Chapter 17
Noah did his best to ignore the room’s rigidity as one of his techs clipped the microphone to his sportscoat.
He glanced around at the four cinderblock walls, painted the color of old bone. It was the kind of gray that had never been white and reminded him of death.
Two chairs had been placed in the center of the room with a small table between them. The chairs had been orange once, maybe, and had cracked around the edges. The linoleum underneath was a combination of scuff marks and a pale yellow.
The light, from fluorescent tubes behind wire cages mounted to the ceiling, flattened everything it touched.
They buzzed at a frequency just low enough that Noah had stopped hearing it after a while, which was its own kind of cruelty—the sound his brain eventually accepted as silence.
This was the best the warden could mange for a well-known newscaster and his serial killer father.
The room was chilly, but it was the kind of institutional cold that clung to the concrete and never quite let go. Everything unnecessary had been removed and everything necessary had been bolted down, leaving behind a space that didn’t invite conversation—let alone confessions.
However, there was nowhere in this room to hide. As far as Noah was concerned, that was a good thing.
“That should do it," the tech said.
“Is it on?”
“Not yet.”
“Give me a minute with Ziggy before we do a sound check, okay?”
“You’re the boss.” The tech stepped back. “Wave to me when you’re ready.”
“Let me take a look.” Ziggy moved in. Her fingers tugged at his sportscoat, and she adjusted the mic as she did before every show, but this time she seemed to do it with less focus and more a need to do something with her hands.
“Stop moving,” she muttered.
“I’m standing still.”
“Are not.” She flattened her hand briefly against his chest, steadying him. “You’re vibrating.”
His heart pushed irrationally against her hand, as if it wanted to jump out of his chest and be held. He couldn’t blame it. She was the kindest, gentlest, most loving person he knew. And this was all taking a toll on her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, because he couldn’t concentrate on himself. If he did that, he’d go down a rabbit hole he couldn’t navigate. Tonight, he needed to be more on than he’d ever been before. He had to not only direct his father but also direct himself, and that was going to take some effort.
She looked up at him and smiled. It wasn’t wide, and it wasn’t even quite genuine, but it was Ziggy. “I’m doing surprisingly well,” she said. “Claire’s been overly helpful.”
Noah’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Helpful how?”
“She’s taken notes no one asked for, offered to organize things that were already handled, keeps hovering like she’s waiting for something to happen, and she wants to be wherever I am. She thought I should have backup coming in here.” Ziggy adjusted the wire again, even though it didn’t need it.
And he let her.
“Sounds like she’s trying to get information,” Noah said.
“Maybe, but what’s really grating on my nerves is that she can’t wait to watch.”
“A little too excited?”
Ziggy placed her hands on his shoulders. “That would be an understatement.”
That told him they were definitely on the right track. “What about Jag? Brian? Are they here?”
“I got a text ten minutes ago. The warden set them up in a separate room. They’ll be able to watch everything. But more importantly, Brian got the information on the shell corporation that wired the money into Monica’s account.”
“And?”
“It all came from Claire. Or, shall we say, Daddy’s trust fund,” Ziggy said. “Jag didn't say anything about the letters or phone calls, but he did say they was damning enough. Maybe you don't have to do this.”
“No. I need to put an end to looking over my shoulder, and I need to do it on my terms. Getting him to own everything else, along with drawing out Claire, that’s the icing.”
“Alright. I’m right here with you.”
“Noah,” the tech called. “We need to do that sound check.”
“Sure.” He nodded.
The tech stepped forward, flipped the switch, walked away, and hit another switch on a box. “Okay, start talking.”
“Singing in the rain. I’m just singing in the rain,” Noah said.
“That never gets old.” The tech gave him a thumbs-up.
Noah scanned the room. Two cameras. One locked for the wide shot, one positioned to catch every shift in expression.
A skeleton crew stood just outside the frame, quiet, efficient, already moving like this was just another segment instead of something that could dismantle everything he’d built if it went wrong.
Because that was the truth of it.
Ziggy cupped his face, forcing him to focus on her instead of everything else pressing in. “Don’t hold back,” she said quietly.
“I won’t.” He leaned in and kissed her like he might not ever see her again. He sighed. That probably wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done. Someone whistled in the background.
