“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?
