Bree nodded. “Yes.”
“Is this the same Eugene Oscar you fired two months ago?” a reporter yelled. Bree recognized the voice and zeroed in on Nick West from WSNY News.
Bree chose her words carefully. “Eugene Oscar recently retired from the sheriff’s department.”
“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.
Paris squirmed, but her lips pursed in annoyance. She wasn’t embarrassed.
“Now”—Bree spoke in a getting back to real business tone—“I need to return to my murder investigation. Thank you for your time.” She stepped away from the microphone and turned back toward the station. She kept her strides even and calm. It couldn’t appear as if she was running away, even though that was exactly what she wanted to do.
Inside, she made a beeline for her office. Marge, Todd, and Matt followed and clustered around her desk.
Bree’s butt hit her chair hard. She propped her elbows on the desk and dropped her face into her hands. After a few seconds, she lifted her head. “Was that as big of a disaster as I think?”
As expected, Matt looked pissed. Todd tugged at his collar, as if acutely uncomfortable.
Marge said, “Yes.”
Bree could always count on her for honesty. “What do we know about Paris Vickers?”
Marge’s lips pressed into a flat line. “She’s a bitch?”
Bree couldn’t suppress a quick snort. “Besides that.”
“The Daily Grind is a tabloid blog,” Marge said. “No one takes it seriously.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The scope of the disaster was just beginning to swarm like panicked ants in Bree’s belly. “Now that Paris brought the deepfakes to light, everyone will go looking for them.”
“I’ll make sure the press has cleared out.” Marge headed for the door.
Todd glanced at his phone. “I need to take care of something.”
“Do you need me?” Bree asked.
“No. One of the patrol vehicles was hit in the Wendy’s parking lot. The deputy wasn’t inside. No big deal. I’ll handle it.”
Bree nodded. “When you’re done, I’d like you to talk to the neighbor, Homer. He’s been Camilla’s neighbor for decades. He must know something about the family history.”
Todd brightened. “Anything specific you want to know?”
“I’m interested in property values. Does he have any idea what the farm might be worth? Also, how far any family conflicts go back,” Bree said. “Hopefully, he’ll know some dirty details that aren’t in any official documents.”
“Let’s hope.” Todd closed the door behind him on the way out, as if sensing that Bree needed a moment alone with Matt.
When he was gone, Matt perched on the corner of her desk. “Are there any pictures of you in a tank top or shorts on the internet?”
“I don’t think so.” Bree didn’t have personal social media accounts. As a detective in Philly, she’d been on the news a few times, but she’d always dressed in business attire. Before making detective, she’d been in uniform. Now as sheriff, she usually wore a uniform when she was on duty, jeans and a T-shirt when off. “Why?”
“Because the easiest way to prove those images are false is to show your tattoos,” Matt said. “There would be no question the images aren’t really you.”