The two men stormed out, leaving Jessica staring after them in disbelief as the conference room door slammed shut behind them. Heat rushed through her face.
How dare they?
Revoking her press privileges wouldn't stop her. She had worked too hard and clawed her way through too many dismissive editors and condescending colleagues to let some self-important lawmen push her aside. Over her dead body would she hand this story over to someone else. If they thought they could intimidate her into backing off, they were in for a rude awakening.
Squaring her shoulders, she left the conference room and made her way through the newsroom. Phones rang in uneven bursts, keyboards clattered from every direction, and voices rose and fell beneath the steady hum of monitors tuned to competing stations. The familiar chaos usually energized her. This morning, it only sharpened her determination.
Her sources had gotten her this far, but if she wanted to stay ahead of every other reporter in the region, she needed more. More details. More proof. Something undeniable.
Still simmering from the confrontation, she reached her desk just as the mailroom clerk dropped a thick stack of white and manila envelopes on top of her in-box before moving on to the next row of cubicles.
Jessica slid into her chair and began sorting through the pile. Most of it was routine—press releases, viewer letters, and promotional junk she could deal with later. About three-quarters of the way through, her hand stopped.
A stark white envelope sat near the bottom of the stack.
The childish block letters scrawled across the front made her pause.
Jessica Daly, Reporter
OPEN IMMEDIATELY—IMPORTANT
A flicker of curiosity stirred.
She lifted the envelope and let the rest of the mail fall onto her desk. Turning it over, she frowned. No return address or postage.
Someone had delivered it by hand.
The newsroom noise seemed to fade as unease prickled across the back of her neck. Reaching into the top desk drawer, she pulled out her silver letter opener and slid it beneath the sealed flap. The blade parted the paper with a whisper.
Inside was a single folded sheet.
She unfolded it and stared at the words pasted across the page.
Whoever sent it had watched far too many crime dramas. The message had been assembled from newspaper clippings, each word cut out and glued in place like something from an old detective movie.
If you want the exclusive of a lifetime, come to 1279 Prescott Road in Elizabeth City at eleven o’clock tonight. Come alone and bring your video camera. I know who the Seaside Strangler is and have proof.
Her breath caught.
This was it.
If this were real—if someone truly had evidence that could expose the killer—she would blow the case wide open. The thought sent a rush of excitement through her, drowning out the lingering anger from her confrontation with the fed and the detective. This was the kind of break reporters dreamed about. The kind that launched careers into the stratosphere—national syndication and prime-time anchor slots.
Her pulse quickened as she pushed the rest of the mail aside and turned to her computer. Opening a new document, she began typing the story’s framework.
She would fill in the details later.
Tonight, if the letter weren’t a joke, she would claim the story that could finally propel her to the top.
Sean’s feet pounded against the asphalt as he ran through the streets of Whisper, the steady rhythm of each stride matching the restless churn of his thoughts. The late-afternoon sun beat down on him while a cool breeze drifted in from the water, carrying the scent of salt and marsh grass.
It had been a little after four when he returned to the beach house and laced up his running shoes, needing the familiar burn in his muscles to clear his head. Running had always done that for him. It gave his body something to focus on while his mind worked through the noise.
And today there was plenty of noise to sort through.
Suki had wrapped up her profile and headed back to Quantico around eleven that morning. Before she left, she’d walked them through her conclusions one last time, leaving Sean with even more to think about. The task force members had spent the rest of the morning chasing leads generated by the tip line, but none had led anywhere. Another string of dead ends.
Before leaving the station, he’d checked in with Matt and his SAC in Greenville, bringing both men up to speed. The story had gone national, spreading far beyond coastal North Carolina, and every network outlet had latched onto Jessica Daly’s polished little nickname for the unsub.
