Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
MALLORY
“Alright, everyone’s here, doors are shut—let’s talk brass tacks.
A live-wire narrative dropped in our lap and the world’s about to tune in.
This isn’t just a threat to Mallory—it’s an opportunity.
Morbid? Sure. But real, and I don’t run from real.
” Guy’s tone might have bordered on indifferent, but his energy was anything but.
He surveyed the room, along with everyone in it, projecting a decisive air. Apparently, he was in charge today and from the narrow-eyed look Flint wore as he studied Guy, the VP hadn’t read the news director into the shifting dynamic.
To be fair, I wasn’t entirely certain what to do with the executive’s attitude any more than Flint was.
Just because Guy wanted to throw his weight around didn’t mean he was going to land on my side.
Rather than remaining in place like the VP’s version of a prop, I shifted to stand near Rudy, Colin, and Celia.
“Opportunity?” The single word question came out like Flint spat out the badly chewed remains of something that tasted foul. Oh, yeah, he was pissed. For once, it wasn’t at me.
“Yes.” Guy spared Flint a brief look. "You don’t get numbers like this without danger. That’s what sells. We dress it up in ‘concern’ and ‘courage,’ and the audience eats it up. Mallory’s scared? Good. The audience will feel it. That’s where the ratings live."
Colin’s unreadable expression turned almost stony, but it was Celia I kept half an eye on. Her lips pursed like she’d just sucked on a jalapeno-flavored lemon. Rather than interrupt, she focused on Guy. I’d bet she wanted to know what the hell he was up to, I know I did.
"We turn this into prestige true crime with a soul. Think HBO gloss, but with ads. Primetime specials. Cross-network interviews. Spotify exclusives. Hell, get a deal with Netflix ready just in case we need to pivot hard into docuseries."
Was he serious?
"Mallory becomes a symbol, a brand. She doesn’t even need to say much—just look scared and brave at the same time. That’s what they want."
Disbelief speared me. I didn’t need to say much? Celia nudged my elbow with hers. The motion was almost subtle. It was also the only thing that kept me from launching into Guy. This was my damn story.
"As for the guy? This stalker? He’s not the villain.
He’s the hook. We don’t need to stick to the name for him, we don’t glorify him, but we absolutely let his shadow hang over every segment like a damn ghost." He was riding high on his explanation now.
Color flushed his cheeks and his eyes glittered.
"Advertisers are already circling. Think security systems, dating apps, trauma counseling, premium subscriptions. Fear sells—and we’ve got the most elegant fear on television. "
Stalker.
He was calling a serial killer a stalker.
Gaze sweeping the room, Guy met each of our gazes and finally settled on mine.
Real delight filled his smile. “So yes, we will absolutely discuss how to keep you safe. But we’re also going to keep the cameras rolling.
This kind of attention? You don’t waste it.
” Clapping his hands together, he nodded like we’d just finished the meeting. “Any questions?”
Silence rushed in to fill the room with a tangible weight and pressure. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what had more of a chokehold rendering us all mute. The stunned shock at Guy’s audacity? The disbelieving fury at his callousness? All of the above?
“Eliot Brewster,” one of the Feds standing with Flint said abruptly as he took a step toward where Guy held court.
The man wore his dark, tailored suit like it was body armor and radiated a kind of rugged intensity.
His gaze locked on Guy as he closed the distance, forcing Guy to surrender his spot or risk having the agent plow into him.
Without a trace of a smile, Brewster took Guy’s position along with command of the room.
He swept the room with an assessing look in his dark gray eyes.
At least, I thought they were gray. Definitely not brown, but maybe a pale shade of blue.
It could just be the lights. His face was sharp and angular, the square jaw gave him a hard stubborn air or maybe it was the five o’clock shadow that suggested sleep was optional and shaving was a low priority.
“While Mr. Reardon’s assessment regarding morbid opportunities and ratings affect the network’s bottom line, those are the least of our concerns.
In fact, their rank in the priority of this investigation means they shouldn’t even be part of this conversation.
” His voice was low and gravel-edged, like worn leather and too many late nights.
It wasn’t loud, in fact, I didn’t think he was even trying to project.
His words just carried in this controlled, measured note.
Interesting.
