“You are today.” He was already walking, expecting her to follow. “The desk just got a tip. Someone claiming to have evidence of a British journalist still alive in the region. They won’t talk to anyone but ‘the correspondent’s daughter.’ They’re patching through a video feed. You’ll ask the questions. You’ll be live on the Six .”
A beat.
For now, the red light stayed on. And Thea Marsh, for the first time in twelve years, began to listen.
The newsroom fell silent. The surprise wasn’t the tip, or the broadcast, or even the sudden spotlight. The surprise was that she didn’t cry. She didn’t freeze. She leaned into the microphone, her voice steady as a held breath, and said:
Three messages. All from an unknown number. The first: Thea, don’t move. Stay exactly where you are. The second: We’re coming to you. Live. In five. The third: It’s about your father.
“I’m not an on-air—“
Her legs carried her, numb. The studio was a cold white box. The floor manager fitted her with an earpiece that hissed with the sound of the world waiting. The countdown began. Ten, nine, eight…
The director’s voice in her ear: “Live in three, two…”