowing this because you did good work the last time, and I understand drive and ambition.”
Claire's face lit up. She turned on her heels and was out the door before Ziggy could say another word.
Ziggy laughed. She remembered being that young and that green and that certain the next story would change everything. Okay, she was still excited about her job. Young, she was not. She flung her bag over her shoulder and headed down the corridor.
Three knocks. A breath. Then she waited.
"Open."
Alone. Good. She hated herself a little for being glad, because it shouldn't matter.
It didn't mean anything. He always ended up alone eventually—not for lack of options, but because he kept picking women who couldn't tell the difference between the news and gossip and cared more about being seen with him than knowing him.
His jacket was over the sofa, tie loosened, feet up on the counter like he hadn't a care in the world. He caught her gaze in the mirror.
"You cut that one close," she said. "Four minutes to spare."
"Six."
"You need a clock." She dropped into the chair across from his vanity and crossed her legs. "Happy birthday."
He pointed at her in the mirror. "You know I hate—"
"Two words. Happy birthday. That's the whole thing." She set her bag on the floor. "Because it's important to celebrate the people we're grateful for."
"You sound like your sister-in-law, Callie."
"She's a smart woman. Moving on."
He smiled at her in the mirror like he always did. He was her best friend. Had been for years. They'd muddled through the awkward stretch after their fling—though he still hated that she called it that—and come out the other side intact—the dynamic duo. Still standing.
Still hurting—at least she was anyway.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome." She looked around the room with the kind of casual interest that wasn't casual at all because no matter how hard she tried to forget, she still had feelings. "I have to say I'm surprised what's-her-name isn't here. When you're dating someone, and it's their birthday, you show up."
“Her name was Monica.”
“Right.” She hadn’t actually forgotten, but she wished she could have. "Well? Where’s Monica… what was her last name?”
“Payne.” He laughed. “And not here."
"Over? Already? Since when?" Five years of watching him date his way through Seattle with the focused determination of a man trying to solve a problem that wasn't actually a problem, and she'd been professional about every single one of them.
Cordial at tapings. Pleasant when introductions happened. Never once made it weird.
"You're doing that thing with your face," he said.
"I'm not doing anything."
“You’re pursing your lips and scrunching your forehead. That means you’re somewhere between a lecture and a jab."
"You're projecting." She crossed her legs the other way. "I was going to sit here and be completely supportive while you told me it didn't work out, nod, and move on. Which is what we're doing."
"What about that guy you were seeing?" He held her gaze in the mirror. "Haven't seen him around lately."
She swallowed. They didn't often discuss her love life. She kept it away from work. Away from Noah. "That ended two months ago."
"Oh." He dropped his feet, swiveled, and leaned forward. "I'm sorry. Not to be a jerk, but I'm glad—it would've been a little rough going to my surprise birthday party without a date while you were hanging all over someone."
"There's no party." She blinked like a normal person. Or tried.
"Right. Because your family hasn't decided I'm some adopted son, brother, cousin, or something." He shook his head, chuckling. "As long as your other sister-in-law, Priela, made the food and the cake came from Crystal’s bakery, I won't die of complete embarrassment."
She groaned. "How did you know?"
"As if I'd give up my source." He leaned back and winked.
"You're impossible." She reached into her bag and held out the envelope. "This came by private courier. I'm not sure exactly when."
He reached out and took it, his fingers brushing hers. She ignored the heat that passed between them. It was nothing. It meant nothing.
She watched his face when his eyes landed on the front.
He turned the envelope over, opened it, and pulled out a plain white card—the kind that came in a multipack, nothing decorative—and read it.
His face did nothing. Over the years, he'd gotten better about his birthday. It wasn't easy for him—a constant reminder of everything he'd buried. She'd asked him once why he'd kept the same date when he'd gone to the trouble of changing everything else.
His answer had been simple.
I needed to know that Noah existed. Angel's birthdate gave me a date that meant something.
