“But wasn’t he originally fired for cause?” Nick West asked. Today, his killer smile looked a little too cocky.
“No. He was on administrative leave, and then he retired,” Bree repeated, but her discomfort gathered. Nick wouldn’t let the subject go entirely. He was young—in his late twenties—but he had the instincts of a good journalist. She’d have to deal with him later. She signaled for a tall redhead to speak.
“When were they killed?” the redhead asked.
Bree leaned closer to the microphone. “According to the medical examiner, they died between eight p.m. Sunday and eight a.m. Monday.”
A blonde woman raised her hand. She had huge fake eyelashes and thick eyeliner. “Paris Vickers with the Daily Grind. Who found the bodies?”
“I did,” Bree answered. “While conducting the well-being check for a concerned neighbor.”
A gray-haired man called out, “Is it normal for you to go out on routine calls?”
“When we’re busy, yes.” Bree looked for the next question.
Paris Vickers raised her microphone. “Do you have any suspects yet?”
“I can’t comment on the details of an active investigation,” Bree answered and turned to another reporter.
Before he could speak, Paris persisted. “Should the residents of Grey’s Hollow be worried that there’s a killer on the loose?”
Bree shook her head. “At this time, we have no reason to think the killer represents a danger to the community at large.” Again, Bree attempted to steer away from Paris, but she just kept talking.
“But you don’t know the motivation behind the killing?” Paris’s tone sounded more like a statement than a question.
Bree fell back to her standby answer. “I can’t comment on an active investigation.”
Paris smirked. “If you can’t comment on the case, maybe you’d like to comment on the nude pictures of you that are all over the internet?”
Bree froze. Her throat constricted until she doubted she could croak out any answer at all, not that she had one. She wanted to kick herself. She should have expected this. But Rory had said the videos and pics had been uploaded to porn sites. Had they really gone viral that quickly? Or had her email harasser tipped off the reporter? She hadn’t even had a chance to file takedown orders.
Hell, she hadn’t even contacted an attorney yet.
Excitement buzzed and reporters murmured to each other. Bree didn’t look behind her, but she heard Todd’s shoes scuffle on the concrete. Without seeing Matt, she knew he would be stone-faced.
Paris’s mouth curved in a satisfied smile.
Bree swallowed and tried to sound cool, but her cheeks were hot. Knowing she had to respond, she said, “Those pictures are obvious fakes,” in a subject closed tone.
But Paris wasn’t finished. “Have you ever modeled nude, Sheriff?”
“No,” Bree snapped, then breathed and replied in a calm voice, “I’ve never modeled, period. As I already stated, those images aren’t real.”
“I saw them. They looked real to me.” Paris gave her a look of disbelief. “Have you ever starred in a pornographic video? Because there’s one of those with your image circulating as well.” Bedlam broke out as other reporters started yelling out questions. Some opened their phones, clearly searching for the images. Paris’s smile deepened, as if she was very pleased with herself.
Bree tried to answer no, but no one heard her over the yelling. “May I have your attention.” Sweat dampened Bree’s forehead and gathered under her arms. It dripped under her body armor and soaked her shirt at the base of her spine. She needed to take back control. Finally, she barked a commanding “Quiet!” into the microphone.
A hush slowly settled over the crowd.
Bree pushed aside her embarrassment. She needed to spin this story. Not spin, she corrected herself. She was only telling the truth, but she needed to change her emotional response. Fear and humiliation made her look weak. She summoned indignation and anger in their place. She let her voice rise just enough to sound strong but not defensive. “The images circulating on the internet are edited. They are deepfakes that were manufactured to embarrass me. They aren’t real.”
Someone snickered, “Prove it.”
“Her tits look real!” someone yelled.
Bree looked for the speaker, but no one met her gaze. She scanned the news crews, making eye contact with reporters and cameras as she panned the crowd. She needed to speak to viewers as much as the journalists in front of her. “All it takes is a simple piece of software to superimpose one person’s face over another person’s body. It could happen to anyone. I find that very disturbing.” Bree stared at Paris. “If you examine the images carefully, the editing is very obvious.” Bree let her tone rather than her words imply shame on you.