No.
No one else was covering my part of this story. The Auditor responded tome—and I wasn’t going to let that narrative belong to anyone else.
So I made a list.
1. Document the evidence.
2. Call the FBI.
3. Call Flint.
4. Record. Everything.
My hands were steady. That surprised me. Maybe it was shock, maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was just the muscle memory of years in the field. Iraq had been bad. Syria had been worse. Ukraine, too. At least this horror show had clean lighting and good Wi-Fi.
I grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves from under the sink. The package might already be compromised. I had to accept that. Fine. But I’d covered enough crime scenes to know better. OnceI had them on. I set my phone on the kitchen island, camera ready. Then I turned the lights up full and pulled out a ruler, an evidence marker from a station kit I’d “borrowed” a couple of years earlier, and my oldest digital camera from the gear shelf.
The phone would work for recording each step while I also photographed. Giving a little shudder to shake off any apprehension, I started my notes.
The finger was intact, the nail short, squared. No rings. Caucasian. Male. Probably mid-thirties judging by the skin tone and ligament shape. It had been severed cleanly—bone cut, not torn. Surgical or power tool. Not a crime of passion. That kind of precision said patience. Intent. Practice.
I snapped shots from every angle. First wide. Then macro. No filters. No adjustments. Just truth, frame by frame. I photographed the card next. Thick, white stock. Embossed edges. Ink black, printed—handwritten.
Your move.
No name. No blood smears. No smudged fingerprints.
I didn’t breathe until I had backed all the images up to both cloud and drive. The FBI had every right to the evidence, but I hadn’t gotten this far by losing any leads I had. Then I logged the time: 3:47 a.m., Central. Date stamped. Location logged.
Task one: complete.
Task two: I stared at my phone. Brewster or Flint?
Flint would demand a lockdown. Pull me off the air, pull me off the story. It had already been an uphill battle to stay on the air. At this point, he’d probably try to pull me out of my place and into some surveillance-friendly safe house with gray walls and bad coffee.
But Brewster?
He would want intel. Precision. Control. He wouldn’t pull punches—but he also wouldn’t waste time with paternalistic lectures. He’d see this for what it was.
War.
I hit his contact. He picked up on the second ring.
“Agent Brewster.”
The man must not sleep. I resembled that feeling.
“It’s Mallory McBryan. I’ve received a package. On my doorstep.”
“Tell me what’s in it.”
“A finger. Human. Male, I think. Still fresh. Bagged in sterile plastic with a note.”
Pause. A breath, deliberate and audible.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes. Doors are locked. I’ve documented the evidence. No one else has touched it.”
