I didn’t trust myself to speak right away. When I did, it was careful. “That’s strong,” I said. “And dangerous.”
“I know.”
“But it’s honest,” I added. “And that’s why it works.”
She watched me closely. “So?”
“So now,” I said, “we build a version of that truth that can survive the blast radius.”
She let out a harsh breath. “He was my friend. I don’t want to sound righteous—or like I’m exploiting his death to make a point.”
“You won’t,” I said without hesitation. “You’ll sound human. Grounded. And angry in the quiet way that makes people lean in instead of tune out.”
A beat.
“Flint?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“How do we make sure he hears what I mean—and can’t twist it?”
I didn’t smile. This wasn’t the moment for that. “By making it so clean, so precise, that there’s nowhere for him to hide. Blunt enough to land. Solid enough to stand as news.”
Her mouth tipped slightly. Not relief—resolve. “So,” she said, “nothing fancy.”
I snorted. “What? Like you find that a real challenge, McBryan?”
Her eyes narrowed, heat flashing. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy pushing me.”
“I’d never admit that,” I said lightly, then pulled the chair out from behind my desk. “Sit. We don’t have time to waste.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, brushing past me close enough to register. I noticed. I ignored it. Some lines mattered more right now.
Outside my office, the news machine hummed along—alerts firing, producers circling, and anchors reporting. Across the city, a crime scene was being processed that never should have existed. Somewhere else, a cold blooded killer who thought he controlled the conversation was about to learn what happened when two journalists stopped reacting—and started taking it back.
Together.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
MALLORY
Control was a funny thing.
People thought it was loud—assertive statements, raised chins, dramatic refusals packaged for social media and broken down into viral sound bites. Noise passed for power now. Outrage masqueraded as authority. If you dominated the room long enough, people assumed you were winning.
But volume was a tell.
The louder someone got, the more obvious it became that they were compensating. That they’d already lost the thread and were trying to drown out the silence where truth lived.
If you actually had control, you didn’t shout like a panicked gibbon.
Real control was far more intimate than performative. It knew when to lean in instead of raise its voice. It knew how to hold eye contact and wait. Like a good interview, it wasn’t about forcing the answer—it was about creating enough pressure that the truth volunteered itself.
Control knew how to stand perfectly still while everyone else rushed forward, waiting for you to fall.
Waiting for you to crack.
