"We turn this into prestige true crime with a soul. Think HBO gloss, but with ads. Primetime specials. Cross-network interviews. Spotify exclusives. Hell, get a deal with Netflix ready just in case we need to pivot hard into docuseries."
Was heserious?
"Mallory becomes a symbol, a brand. She doesn’t even need to say much—just look scared and brave at the same time. That’s what they want."
Disbelief speared me. I didn’t need tosaymuch? Celia nudged my elbow with hers. The motion was almost subtle. It was also the only thing that kept me from launching into Guy. This wasmydamn story.
"As for the guy? This stalker? He’s not the villain. He’s the hook. We don’t need to stick to the name for him, we don’t glorify him, but we absolutely let his shadow hang over every segment like a damn ghost." He was riding high on his explanation now. Color flushed his cheeks and his eyes glittered. "Advertisers are already circling. Think security systems, dating apps, trauma counseling, premium subscriptions. Fear sells—and we’ve got the most elegant fear on television."
Stalker.
He was calling a serial killer astalker.
Gaze sweeping the room, Guy met each of our gazes and finally settled on mine. Real delight filled his smile. “So yes, we will absolutely discuss how to keep you safe. But we’re also goingto keep the cameras rolling. This kind of attention? You don’t waste it.” Clapping his hands together, he nodded like we’d just finished the meeting. “Any questions?”
Silence rushed in to fill the room with a tangible weight and pressure. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what had more of a chokehold rendering us all mute. The stunned shock at Guy’s audacity? The disbelieving fury at his callousness? All of the above?
“Eliot Brewster,” one of the Feds standing with Flint said abruptly as he took a step toward where Guy held court. The man wore his dark, tailored suit like it was body armor and radiated a kind of rugged intensity. His gaze locked on Guy as he closed the distance, forcing Guy to surrender his spot or risk having the agent plow into him.
Without a trace of a smile, Brewster took Guy’s position along with command of the room. He swept the room with an assessing look in his dark gray eyes. At least, I thought they were gray. Definitely not brown, but maybe a pale shade of blue. It could just be the lights. His face was sharp and angular, the square jaw gave him a hard stubborn air or maybe it was the five o’clock shadow that suggested sleep was optional and shaving was a low priority.
“While Mr. Reardon’s assessment regarding morbid opportunities and ratings affect the network’s bottom line, those are the least of our concerns. In fact, their rank in the priority of this investigation means they shouldn’t even be part of this conversation.” His voice was low and gravel-edged, like worn leather and too many late nights. It wasn’t loud, in fact, I didn’t think he was even trying to project. His words just carried in this controlled, measured note.
Interesting.
Those dark eyes latched onto me. “Ms. McBryan, we would have preferred to have this conversation in private rather than via this committee meeting. We have questions for youregarding your investigation into—what did you call him? The Auditor? and how you tied past crimes into the recent string of homicides here in Chicago.” He wasn’t flashy or bombastic. He probably didn’t need to be. Authority suited him so well, I would imagine people noticed him walk into a room before they even saw him.
This was not a man who would be easily persuaded to my way of thinking. Rather than accept his invitation into the debate, I waited him out. Flint wanted me off the air. Guy wanted to monetize the potential violence. I wanted to follow up my story and report it.
What did Agent Eliot Brewster want? The obvious answer would be to catch the killer. Instinct told me to always question the obvious.
“Fine, we’ll explore that avenue further with you after the meeting,” Brewster said as more of an aside to himself than to me. “As for the investigation, we are obtaining warrants to put taps on the landlines here and at Ms. McBryan’s condo?—”
“Excuse me?” I raised my eyebrows. “I’m a journalist, Agent Brewster. Putting taps onanyof my phones could compromise my sources.”
“You won’t be talking to your sources.” Flint shot me a look of impatience. No, he was not a fan of this meeting. Well, maybe he shouldn’t have demanded it then. “You’re not going on air. You’re not going to be working on stories.”
“That has yet to be decided,” Celia said, rising smoothly as she threw her first verbal volley. “Her contract ensures certain protections. If you take her off the air and keep her off, she can and will exercise those protections, which include the network paying out her contract and allowing her to leave as a free agent.”
“Now wait a damn minute.” Guy thrust himself back into the conversation. The earlier happy flush had been replaced by an angrier, ruddier one. “We’re not buying out her contract.”
“You will be if you insist on playing arbitrary games with her career and dictating her schedule instead of discussing it with her,” Celia said, completely unfazed by Guy’s bluster.
“It’s called doing my job,” Flint cut in before Guy could interrupt, his glare flat and final. “I’m the news director. I have final say. And right now, Mallory has the attention of a dangerous individual. We’re not going to parade her across the screen like a breaking-news ticker just to spike ratings or bait a response.”
The first part was aimed at Guy.
The second at Agent Brewster.
But the last part—he saved for me.
“No matter how hard you wave yourself into his line of sight.”
Like Brewster, Flint didn’t raise his voice. He used the same calm, controlled tone he used on air when delivering updates that made producers sweat.
“Problem,” I said, because this was my life they were rearranging. “We don’t actually know that these communications mean what you think they mean. So far it’s what—some postcards? Who even sends those anymore? And a couple of comments on my social media. That’s not exactly a manifesto.”
From where I stood, yanking me off air still felt like a reaction in search of a threat.
