The mic crackled before the man spoke. “Given the recent reports, how do you respond to claims that crimes seem to follow your tour locations? That your presence may be more than coincidental?”
The air in the room tightened.
Andi leaned forward, mic steady in her hand. “We don’t control where crimes happen. We respond to stories that already exist. Real people. Real harm. We take that responsibility seriously.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
She continued, measured but firm. “If anyone believes storytelling causes violence, they’re misunderstanding both crime and accountability.”
Polite applause followed—but thinner, uneven.
Her gaze swept the darkness beyond the lights, searching for the man who’d asked the question.
Whoever had asked the question was hidden—protected by glare and distance.
But the man’s voice had sounded familiar . . .
Almost like the man from the podcast, she realized.
Her pulse quickened.
What if he was here? What if he was goading them?
What if the podcaster was the killer?
The moderator moved on, but Andi barely registered the next question.
She caught Duke’s eye. He gave a subtle nod, indicating he’d had the same thought.
Then he rose from his chair and slipped offstage without asking permission or offering apology.
The audience buzzed, confused, whispering.
Andi remained seated, lights still blinding, heart pounding.
Maybe Duke would catch this guy. Maybe they’d finally find some answers.
It seemed too easy . . . but it was possible.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
Duke pusheddown the side aisle, scanning faces, posture, movement.
People turned to look at him, some startled, some irritated, some thrilled by the sudden break in programming.
“Excuse me,” he said, steady but firm. “Did you see who asked the last question?”
All he got was blank looks and shrugs.
Duke reached the back of the auditorium as security began stirring—too late, disorganized, unsure what they were responding to.
People were standing now, twisting in their seats, murmuring.
No one pointed.
No one remembered.
