A breath hitched in her throat—more fury than fear. Good. Fear paralyzed. Rage moved the blood. The elevator dinged in the hall and I spared a glance to where Marsden had reappeared.
“My team is here,” I told her, taking her arm and moving her further into the space to allow them access.
I nodded to my agents. One moved to secure the condo, another checked the evidence on the counter. The white plastic bag was still there, precisely how she’d described. She hadn’t disturbed it. The DSLR beside it blinked in standby.
“You documented it yourself,” I said, watching her. “Predictable.” It was. She hadn’t reached her level at the network without being ruthless in her attention to detail and pursuit of a story.
“Wasn’t for you. Was for the story.”
There it was. That sharp-edged defiance. She’d rather be killed than sidelined. I’d seen it before—in soldiers, embedded reporters, a few too many dead informants. People like Mallory didn’twantprotection. They wanted control.
Control was exactly what this killer was stripping from her.
I didn’t ask permission to explore. I moved through the place like it was already mine, noting entry points, sightlines. The camera on her bookshelf blinked red. Recording.
She hadn’t turned it off.
“Pack a bag,” I said.
Mallory didn’t move.
“You’ve got ten minutes before we walk out. After that, I don’t care if you’re in your pajamas.”
She didn’t glare—she burned. But she turned, marched to her bedroom, and started packing. I didn’t watch. I used the time to photograph the package again from my angle, then stepped aside to update the SAC.
I was reviewing the transport route when the elevator pinged again. I didn’t need to see the man to know who it was. The angry energy hit the hallway like a slap.
Flint Carter.
The man offered no surprises. Whether that was a good thing or not, I remained undecided. He was a network soldier. Controlled chaos in a tie. His reputation was solid and he wielded battlefield charm—like a news anchor with a military complex. Explained his success as a journalist before promotion took him out of the field.
He stormed down the hall, ready for combat.
“You can’t just pull her out of here,” he said without breaking stride.
I turned. Met him stare for stare. He’d changed his tune from our previous meeting. Too bad.
Tall. Forties. Hair standing haphazardly, still defiant against sleep. He wore a coat over what looked like a wrinkled button-down and jeans. No weapon. No badge. Just ego.
“Yes,” I said. “I can.”
“I’mher news director. You don’t have jurisdiction over her career.”
I almost snorted. Her career? Was this performative on his part?
“This isn’t about her career. This is about her surviving the next forty-eight hours.”
“I’ve had reporters stalked before. Threatened. You don’t get to turn this into a federal circus because you think—”Hehad been stalked before. Not something he’d admitted, but it had been in the file.
Nearly twenty years earlier. A girl at his university. She’d stalked him and eventually hung herself in his dorm room. Not an outcome he could have predicted. It left a mark.
It had to have.
“She received a severed human finger.” I corrected. “That’s not athreat. That’s a statement.”
“I know what engagement looks like.” He met me glare for glare. “This is her doing her job.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer, “you know what itmeansfor your ratings. I know what it means for herlife.”
