Chapter 1
Chapter
One
MALLORY
The scent of coffee hit first—just seconds before the headlines registered, screaming my name alongside the word murder. I stared at my phone and the notifications scrolling across the screen. There were a dozen or more missed calls, missed texts, with more continuing to arrive.
Even as I scanned each new blip, my brain seemed to take a beat to fully process the information.
I set the phone down and finished preparing my coffee.
The machine made it easy to grind the beans, brew the espresso, and steam the milk.
It wasn’t until I had the first cup ready that I reclaimed the phone and carried it with me to the dining table that overlooked Lake Michigan.
The view had easily added another hundred thousand to the cost of the condo, but it was worth it.
The sunrise kissed the horizon, turning the scattering of clouds in the distance a kind of ruddy purple and red.
They would gradually transform to pink as the day brightened and then the light would stretch out over the water.
My favorite time of day. I took another swallow of coffee before flipping open my laptop.
Normally, I protected the next twenty minutes with religious intensity—no phone, no headlines, no crises.
Eight years of therapy had taught me that peace wasn’t something you earned. It was something you guarded.
A miracle for a news junkie like me. Today, however, there was no way I could embrace self-care over the need to know. Sorry Doc Henderson. I went straight to my news aggregator. Like my phone, local news headlines had me as the story. A few of the wire services had already picked it up and there…
My network was running with it as breaking news.
Goddammit.
First up were the wire and regional reports.
“Investigators Review Financial Records After Reporter Links Unrelated Murders”
“Sources: FBI Examining Possible Pattern in Regional Killings Following Media Analysis”
“Note Referencing Local Anchor Found at Latest Homicide Scene, Police Confirm”
Using another journalist as a source—I was iffy on, but at least they were sourcing me with the credit for breaking the story if not being the one who figured it out. I could live with that.
Next in the list were the digital and cable news media takes.
“‘Did he do it for Mallory?’ Note Found at Murder Scene Raises Alarming Questions”
“Is the ‘Auditor’ Watching? Killer Appears to Reference On-Air Reporter by Name”
“From Analysis to Obsession: Are the Murders Escalating Around One Journalist?”
My heart sank even as my temper rose. They found another body. They had to have, but no one alerted me. Not my sources. Not my network. No one.
Gritting my teeth, I scrolled down.
Goddamn tabloids and clickbait sites.
“He’s Killing for the Camera: Did a Reporter Inspire a Serial Killer?”
“Mallory McBryan: Investigative Journalist—or the Killer’s Chosen Audience?”
“Stalker or Serial Killer? Is she the recipient of disturbing messages? Or the source of them?”
Calling me a fucking liar without calling me a fucking liar. They were tap dancing on the line. Beneath that came the bullshit opinion and punditry pieces.
“Murders, Media, and Motive: When Reporting Becomes Part of the Story”
“Exclusive: Internal Emails Show Concern Over Reporter’s Role in Auditor Case”
“Law Enforcement Sources: Killer May Be Tracking Coverage—Is Mallory McBryan Safe?”
The last one in the list was from a national outlet, but they hadn’t given it “front page” status, just a collection piece detailing all of the information I’d reported so far. Not speculative, not hysterical, and not filled with innuendo.
“The Anchor, the Killer, and the Ledger: What We Know About the ‘Auditor’ Murders So Far”
No doubt existed within me that he would like this one best. It highlighted his methodical nature and intelligence.
Each headline that followed grew more unnervingly personal, focused less on the grisly details of the recent murders and more on me—my career, my choices, my presence in the story itself. I hit play on the overnight update on the network.
It was the weekend, which meant the story would have more traction across social media, online news outlets, and print.
At last count, roughly eighty-six percent of adults in the U.S.
got their news online, and sixty percent checked more than once a day.
Social media accounted for most of that traffic, a reality we’d all learned to live with.
Headlines were news, clickbait was views, and the problem was an audience rarely going beyond the first six to ten words.
Not a story—just a bite. And not even the best bite.
A headache throbbed behind my eyes. The headlines irritated me, sure, but I understood the logic. They’d get clicks. Eyes on screens. If we’d stumbled onto a story like this, we would have done the same.
What gnawed at me wasn’t the coverage—it was the unnamed sources.
