“I’ll dispatch a team immediately. Stay inside. Don’t answer the door for anyone who doesn’t show you my ID on a live call. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Mallory,” he said before I could hang up, his voice lower now. “This is confirmation. You’ve crossed his line.” He really didn’t have to tell me that. I was stubborn, not stupid.
“I know.”
“We’ll talk soon.”
I hung up.
Then, finally, I called Flint.
He answered with a grunt and a rustle of sheets. “This better be worth the heart attack.”
“It is.”
I told him, flat and fast. Package. Finger. Note. FBI’s on the way.
“You’re off the air, Mallory.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I’m not doing this with you right now?—”
“I documented everything. Photos, notes, timestamps. I’ll give the Feds a full copy. But I’m recording this, Flint. For the story. No one’s coveringmyangle butme.”
“You’re a witness now?—”
“I’m the target. That makes me the most qualified person to tell this story. I’ll redact anything they need, but this ismine.”
Silence. I could practically hear the resignation rising in his breath, thick and tired. He didn’t want to agree. But he didn’t say no, either. As much as I wanted to keep moving, I waited him out.
“Dammit,” he swore and I had to fight against the gust of relief slamming out of me. “Put coffee on. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Flint…”
“Don’t thank me,” he ordered. “This isn’t over.”
When he finally hung up, I sat down at my desk, hitrecordon my mic, and looked straight into the camera.
“My name is Mallory McBryan. And tonight, someone left me a message. Not a warning. A challenge. I’ve covered murderers before, but this one? This one’s different. Because this time, he’s watchingme.”
I took a beat. Let the silence settle.
“This is where the story changes. You’ve seen me walk the beat with the local police, interview politicians from the campaign trail to the court trials, and followed me as I went into war zones to bring you the stories. I’ve covered killers before, but now you’re going to hear it as I face one.”
I kept the mic hot and the lens steady.
“People like to think evil is loud. Obvious. That it announces itself in screams and violence and red lights. But I’ve spent the last year of my life chasing the opposite—monsters that slip through cracks, that leave just enough behind to make you question what youthinkyou saw. What youthinkyou know.
“This finger? It’s not just a message. It’s a signature. A shift. He wants to be seen now. That likely means I found something he didn’t want me to. Or I’m about to.”
I paused, staring into the lens.
“I’m recording this in case something happens. Not because I think it will. But because I know how this game is played—and the only way to win it is to keep control of the narrative. To tell the truth while I still can.
“So here’s the truth: I’m not scared. Not yet. I’m angry. Someone has decided I’m a piece on their board. That I’m part of their story. But they made a mistake.”