He held out the card. "Another hater. Probably someone I put on air who's still pissed." He dragged a hand over his head. "Perfect timing."
The card was generic on the front. It was the handwritten message inside that made her go still.
You think you're untouchable. The golden boy. The truth-seeker. The reporter everyone is equally afraid of and desperate to impress. But who holds you accountable? I know what you did. You should think about who you hurt when you make decisions without even a conversation.
No signature. The handwriting was neat. Precise.
Ziggy read it twice. Turned it over—nothing on the back.
She pulled her hair from the clip at the nape of her neck. "That's a threat."
"It's vague and it doesn't give us much," he said. "We've had eight of them this year alone.”
"Then why does this one look like it got under your skin?"
"You know how I get this time of year." He folded his arms. "And this year, it's worse. We might control what stories we run now, but the twenty-fifth anniversary is coming, and every other show and reporter out there is going to go after it. That makes me nervous."
She thought about that teenage boy walking into a courtroom, and the man who'd spent twenty-five years outrunning everything attached to that day, and how no matter how far he ran, that past was always a half step behind him.
"He's kept his promise all these years," she said. "Do you really think he'd change his mind now?"
"Honestly? I don't know." Noah pushed to his feet and slowly crossed the room, leaning against the door.
"I haven't spoken to him in ten years—when that tabloid show tried to get him to talk.
I took a big risk going to see him. He told me he'd never expose me unless I wanted him to.
" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "He also said he missed me.
That he wished I could separate what he'd done from the fact that he was still my father.
" Noah closed his eyes for a moment. "He said he was proud of me. "
"You never told me you saw him again."
He gave a dry laugh. "I figured you'd be hung up on the omission."
She crossed to him. "I'm not hung up on the third visit." She rested her hand on his forearm. "I'm hung up on how much it's obviously tortured you. It explains a lot about how you get this time of year."
"You do like to psychoanalyze me."
She palmed his cheek. "And you like to push my buttons and push me away."
"Isn't that what best friends are for?" He curled his fingers around her wrist and kissed her hand. "My birthday always makes me a little crazy."
"I tried to talk Jag and Callie out of the party. They feel like they owe you."
"For what?" He pulled his head back. "If you tell me it's because I didn't do what other reporters did and try to make them look like idiots—because Callie spent a year working alongside the killer who murdered her sister…” He trailed off and arched a brow.
"Your brother was a damn good detective, and he's an excellent police chief.
The Trinket Killer went decades without getting caught.
They weren't fools. They were driven by grief.
Besides, a killer like that knows how to blend in. " He shrugged. "I should know."
"You told their truth without making it cruel. I've watched you do it a hundred times." She dropped her chin. "Same way you let tonight's guest walk away with a little of his humanity intact."
"He wasn't the worst person in the world.
" Noah glanced at the card. "We should send that to Boots.
Let her assess whether the threat's real.
" He hated bothering Boots, the station's investigator, with personal things, but this was the exact reason the station had hired her.
He looked back at Ziggy. "Now. Where is this party? "
"Your place." She winced. "I gave Darcie the key this morning after I disabled your alarm."
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Sneaky devil. I'm revoking your privileges."
"Right. Then who brings you tequila and pizza?"
He pressed his lips to hers—which shouldn't have been remarkable. He kissed her all the time. Just not on the lips, and he never lingered. But he lingered now, and she knew exactly how long because when he didn't pull back, she started counting.
Fourteen seconds.
She couldn't have told anyone why she counted. She just did.
"I'll do my best to act surprised." He stepped back.
"You’d better." She turned on her heels, snagged her bag, and reached for the card.
"I'll handle that." He lifted it from her hand. "Drive safe."
"You, too."
On shaky legs, she made her way down the hall, her heart loud in her chest. She hadn't fought for Noah five years ago because what was there to fight for? She'd watched him go from one meaningless relationship to the next. Why would she ever be any different?
But fourteen seconds didn't feel like friendship.
Not even close.