Those dark eyes latched onto me. “Ms. McBryan, we would have preferred to have this conversation in private rather than via this committee meeting. We have questions for you regarding your investigation into—what did you call him? The Auditor? and how you tied past crimes into the recent string of homicides here in Chicago.” He wasn’t flashy or bombastic.
He probably didn’t need to be. Authority suited him so well, I would imagine people noticed him walk into a room before they even saw him.
This was not a man who would be easily persuaded to my way of thinking. Rather than accept his invitation into the debate, I waited him out. Flint wanted me off the air. Guy wanted to monetize the potential violence. I wanted to follow up my story and report it.
What did Agent Eliot Brewster want? The obvious answer would be to catch the killer. Instinct told me to always question the obvious.
“Fine, we’ll explore that avenue further with you after the meeting,” Brewster said as more of an aside to himself than to me. “As for the investigation, we are obtaining warrants to put taps on the landlines here and at Ms. McBryan’s condo—”
“Excuse me?” I raised my eyebrows. “I’m a journalist, Agent Brewster. Putting taps on any of my phones could compromise my sources.”
“You won’t be talking to your sources.” Flint shot me a look of impatience. No, he was not a fan of this meeting. Well, maybe he shouldn’t have demanded it then. “You’re not going on air. You’re not going to be working on stories.”
“That has yet to be decided,” Celia said, rising smoothly as she threw her first verbal volley.
“Her contract ensures certain protections. If you take her off the air and keep her off, she can and will exercise those protections, which include the network paying out her contract and allowing her to leave as a free agent.”
“Now wait a damn minute.” Guy thrust himself back into the conversation. The earlier happy flush had been replaced by an angrier, ruddier one. “We’re not buying out her contract.”
“You will be if you insist on playing arbitrary games with her career and dictating her schedule instead of discussing it with her,” Celia said, completely unfazed by Guy’s bluster.
“It’s called doing my job,” Flint cut in before Guy could interrupt, his glare flat and final.
“I’m the news director. I have final say.
And right now, Mallory has the attention of a dangerous individual.
We’re not going to parade her across the screen like a breaking-news ticker just to spike ratings or bait a response. ”
The first part was aimed at Guy.
The second at Agent Brewster.
But the last part—he saved for me.
“No matter how hard you wave yourself into his line of sight.”
Like Brewster, Flint didn’t raise his voice. He used the same calm, controlled tone he used on air when delivering updates that made producers sweat.
“Problem,” I said, because this was my life they were rearranging. “We don’t actually know that these communications mean what you think they mean. So far it’s what—some postcards? Who even sends those anymore? And a couple of comments on my social media. That’s not exactly a manifesto.”
From where I stood, yanking me off air still felt like a reaction in search of a threat.
“It’s more than postcards, Ms. McBryan,” Brewster said evenly. “We’ve identified a pattern of letters that never reached you or the newsroom. The postcards were forwarded. The longer ones were intercepted and archived.”
I looked at Flint. He didn’t meet my eyes—like he’d already decided this wasn’t a fight he was willing to have with me.
“He’s right, Mal,” he said quietly. “They’ve been screening everything for days.”
Brewster continued. “At least ten confirmed. Same handwriting. No return address. No usable prints. No DNA. But the writing is consistent. The letters were mailed from multiple locations—some local, some out of state. Changes in internal mail handling delayed several of them.”
I folded my arms. “So… slow mail?”
His jaw tightened. “No. Selective delay.”
“More or less. The last letter you received came in on Friday, it was sent from Oak Park. The post mark was dated eight days ago.” Brewster raised his brows. “That delay is working in his favor. It makes him even more geographically tough to pin down.”
“I hardly think he’ll be sending any of his letters or postcards from anywhere near his actual address.” It wouldn’t make sense. Unless he assumed that was what we would assume. Then it would make a terrible amount of sense. That thought would trouble me.
“That doesn’t address the voicemail you received.” Brewster kept his focus on me.
Not reacting at all took every ounce of my on-air poise. “Voicemail?”
Flint let out an aggrieved sigh. “Yes, a message was left on the station’s tip line.”
Transferring my attention to Flint, I raised my brows. “The station tip line or my tip line?”
He didn’t even blink. “The station’s line, as well as, yes, your line. The one on the main tip line was forwarded to me. So I checked your private line.”