Someone else cleared their throat, as the sound of metal screeching across the floor filled the room.
“Well,” a familiar voice said, “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Noah pulled back, but he didn’t turn immediately. He wanted to stare into Ziggy’s eyes for another few seconds before he had to become someone else one more time.
“Sorry about that.” Noah turned, holding her hand.
Matias Salazar stood between two guards, dressed in standard prison attire, exactly as Noah had insisted, because there was no way he could chance his father looking normal in everyday street clothes.
Noah couldn’t allow his viewers to see past the prison.
See past the jumpsuit into the man who had charmed an entire community for decades.
Even so, the ease with which Matias carried himself hadn’t changed.
That was the part Noah hadn’t been able to prepare for.
“Ziggy,” Noah said, “this is Matias Salazar.” And then, because he wanted to see the reaction. “Matias, this is Ziggy, my girlfriend.”
Ziggy stepped forward, her posture shifting into something controlled and professional, the tension Noah had felt from her moments ago sealed away, out of sight for anyone else.
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
Matias’s attention settled on her in a way that made Noah’s stomach tighten.
“The pleasure is mine,” Matias said in a soft, gentle tone.
And it sat wrong in Noah’s ears in a way he couldn’t quite shake.
He hadn’t expected this to be the moment that unsettled him.
“I’d best head to the control room,” she said. “The show will be starting soon, and I need to do a few things.”
“I’ll see you after the show.”
“Always.”
Noah kept his gaze on her until she was out the door. Then he turned back to the table.
“Let’s get you set,” the tech said as he moved in to mic Matias.
Noah took his seat, pulling out the chair and lowering himself into it, grounding himself in the physicality of it—the scrape of the legs, the solid weight beneath him—before looking up.
“This is how it’s going to work,” he said.
“We start with some baseline questions. Nothing too difficult, though it will be personal. And I’ll give you a little warning before we cut to commercial, when we won’t be discussing anything.
That’s for a sip of water, an adjustment of our mics, camera angles, that kind of thing. ”
Matias just sat there and stared at him, and Noah didn’t know if it was amusement that flickered in his eyes or awe.
“I assumed we would have more time beforehand,” Matias said. “A chance to discuss the questions. I feel so unprepared. I don’t know what you’ll be tossing at me.”
Noah almost found that funny.
“I also thought I’d be meeting more of your team and maybe your researchers.”
There it was. Researchers. How did he know that word? Okay, it wasn’t an uncommon term. But to use it when Claire was one, and Claire had been one of his frequent visitors?
“My show doesn’t work that way.” Noah adjusted his suit coat and did his best to get comfortable in an impossibly uncomfortable chair. “It’s a discussion. A conversation. Not a staged dance.”
They sat across from each other, separated by a distance that felt smaller than it should have. The weight of years crammed into a space that was supposed to be neutral and controlled—but felt more like that courtroom all those years ago.
The crew cleared out until only the essentials remained—camera, sound, and two guards positioned just outside the frame—leaving behind a deafening stillness that wasn’t empty so much as it was void.
“Rolling in ten seconds.” The cameraman held up his hand.
Noah placed his hands on his thighs, steady, even as his pulse picked up.
This was it. No shifting it. No walking it back. This was the moment Noah had hoped would never come. Now that it had, he couldn’t wait to get it over with.
The countdown ticked through the room, the camera operator lifting his fingers for the final seconds, and Noah let everything else fall away until there was nothing left but the man sitting across from him and the conversation he’d chosen to have.
“I’m Noah Chase, and this is Unfiltered.” Somewhere in his brain, he knew how many times he’d said that. Five years, every Thursday night, minus a few weeks off here and there. But this was the only time it truly mattered because this was the first time Noah would actually be unfiltered.
“Tonight, we’re coming to you from inside a federal correctional facility for a conversation that’s been years in the making.
A conversation that not only this audience has wanted, but truthfully, both my guest and I have wanted, too.
” Those last few words were the hint. The draw.
When his viewers went back to rewatch, they would see how Noah had set the stage, just like he always did.
“Matias Salazar. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”
Matias smiled. “Thrilled to be here. I’ve been a fan of your show for quite some time. The way you get people to say things they’d rather keep buried… It’s impressive.”