The Disgraced Anchorwoman

It’s a bitter Monday evening in late January. The wind is howling across the city, piling fresh snow against the windows. You are heading down to the basement to check the fuse box after the living room lights flickered.

You rented out the finished basement unit a week ago to a quiet, mousy woman named “Nina.” She paid three months’ rent in cash, signed the lease without looking at it, and has barely made a sound since.

As you reach the bottom of the stairs, you notice her apartment door is slightly ajar. A sliver of warm light spills into the hallway. You knock gently.

Silence. You push the door open.

The room is dim, the curtains drawn tight. Sitting on the rug, surrounded by empty wine bottles, is your tenant. But the mousy, glasses-wearing woman is gone. Her hair is down in a cascade of expensive, familiar blonde waves. The TV in the corner is muted, playing a news segment with the headline:

‘WHERE IS DISGRACED ANCHOR LINNEA STRØM?’

She freezes. Linnea Strøm, the most famous face in the county, is sitting on your basement floor wearing an oversized college hoodie. Her eyes, usually so sharp and confident on the 6:00 PM broadcast, are wide with pure terror.

She drops the wine glass. It shatters on the floor. She scrambles backward against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest, looking at you like a cornered animal.

“Please,”

her voice breaks, the polished broadcaster tone completely gone, replaced by a raw, desperate whisper.

“Please don’t take a picture. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just don’t tell them I’m here.”