Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
FLINT
It might be just after eleven, but the newsroom was never truly quiet in a twenty-four seven world.
The nightly news had wrapped its second segment fifteen minutes earlier with Mallory McBryan sitting in her spot at the desk.
Authoritative, dependable, and utterly unflappable, she projected everything the viewers needed to trust her as the person conveying the news.
Delivering facts, not opinion.
We could practically make that her damn tagline. That said, five minutes after she left with a security guard and an FBI agent to take her home, I was on the elevator back to the executive floor. Unlike the newsroom, this floor was hushed with the quiet of the staff that clocked out at five.
Only the door to The Sports Lounge was open. Guy Reardon was clearly waiting for me, along with Ty Brolin, a senior producer, and Gary Walker from legal. Unsurprisingly, the big screen was illuminated with Mallory’s name on it—a new logo. More for his “prestige” docuseries?
“Drink?” Ty asked from where he was already adding two fingers of whiskey to his glass. He wasn’t the only one partaking.
“Fine,” I said, because arguing over the choice of alcohol was not why I came up here. “Are you seriously debating logos already?” The fact it had come up during the earlier meeting had been insulting enough. “Have you forgotten a little thing like journalistic ethics? She’s not a pawn.”
“Flint,” Guy practically drawled my name like he possessed a molasses-coated accent rather than being the bright boy from Portland.
“I get it. I hear you. Ethics. Responsibility. ‘We can’t exploit her trauma.’ Sure.
Sounds great. But let’s not kid ourselves—people are going to want this story.
They’re gonna die for it. You think they're tuning in for another debate recap or some puff piece on community gardens? No. They want danger with good lighting. They want Mallory’s face and a man in the shadows.
They want the monster—and they want the girl he chose. "
He paced the room slowly, his gaze on the windows that overlooked Chicago. The skyline was a series of contrasting shadows and light. Everything about his movements was downright fucking predatory.
“And we’ve got it. Right here. Gift wrapped.
You think I don’t care about her? Of course I do.
That’s why we’ll control the story. You think she’s safer in a world where this leaks and every bottom-feeder outlet runs wild with garbage?
We take ownership. We shape it. We monetize it—yes—but we protect it too. "
With his back to the rest of us, he wasn’t the genial glad hander who’d exuded charm and goodwill during the earlier meeting. No, this wasn’t a man broaching a deal. This was a shark, stalking his prey.
“You want to wait? Delay coverage? Hope it fizzles? It won’t. It’ll grow teeth. It'll get out. And it’ll go to someone with fewer boundaries and a podcast mic. That’s when it gets dangerous. For her. For us."
Pivoting away from the window, he faced me. The other two might as well not even be in the room.
“Mallory becomes a case study in controlled media trauma. Brave, haunted, poised. The girl the killer couldn’t touch.
And if—God forbid—he does get close? Then we’ve already built the mythos.
We’re first in, last out. Full series, follow-up special, book deal by Friday.
The American public wants their heroines hunted—just as long as they live to do a sit-down interview on Sunday night. "
He smiled, all teeth as he toasted me. “I get it, you think this is all dirty tabloid journalism. But it’s not.
It’s honest. It’s America. And we’re just doing what every great network has done since the news got a theme song: turning fear into appointment television.
So either get onboard... or get out of the way. "
The verbal gauntlet slammed onto the floor between us. “Ty,” I said, “Gary, would you excuse us please?”
Ty frowned. “If we’re going to discuss production…”
“Step out, gentlemen,” Guy said, his gaze locked on mine. Taking the next stage of this discussion private was about all the respect I had left in me for Reardon and this bullshit.
I was not going to play games with Mallory’s life. I didn’t give a fat fucking damn about ratings.
“If you’re sure,” Gary said, glancing between us as I tossed back my drink of the whiskey. The smooth burn of it helped to soothe some of the agitation in my gut. Helped, but didn’t achieve it fully.
“We’re fine,” Guy said, his tone firm but flat. “Go.”
Ty pulled the strap of a messenger bag crosswise over him. “I’ll review the clips for tomorrow,” he told me. “I’ll get you a list of any recommended changes if I see them.”
I nodded. Gary took his time exiting. Finally, he followed Ty out and closed the door behind him. I set the empty glass down and rolled up the sleeves on my long-sleeved shirt.
“You really think this is the story of the year?” I asked when it became apparent Guy wasn’t going to say another word.
“I know it is.” He went to the bar and refilled his glass, then added another two fingers to mine without asking. “And so do you, or you wouldn’t still be here.”
“She’s not a brand, Guy.” I exhaled slowly, watched the amber settle in the glass before I took it—and then set it aside untouched.
