I ended the call, staring out at the new day. The voicemail still hovered in my mind. Less than twenty-four hours to figure out a way to keep working the story without putting myself directly in the line of fire.
Time to fight smarter. I put in a call to my agent. It was early on a Sunday, and waking her up would definitelynotmake her day, she always found interesting solutions when she was angry.
Between sips of coffee that had long since gone cold I waited until a groggy, if grumpy Celia answered her phone then laid out the essentials for her. “Those are the basics, so what I need are options. Security, legal support, logistics.” She hummed acknowledgment, noted some things, promised a follow-up, and hung up. Next up, my lawyer. Same drill—fast, precise, no fluff, just enough to make sure someone was watching the right angles.
When I finished those calls, I stared at the sunlight creeping across the table. But my mind wasn’t on what came next. It was on the voicemail that had arrived just before Flint called.
That voice—calm, measured, precise—was still echoing in my skull.Accounts do not close themselves.Look again at the filings from ‘09.
I’d blocked it out enough to have a conversation with Flint, but now, alone, it came back with a weight that pressed against my ribs. Whoever left that message knew how to unsettle without yelling. They didn’t need to threaten. They didn’t need to show rage. Just the certainty in their words was enough to make a professional anchor like me feel… small.
I thought about the letters in the bucket months ago. And the others that had arrived since. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t a fan trying to get attention. This was methodical. Surgical. And now, that voice was in my head, reminding me I had been “close.” Close to what? To the pattern, to the motive, or maybe to them noticing me?
Flint’s words about staying safe, protective custody, not going back on the air—they made sense. Practical. Rational. Necessary. But the part of me that had found the connections, traced the financial patterns, seen the thread others hadn’t… that part bristled. Sitting out wasn’t going to stop him. If anything, it might give him more time to tighten the leash.
I tried to push the thought aside and focus on logistics—agents, lawyers, security—but every detail felt filtered through the lens of that voice.You were close last night.That could mean anything. Or everything.
I shook my head, sipping the coffee that had long since gone cold. I’d never let a story scare me off before. This wasn’t the first time danger had skirted too close, but it was the first time it had spoken in a way that seemed toknow me. It was the first time it had my damn phone number.
I had to plan my next steps carefully. Every move I made from here on would be scrutinized—not just by Flint, not just by the network, not just by the FBI—but by someone who was already inside my head. Or maybe I was inside theirs and that let them into mine. Either way, the thought that I couldn’t tell anyone everything, that some of it had to stay buried in my own mind… that was the part that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
I tapped a note into my phone:Check 2009 filings. Re-read letters. Map connections. Stay calm. Stay alert.
Even as I wrote it, I knew this was only the beginning. Whoever left that voicemail wasn’t done. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was already inside the hunt—and I didn’t even know if I’d be the hunter or the hunted.
I drafted a quick mental checklist, pacing in the small span between the table and the window ticking off letters, filings, connections, patterns. Every piece mattered. Every word could be a breadcrumb.
I didn’t text Flint back. Not yet. I needed to think, to map, to measure the distance between what I knew and what I could safely probe. The FBI would be in tomorrow. That meant time. But the killer—or whoever this was—was already a step ahead. The voicemail made that painfully clear.
I returned to the letters, digging them out of the little bucket where they had accumulated, flipping through each one slowly, deliberately. Notes, dates, names, financial references—all starting to form patterns I’d seen before, but now tinged with a personal warning. He—or she—was watching how I connected dots. Watchingme.
Retreating to my home office, I dug out a spiral bound notepad and a pencil. I scribbled furiously in a notebook, jotting names, cross-referencing dates, mapping out financial threads across multiple accounts. The mundane office light didn’t illuminate the urgency in my mind. Each detail felt like a wire in a complex system, and the voice in that voicemail was already three moves ahead.
Calls pinged in between my focus—agent checking in, security options being scoped, attorneys confirming legal parameters. None of them were told about the voicemail. Nor did I share a single word about the letters and notes. None of them needed to know. I also didn’t store any of ithere. Even my notes were written in my own shorthand and offline.
I couldn’t let anyone see the real weight of it. It wasn’t paranoia. It was a strategy.
Through it all, the thought kept gnawing at me: whoever left that message knew more than anyone had a right to know. They knew how close I had been. They knew I was paying attention. The worst part—what I didn’t admit to anyone—was that part of me wanted to see where it would lead.
I exhaled and leaned back, letting the pen hover over the page. Tomorrow, the FBI. Tomorrow, Deadline Daddy. Tomorrow, answers. But tonight…tonight, I had to keep tracing the thread myself, even if it meant following a shadow I couldn’t yet name.
Chapter
Two
MALLORY
At 8:45 sharp Monday morning, I swiped my badge on my way into the lobby of the Cartwright building, where the network owned several floors for offices, research, and, of course, the studio floor and production control room.
Rudy Vargas, my cameraman, flashed me a brief smile and a firm nod as he caught the door, then held it open for us. I’d spoken to him the night before after hashing out the plan with Celia and Colin, my agent and attorney respectively. The voicemail from the weekend still lingered at the edges of my thoughts—a chilling, precise reminder that someone was watching. I didn’t share it with anyone. Some battles were meant to be fought alone.
We’d worked together for just over five years. Gray-eyed with salt-and-pepper hair, a permanent five o’clock shadow, and an allergy to suits in general, Rudy looked spiffy enough in his jeans and polo shirt—a concession for the meeting—and his comfortable work boots. At fifty-two, what Rudy didn’t know about getting the right clip for an on-scene report or the perfect angle for a story didn’t exist. He made me a better reporter.
Celia Roth arrived in a charcoal gray pantsuit with subtle red accents at the buttons, a cream silk blouse, and understatedgold jewelry. She was crisp, classic, the kind of presence that reminded you control was everything. At 5'10", she didn’t bother minimizing her height in flats but wore three-inch chunky heels that made her posture even more imposing. Her pixie cut framed her face sharply, like a sword I wasn’t afraid to wield.
Colin Thorne, my attorney, walked beside her. Third generation legal mind, partner at his family firm Thorne and Pell, and lead of the Chicago office, he was pure polish masking sharp angles beneath. Dark brown hair, tailored Savile Row suit, Italian loafers. Everything about him said power and precision, like a well-oiled weapon. He had a dry sense of humor, and I appreciated that—he could roast someone in a single sentence and walk away without blinking.
“Good morning, Jonathon,” I greeted the retired Chicago PD detective who now ran our daytime security detail. “Celia Roth and Colin Thorne,” I continued, motioning to my companions. All guests had to be vouched for by someone from the network.
