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“Just checking.”

I give her a look.

She shrugs.

“You have resources.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You're the one who said kill it.”

“I mean, find out what they're after and shut it down.”

“We're working on it.”

“Work faster.”

Her mouth tightens.

“You know, Carolina was right about you.”

“She usually is.”

“She said you're a pain in the ass.”

“That also sounds right.”

Myrna exhales.

“There is one more thing.”

“What?”

“We think the reporter is here.”

I look at her.

“Here?”

“At the gala.”

My gaze moves across the ballroom.

“Which one?”

“We're trying to confirm.”

“How many reporters did Finley credential tonight?”

“A lot.”

Helpful.

I scan the crowd.

There are several network faces I recognize because technically I sign some of their paychecks now. Others I know because I've spent years avoiding them.

I don't see anyone who looks particularly interested in me.