“She is a brand,” he said calmly. “She’s Mallory McBryan. A trusted voice. A recognizable face. When she’s off the air, our ratings drop. That’s not opinion—that’s data.”
“People trust her,” I said. “That doesn’t make her a product. It makes her human.”
“A human who wants to stay on this story,” Guy countered. He gestured at the muted screen. “She’s so determined she threatened to sue us for breach of contract.”
“She’s riding adrenaline,” I shot back. “I know the feeling. So do you.” I leaned forward. “But there’s always a crash. And I don’t want hers to be the moment some psychopath decides she’s the most interesting piece on the board.”
Guy tilted his head. “You’re assuming she’s the target.”
“No, I’m assuming she’s visible.”
He scoffed and pointed at me. “Everything we’ve seen suggests you’re more likely to be the target than she is.”
The finger didn’t bother me. The logic did.
“What we’ve seen so far,” I said. “That’s the problem. If she’s right and this guy’s been active as long as she thinks—” I shook my head. “We’re not talking months, Guy. We’re talking decades. Almost thirty years.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“Thirty years,” I repeated. “And no one caught him. No one even connected the cases until now. You don’t stay invisible that long unless you’re patient, careful, and very good at picking the moment that matters.”
I looked him dead in the eye.
“And Mallory McBryan is the loudest moment he’s ever had.”
That was the part that terrified me. Mallory had seen a pattern. How she saw it? I didn’t know. Call it a reporter’s instinct or her very savvy and sharp analytical brain. Maybe it was just pure chance that she spotted the one extra clue amidst the rest.
“She noticed him,” I said. “Picked up on something no one else did. That would’ve been bad enough on its own. But now he’s aware of her. He’s watching her. He’s a fan.”
The word tasted wrong in my mouth.
I shook my head. “And you want to plaster her face across every platform like we’re launching a goddamn summer blockbuster. Teasers. Trailers. Social metrics. As if attention isn’t the very thing that feeds this.”
Guy’s eyes didn’t soften. “You think pulling her off air keeps her safe?” he asked.
Not curious—challenging. “For how long, Flint? A day? A week? A month? She disappears and you just… wait? Hope law enforcement suddenly cracks a case they haven’t solved in decades so she can come back like nothing happened? ”
The logic was brutal. And I hated it because part of me understood it.
I swallowed hard. “She’d be alive.”
The words betrayed more about me than I cared to admit.
Not strategic.
Not professional.
Just true.
She definitely wouldn’t thank me for it.
“You can’t put out a fire by hiding it,” Guy said. “You have to contain it. Control it. Give it space to burn where you can see it. That’s not just how you manage a fire—it’s how you win.”
The words made my mouth go dry.
I wasn’t sure who unsettled me more at that moment. Mallory at least believed in the story. Guy believed in the spectacle. In the payoff. He didn’t care what burned, as long as it drew heat.
“Setting someone on fire is not how you win,” I said. “Whether you lower her into danger slowly or shove her straight into it, you’re still risking her.”
Something in Guy’s expression shifted. The easy charm vanished, replaced by something flat and cold.
“You’re making a fundamental mistake,” he said. “The killer is the threat. Not the camera. The lens doesn’t hurt anyone.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “That’s bullshit and you know it.
You’re turning her into the story. You want to package her, market her fear, sell her persistence, and pray he takes the bait.
You build a narrative cage around her and call it protection, but all you’re really doing is putting her where she can bleed in public. ”
“If it bleeds, it leads,” Guy said quietly. “You used to know that. Or has being off the front lines finally softened you?”
“Not softened,” I said. “Just not lying to myself anymore. There was a time when coverage meant following the truth wherever it went. Not deciding the angle first and forcing the story to fit it. We chased leads—we didn’t manufacture arcs.”
Guy laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just condescension.
“You still think the story was ever the point?” he asked. “It’s always been about attention. Headlines. Demographics. If people don’t care, nothing else matters. That’s the job.”
The words sat in the room like smoke. Ugly. Familiar. And worst of all—true enough to hurt.
“This is a business, Flint,” he said. “We sell attention. Ratings. Engagement. Truth is optional. You know it. I know it. And I guarantee Mallory knows it too.”
Cold slid through me.
Ratings. Metrics. Narrative control.
The killer was doing the same thing.
Shaping the story. Controlling the frame. Changing the pattern when he wanted a new chapter.
Was it because the pressure was getting too close?
Or because the story bored him?
I hated how much the second possibility made sense.
“You’ve got no soul, Reardon,” I said, already turning for the door.
“No,” Guy replied calmly. “I’ve got strategy. And vision. That’s what keeps us on air.”
I didn’t look back.
But the question followed me anyway.
Would it keep her alive?
I was pretty sure Guy didn’t care—as long as the numbers stayed high.