“From Analysis to Obsession: Are the Murders Escalating Around One Journalist?”
My heart sank even as my temper rose. They found another body. They had to have, butno onealerted me. Not my sources. Not my network.No one.
Gritting my teeth, I scrolled down.
Goddamn tabloids and clickbait sites.
“He’s Killing for the Camera: Did a Reporter Inspire a Serial Killer?”
“Mallory McBryan: Investigative Journalist—or the Killer’s Chosen Audience?”
“Stalker or Serial Killer? Is she the recipient of disturbing messages? Or the source of them?”
Calling me a fucking liar without calling me a fucking liar. They were tap dancing on the line. Beneath that came the bullshit opinion and punditry pieces.
“Murders, Media, and Motive: When Reporting Becomes Part of the Story”
“Exclusive: Internal Emails Show Concern Over Reporter’s Role in Auditor Case”
“Law Enforcement Sources: Killer May Be Tracking Coverage—Is Mallory McBryan Safe?”
The last one in the list was from a national outlet, but they hadn’t given it “front page” status, just a collection piece detailing all of the information I’d reported so far. Not speculative, not hysterical, and not filled with innuendo.
“The Anchor, the Killer, and the Ledger: What We Know About the ‘Auditor’ Murders So Far”
No doubt existed within me thathewould like this one best. It highlighted his methodical nature and intelligence.
Each headline that followed grew more unnervingly personal, focused less on the grisly details of the recent murders and more on me—my career, my choices, my presence in the story itself. I hit play on the overnight update on the network.
It was the weekend, which meant the story would have more traction across social media, online news outlets, and print. At last count, roughly eighty-six percent of adults in the U.S. got their news online, and sixty percent checked more than once a day. Social media accounted for most of that traffic, a reality we’d all learned to live with. Headlines were news, clickbait wasviews, and the problem was an audience rarely going beyond the first six to ten words. Not a story—just a bite. And not even the best bite.
A headache throbbed behind my eyes. The headlines irritated me, sure, but I understood the logic. They’d get clicks. Eyes on screens. If we’d stumbled onto a story like this, we would have done the same.
What gnawed at me wasn’t the coverage—it was the unnamed sources. I rose and headed back to the espresso machine for another cup, trying to focus on my breathing, wrestling my temper into submission. Getting pissed solved nothing. I needed a plan. Shit happened, stories broke, and I had to be ready to pivot. No one ever promised me an easy job.
I’d just settled back into my chair with the fresh cup when my phone rang.
Before I even saw who it was, a new voicemail notification blinked on the screen. I hesitated, a tight knot forming in my stomach. Something told me this wasn’t from a colleague. Sending the new call to voicemail, I opened up the new message.
The message played, and a smooth, measured voice filled the room:
“You were close last night. Not everything is as it seems. Look again at the filings from ‘09. Cross-reference the names. You’ll see the error. Accounts do not close themselves.”
The voice was calm. Measured. Unnervingly precise. No anger. No demand. Just… authority. Like someone correcting a student who didn’t even realize they were being graded. I let it play twice, feeling my stomach tighten as I gripped the mug, trying to steady my pulse.
I was still digesting it when my phone rang again. This time, the name “Deadline Daddy” glared back at me. Flint Carter.
As news director, he was my boss and not a fan of the nickname, but it suited his attitude and his looks. The morehe didn’t like it, the more I used it. Tit for tat. I debated not answering, but I’d never been a coward—and I had no intention of starting now.
“McBryan,” I said. “And yes, I’ve seen.”
No need to play coy.
“Mallory…” I could practically taste the exasperation in his tone. “We need to talk.”
I skimmed the next row of headlines on my laptop as I sipped my coffee before I replied, forcing myself to focus on the mundane rather than the echo of that voicemail. “Fortunately, for you, the miracle of technology means we’re already chatting.”
He sighed. “I’m not playing this game with you. You’re not going back on the air for a while.”
