They let her go with paperwork and outrage, and as the door clicked shut, Brendon felt the heat of the case become colder and stranger. Marigold's mutual controversy with Whitney now had the stench of something larger: play-acting that had drawn a predator out from somewhere he'd hidden in the affordances of fandom, content, and commerce.
They filed the interview notes into the case folder. Tyson approved drafting an interim protective watch. Jason pushed for it; Chief Tyson had already nodded to the plan, but they'd need a thread of proof to justify the manpower. In the meantime, it was Brooks, one of their grimiest uniformed officers, who'd be the guardian; he'd wear a badge and look like he belonged on TV.
Then the push that would turn a private tragedy into a story smeared across public empathy — the internet erupted with a new post. A grief-letter from a man who claimed to be Whitney's ex. It was public, raw, saturated in sorrow: pictures of quieter days, a cracked phone video of a lake, an old message chain screenshot where Whitney joked about going on a shoot in the woods. He pleaded for anyone who knew anything to come forward. He named no names, but the post hit the nucleus of the fandom like shrapnel. Overnight, comments multiplied into conspiracy threads. DMs flooded police inboxes. The case that had been a grim curiosity now had faces attached to it.
Brendon read the post at his desk — the man's grief was performative and honest at once. There were small tells that suggested pain, not PR; that made Brendon lift his chin. Exes often knew things, or carried scraps of truth like teeth.
He squinted at the timestamp, then at the user's profile. The handle was private, but a phone number had been published in a reply thread by an overeager fan. Brendon typed slowly: Can we reach him? Jason answered before he could press send: I can call now. I know the etiquette. Let me take it.
He did.
The conversation was a soft, aching thing. The man at the other end — Mark, he said his name was — spoke with the raw edges of someone still stunned. He confirmed Whitney had told him about shooting in the woods, a few weeks out. She'd been secretive; said the shoot was for a high-engagement series and hinted at a small crew. He'd tried to contact her in the week she vanished and had been ignored; the post was his last raw public attempt to find answers.
Brendon felt the old hunter's urge prickle. A lead. Maybe shaky. Maybe personal. But a lead at the very least.
He set the call down like a live coal and picked up his phone his phone rings.
He almost ignored it—until the caller ID flashed DONNA FOSTER.
A familiar weight settled in his gut.
"...Hello?" His voice was lower than usual, almost careful.
"Brendon."
Her tone was sharp, stripped of the warmth he remembered.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you finally picked up. You've been missing for over a year, and now, when you're apparently back—" she emphasized the word like it was something to be proven, "—you haven't shown up to a single therapy session."
He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes wandering to the empty mug beside him. "Things have been… busy. Casework. You know how it is."
"That's not an excuse," Donna snapped. "You were in a bad place before you disappeared, Brendon. The nightmares, the flashbacks—remember those? Or did you just decide they'd magically solve themselves?"
He opened his mouth, but she pressed on.
"And I don't even know if you're following your medications. Are you? Or are you back to playing roulette with your own brain chemistry?"
The question made him falter. "I… yeah. I've been taking them."
There was silence on the other end, long enough to make him shift uncomfortably. "You're lying," Donna finally said, voice quieter now, but colder. "I can hear it in your voice. You can't just run from this, Brendon. Not from me, not from yourself."
He swallowed, feeling that old, unwelcome sensation creeping in—the way her words poked holes in the armor he'd spent months building back up.
"I'll… try to make time," he said. It sounded weak, even to him.
"Do more than try." Her tone softened just slightly, enough to carry a warning rather than a threat. "Because if you let this spiral again, I'm not sure you'll pull yourself out next time."
The call ended. Brendon sat there for a while, staring at the dead phone screen, the hum of the station faint in the background.
The Whitney article still glowed on his monitor, but his mind wasn't on it anymore. He shut his laptop, swallowed, and for the first time since the discovery, he thought about the cost. Not of catching the killer — that would eventually come — but the price he paid when the manhunt consumed the hunter, and took everything else with him.
Tomorrow, Donna had said.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would keep the appointment. Then he forced the promise into the lockbox of something larger: catch the man who thought murder was performance. Find Whitney. Make this real people stop hurting.
He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling into the dim room like a small, soluble truth. The phone buzzed again, a new message in the group: Kelvin counsel calls — delaying appearance. ETA 48 more hours. Brendon let his exhale shape into a resolve.
The night closed in — small, bright, and suffocating — and somewhere on the other side of town a man with brown hair walked, unaware he'd been seen.