Page 4 of Silent Shadows

“Oh my God,” I wheeze. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“Marissa.”

“Daisy.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I stand by what I said, bitch.”

“I interview celebrities. I talk about the best blow job techniques. I do not—” I gesture wildly—“strap on hiking boots and chase a mythical ape man in the forest.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane. It’s not what my audience listens to me for.”

“Exactly,” she says. “It’s different.”

I shake my head, still laughing. “Absolutely not. They’re just going to expect me to talk about Bigfoot’s dick size or something. There’s no way⁠—”

“You literally just said you find it fascinating.”

“That’s from the comfort of my ergonomic chair. With Wi-Fi. And coffee.”

“So we find a crew that understands that. We bring the coffee,” she counters.

I rest my head in my hands. “It's not that exciting, though. They're not always in the woods, Riss. They're usually just sitting around, watching thermal imaging. Ghost hunters, but boring.”

“So you make it fun! You can really make these people into characters,” she nods.

I look up at her from between my hands.

She’s not joking anymore. I consider what she just said. I know I could nail a funny approach, but then I risk looking like a dick. Or I could take a sincere, human-interest angle, in which case I could look like a conspiracy theorist. I sigh.

“I’m just giving you some tough love,” she says. “You’re too good at what you do to coast, Daisy.”

My eyes well up a little at her compliment. I never know what to do with nice people. But also, what if I’m not better than what I’ve been doing? I’ve only been a cultural sex podcaster. That’s it. People know what to expect, and I deliver. I hate that it’s all I’m known for, but what if I’m not good at anything else, or people don’t like it when I talk about—God forbid—anything else?

“This—” she gestures toward my laptop, the articles still open—“this is the first time in months I’ve seen you light up about something. A spark in your eye. It’s like when you dove deep into ghosting while dating apps were peaking. Those episodes exploded. People pick up on that energy from you.” She shrugs.

I open my mouth to argue. Nothing comes out.

She’s not wrong.

I glance back at the screen. Another blurry photo. Another story. Another person convinced they’ve encountered something real.

Something unknown.

“Seriously, you could do a limited series,” Marissa says. “Five episodes, maybe. Safely under The DL with Daisy. It could use a format similar to the series you did with that rock band, where you followed them on tour for a bit. You embed yourself with the crew. You document everything. I’m not saying you turn this into a total pivot or anything. Make it editorial. What they do, why they believe, and the dynamics between them. It’s still about people, relationships, and culture. Just a very specific subculture. You do what you do and bring humor to it.”

“And if it’s not worth anything?” I ask.

“Then you come home,” she offers. “And we pivot again. But at least you tried something and got out of this room.” She looks around. Empty cans of Diet Coke and iced coffee cups are stacked on my desk. While I try to project the image of someone who has it all together in an off-the-shoulder black tee, jeans, and heels, Marissa knows better. She gives me a lingering up-and-down look, taking in my messy bun. “With love, you should take a bath and put on some sweats.”

I exhale, tapping my manicured nails against the desk.

This is so far outside my lane it’s practically in another state.