All these faces—faces he’d seen in the newspapers, on the news—looked back at him, wide-eyed. Their fingers were poised on laptop keyboards waiting for any morsel of information they could spin in their own mischievous ways. The press room stunk of sweat. It was clammy in here, the blinds up so that the sun beamed inside, the windows closed. Brian loosened his tie. Hoped he didn’t look too rough. Looked down at the notes in front of him so he could carefully tell them what he had to. This was an unusual case. Not like the usual press conferences he’d given years ago when he’d simply held back a certain amount of information and told the press just enough. This press conference was a press appeal. A call for help. A call for information.The room was silent. Well, but for a slight hum of journalists whispering to one another, of pens already scratching against paper. Brian’s heart thumped. He knew this was his time. He knew this was his moment to speak.He cleared his throat.
