“Of course, Mallory,” Jonathon said, concern softening his tone. “Are you alright? Can we do anything for you? Saw the news over the weekend. We’ll be increasing security details until the suspect is caught.”
I smiled, but my thoughts lingered elsewhere. The voicemail replayed in my mind—I’d listened to it so much his voice had become as familiar to me as my own. It wasn’t hard to imagine that he seemed to know my routines, my instincts. Keeping it to myself felt like armor, but also a weight I couldn’t shrug off.
“Thank you, Jonathon. I’m sure we’ll get it all sorted out,” I said, letting a faint edge of reassurance show. “We appreciate everything.”
“You just make sure you look after yourself.” He gave a firm nod. “Corporate is probably reviewing personal security too.”
“I have no doubts,” I said, which was why we were here today. Once Celia and Colin got their guest badges, we headedfor the north elevator bank. I swiped my card and chose thirty-three. Celia caught my eye and shook her head.
“Nothing,” she murmured.
I flicked a glance to Rudy, who smirked, then to Colin, who just shrugged. “You flirt with everyone, Mallory. It’s part of your charm.”
“Being nice doesn’t mean I’m flirting,” I said. “Though if Jonathon were twenty years younger and not happily married with grandkids, I’d totally try to seduce him.”
Rudy snorted. Celia shot me an exasperated look. “Really, Mallory?”
“Absolutely,” I deadpanned. Then I met Colin’s gaze as he raised an eyebrow. “You’re too unseasoned for me.”
The elevator hummed upward, smooth and precise, but my thoughts were anything but. I pressed my palm lightly to the card reader, but my focus wasn’t on the floor numbers or the soft jingle of the doors—it was on him. The voicemail. The letters. The unnerving pattern they formed in my mind like a map I hadn’t fully traced yet.
I ran through it again: each call, each note, each piece of information in isolation might have seemed harmless. Taken together… it was a warning and a challenge rolled into one. Whoever this was had been watching, studying, and learning my habits, my schedules, even my reactions.
Hunter or hunted? Somehow, I was beginning to suspect that both labels applied to myself and the Auditor. I forced myself to breathe, to slow my racing thoughts. Panic wasn’t helpful. Observation was. Analysis was. Strategy was.
Celia’s voice from the night before echoed faintly in my mind.“Furious is a good state for finding solutions.”She thrived on that energy. Colin, methodical and calculating, would help me ensure no step I took was reckless. Rudy… reliable, predictable, and loyal. Three anchors in a storm I had to navigate.
I ran through the logistics silently: who was allowed where, what security measures were already in place, who could get me out if things went sideways, and where the weak points were in this fortress of protocols. I cataloged each agent in the building, each layer of network protection, and imagined how each piece of the plan might interact with the unknown variable—him.
And then, quietly, almost imperceptibly, I reminded myself of the goal: information. Facts. The story. Not heroics. Not revenge. Safety came first, yes, but retreat wasn’t an option either. My mind snapped to the meeting ahead—the agents, Flint, the lawyers. Everyone was watching, calculating, judging.
I couldn’t letanyonesee me flinch. Not even a fraction.
By the time the elevator pinged at the thirty-third floor, I had a mental list of contingencies, and a quiet, simmering determination. I would walk into that room armed with more than words. I would walk in knowing exactly how to survive, how to keep everyone else safe, and how to stay one step ahead of someone who thought they could control the story—and me.
I straightened my shoulders. Checked my reflection in the mirrored wall. Calm. Controlled. Focused.
The doors opened, and the real game began. I led the way out. This floor held executive offices and conference rooms, designed for war rooms during disasters, elections, or breaking news coverage. Everything was large, efficient, and intimidating.
Vanessa Huang, Flint’s admin and a friend, strode toward us in a blood-red pantsuit and soft yellow chemise shirt. She took my hand briefly.
“I’m fine, Vanessa.”
“Of course you are,” she said, but her eyes held concern. “Rudy, would you mind taking Mallory’s guests to The Sports Lounge? We’re all set up here and the FBI just arrived downstairs.”
“No problem,” Rudy said, lifting his chin. I nodded in thanks.
Vanessa led me toward the Lego Room, a brightly colored conference space designed to encourage brainstorming. Once inside, she closed the door and faced me. Her expression sober. “You’re not going to win this one,” she began.
I leaned against the table, arms folded. “I’m listening.”
“Flint is worried about you. More than when you vanished to embed with a militia leader in Ukraine.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s better to apologize than ask for permission.” The network wouldn’t have signed off on that trip. I’d gotten the story, full stop.
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “You never apologized.”
Semantics. Except… “And I won’t. I got excellent footage and coverage. Nothing to apologize for.”