I rose and headed back to the espresso machine for another cup, trying to focus on my breathing, wrestling my temper into submission.
Getting pissed solved nothing. I needed a plan.
Shit happened, stories broke, and I had to be ready to pivot. No one ever promised me an easy job.
I’d just settled back into my chair with the fresh cup when my phone rang.
Before I even saw who it was, a new voicemail notification blinked on the screen. I hesitated, a tight knot forming in my stomach. Something told me this wasn’t from a colleague. Sending the new call to voicemail, I opened up the new message.
The message played, and a smooth, measured voice filled the room:
“You were close last night. Not everything is as it seems. Look again at the filings from ‘09. Cross-reference the names. You’ll see the error. Accounts do not close themselves.”
The voice was calm. Measured. Unnervingly precise. No anger. No demand. Just… authority. Like someone correcting a student who didn’t even realize they were being graded. I let it play twice, feeling my stomach tighten as I gripped the mug, trying to steady my pulse.
I was still digesting it when my phone rang again. This time, the name “Deadline Daddy” glared back at me. Flint Carter.
As news director, he was my boss and not a fan of the nickname, but it suited his attitude and his looks. The more he didn’t like it, the more I used it. Tit for tat. I debated not answering, but I’d never been a coward—and I had no intention of starting now.
“McBryan,” I said. “And yes, I’ve seen.”
No need to play coy.
“Mallory…” I could practically taste the exasperation in his tone. “We need to talk.”
I skimmed the next row of headlines on my laptop as I sipped my coffee before I replied, forcing myself to focus on the mundane rather than the echo of that voicemail. “Fortunately, for you, the miracle of technology means we’re already chatting.”
He sighed. “I’m not playing this game with you. You’re not going back on the air for a while.”
“Excuse me?” All the play left my voice, and I straightened. “You take me off the air, you violate my contract.”
“If I put you on the air, I am risking your life. I’m not willing to do that.”
“No one asked you, Flint.” I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to exhale and relax. I pushed the lingering chill from that message to the back of my mind. “I would think you would be more concerned with the leak of internal communications from the newsroom to other outlets.”
“I will handle that particular snafu, but it’s not the most pressing of issues. Your safety is.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said, hoping I was at least correct. “I’ve been doing this for years. This guy is hardly the first tough candidate I’ve had to deal with.”
“Mal,” Flint said with a sigh. “This isn’t some militia leader looking to tell his story or even inmates in a prison hoping to get a second look at their cases because you make them the story. This guy isn’t reaching out to you for an interview.”
“I disagree that he’s reaching out to me at all,” I said, thinking of the voicemail, of the letters that had arrived months ago. I didn’t tell Flint about it. Why would I? Telling him would only complicate matters.
“We’ll have to just agree to disagree on that one, Mal. The FBI has already been in touch. We have agents coming in who want to talk to us.”
Son of a bitch.
I slammed back my coffee like it was vodka, the lingering unease from that voice still prickling my senses.
“This isn’t just another story anymore,” Flint continued, calm and even. That same unshakable focus that had built his reputation. His newsroom. His people. He commanded without raising his voice.
“I didn’t call to debate this with you, Mal,” he said. “You have made a name for yourself digging into mysteries people want answered. Particularly those that haunt others, these killings are getting worse.”
“It’s my lead,” I said. “I’m the one who saw the pattern. I’ve done the legwork. Still doing it.”
“I know,” he said softly, and it stung even more than his hard-line approach. “Your involvement in this story, his involvement with you, it’s making you a target. If I didn’t already believe that, Mal, I would after the call from the FBI this morning.”
I tried to focus on Flint’s voice, on his words, and not the calm menace that still echoed in my mind from that voicemail.
“Don’t worry about being paid, I’ll make sure you are. We’ll call this a staycation. Maybe you can actually take a break…”
Not likely, but I didn’t correct him. Not going on the air didn’t mean I couldn’t do the work.
“I’m also looking into private security for you, although I think the FBI might take care of that before we can.”
I frowned. “You think they want to put me in protective custody?”
“I think it has to be on the table.”
Flint never needed to raise his voice. He controlled the story and the room, whether in fatigues in a war zone or a three-piece suit at the anchor desk.