Chapter 22 #3
I almost laughed. “You're assuming I'll get a choice.”
Briefly, Warren’s expression altered. As if, finally, he understood.
The Auditor—Simon—had engineered everything about the previous night. From her invitation to the access card to the false floor and manipulated feed. He’d all but served up the information, the timing, and, I wasn’t too proud to admit it, my own reactions.
My phone vibrated. It wasn’t the Bureau’s phone which sat there with my credentials. This was my personal one in my pocket. I didn’t pull it out or offer any reaction for them to dissect.
When Warren raised his eyebrows, I pulled it out of my pocket. A message notification illuminated the screen.
Unknown sender.
I swiped it upward to reveal the message:
You performed almost exactly as I expected.
Everything inside me went silent. Warren circled he desk. “What is it?”
I didn't answer.
Another message appeared.
Almost.
My grip tightened around the phone.
Martin's voice came sharply through the laptop. “Brewster?”
I read the words again.
Almost.
“You son of a bitch,” I whispered.
The typing indicator appeared.
Then vanished.
Appeared again.
Warren held out his hand. “Give me the phone.”
I ignored him.
A third message arrived.
You should have listened to her.
My heart kicked once against my ribs.
Mallory.
“What does it say?” Warren demanded.
I read the line again.
Then another appeared.
She was asking the right questions.
My pulse accelerated. About Guy? The toxicology? Me?
I typed before Hale could stop me.
Who are you?
The response came almost immediately.
Incomplete.
Cold spread through my chest.
Mallory. He'd used that word with her. I knew because she'd reacted when I'd said it at CPD.
He wanted me to know that.
Warren reached for the phone again, but I moved it away even as I put distance between us.
“Elliot.”
“Wait.”
“Give me the goddamn phone.”
The typing indicator appeared again. I watched it. One second. Two. Three.
Ask the question you are actually afraid to ask.
I stared at the screen.
I knew the question. Of course I knew. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Warren repeated my name, but I pivoted ob my heel and strode out of the office. I bypassed the other agents and cops in the hallway, aware of Warren calling after me.
He’d suspended me. I was leaving.
It wasn’t until I was in the elevator that I typed in my question.
What did you tell Mallory about me?
The typing indicator appeared instantly. My breath stopped. Then the answer arrived.
Nothing she hadn't already begun to see.
Rage slammed through me. I typed faster.
Stay away from her.
The response took longer this time. Ten seconds. Twenty. The elevator dinged as we arrived at the ground floor a split-second before the message appeared.
That’s the part of you she should fear.
I stared as the breath backed up in my lungs. He was baiting me. I recognized that he was baiting me. I had spent my entire professional life identifying escalation strategies, provocation loops, narcissistic injury, displaced aggression.
I knew exactly what he was doing, but I responded anyway.
You don't know anything about me.
Three dots.
I know you followed her after being told not to.
My hands went cold.
The next message arrived before I could answer.
I know you withheld Reardon's second toxicology.
I was striding across the lobby for the exit doors. With my credentials, badge, and Bureau phone out of my hands, I didn’t even have a vehicle here.
I also know why.
The air outside was almost icy against the flush of my face. Raw anger chugged through my system with every thump of my heart. I turned away from the CPD and strode, almost blindly down the sidewalk as the phone vibrated in my palm.
Specificity matters, Elliot.
For the first time since the night began, I understood something Mallory had already figured out. Simon wasn't talking to me because he wanted information.
He already had it. He was talking to see what I would do. And every answer I gave him was another piece of evidence. I began to strip my phone apart. If he was messaging me on it, he could track it. So could the Bureau for that matter.
I dumped a different piece of it into each trash can as I passed it on my way toward the L. The humiliation should have burned. Instead, I felt strangely calm.
When the last piece landed in an overstuffed can, I ignored it and headed up the steps. I had no credentials, no weapon, no phone, and no case.
For the first time in years, I had absolutely no official authority over anything. At the top of the stairs, I caught my reflection in polished metal.
White shirt. Rolled sleeves. No tie. Empty belt. I looked like someone who'd just had an identity removed piece by piece.
Maybe that was what Simon wanted. Strip away the Bureau, the procedure, the access, and every other structure I’d used as a foundation for my career.
What was left?
I checked what train was coming next and instead of going home, I got on the one that would take me to where I knew Mallory would be.
I headed for Flint Carter’s apartment.