Page 53 of The Midnight Frequency

“That’ll do it,” I whispered.

I reached for my phone as I got up and slid my office door closed, then set the lock.

“Midnight Frequency,” Jack’s voice met my ear.

“It’s Madison.”

“It seems there’s someone important on the line,” Silas said. “Who do we have?”

“We have Madison.”

“Ah, yes. Madison. I’m assuming you take issue with something I said.”

“Only about every time you open your mouth.”

He’d been pretty tolerant throughout his whole show. But some part of me was really leaning into this Madison alter ego. She was more snippy, less people-pleasing, more sure of herself, and not constantly second-guessing everything she said.

A soft chuckle crackled through the line, low and unbothered.

“That is a broad complaint. You will have to be more specific. I enjoy clarity. It is rare.”

“Of course you do,” I said, lowering myself into my chair. “You confuse emotional detachment for insightfulness.”

“I don’t confuse anything,” he said lightly. “I simply notice that people label their poor decisions ‘love’ because it feels better than to have to take accountability for their actions.”

“Out of curiosity, do you practice being so smug, or is it purely improvisational?”

“I’ve been told I have a natural talent for superiority.”

“I’m sure you’ve been told a lot of things. Whether you ever actually take the time to consider their validity is anyone’s guess.”

There was a pause. Not empty, loaded.

My pulse skittered.

“You sound irritated, Madison. Is this truly about my commentary on love, or are we revisiting something more personal?”

“This is nothing personal.”

“That was fast,” he noted. He wasn’t wrong. “That’s usually where people lie.”

“I didn’t call in to be psychoanalyzed by someone who’s lived several lifetimes and still somehow manages to have the emotional intelligence of a housefly.”

“It takes logic, not emotional intelligence, to state that humans are often incapable of admitting they fell for a lie and then spend their whole lives blaming that fairy tale for their own failings.”

“Wow. Do you hear yourself?”

“Very clearly.”

“You sound like you’ve never actually—” I stopped myself. I was, in fact, getting riled. And this didn’t need to become a real argument, just a fake one for ratings and engagement.

“Never actually what?”

I exhaled sharply.

“Have you ever considered that you talk about love like it’s a scam because you are afraid to admit that you’ve never had it?”

“Have you ever considered that you cling to it so tightly because it’s easier than admitting it doesn’t exist, you will never have it, and you will have to endeavor to find happiness by yourself?”