Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
MALLORY
The applause followed me all the way off the stage. It sounded hollow once the studio lights were behind me.
Someone from production smiled and thanked me for coming. Another handed me a bottle of water. Someone else asked if I'd be willing to pose for a quick photograph with the host.
I smiled.
Declined.
Kept walking.
I unplugged the microphone pack as I moved. I didn’t want to be on a hot mic of any kind. The fact no one tried to take it from me suggested they wouldn’t be opposed to catching me out.
The makeup room they'd assigned me wasn't much larger than a walk-in closet, but it had a locking door and, at the moment, that made it feel like sanctuary.
I stepped inside.
Closed the door.
And locked it.
A second later someone tested the handle.
Of course they did.
I closed my eyes.
"Elliot."
Silence.
Then his voice carried through the wood.
"We should talk."
"We've been talking for three weeks."
"No," he said evenly. "You've been avoiding me."
I pulled the pins from my hair one at a time, dropping them onto the counter beside the mirror.
"I've been working." If he wanted to have the conversation through a closed door, I couldn’t stop him. “You shouldn’t make this all about you, Elliot.”
At some point, I’d stopped calling him Brewster or even Agent Brewster. Brewster demanded distance and agent offered him authority. I didn’t want to accommodate him.
Not anymore.
“Mallory…” He blew out a breath. Frustrated, was he?
How sad for him.
“Open the door.”
“No.” I didn’t think it needed to be said, but I said it anyway. I caught my own reflection.
Foundation.
Studio powder.
Mascara.
The version of me people expected to see. I finger combed the stiffness out of my hair.
“Dammit, Mallory,” Brewster said and there was a faint thump as though he bumped his fist to it or maybe it was his head.
I liked the second image. Maybe a little too much.
“We’re already at ‘dammit, Mallory’?” I kept my tone light and amused, two things I was not feeling.
“You didn’t give us much of a heads up on this interview.”
He was lucky I’d given them any kind of heads up. Getting out from under their thumb had proven difficult.
I reached for the cleansing wipes.
“You should have vetted this with us.” He was more than a little incensed.
Pausing mid-face clean, I considered the locked door. This seemed a bit much—
"You went off script."
Ah.
I laughed once. It wasn't particularly amused. "You mean I answered the questions."
"You answered around them."
"They invited a journalist," I said as I scrubbed away another careful layer. "Not an FBI press release."
His sigh carried through the door.
"You know why I asked you not to speculate."
"I didn't." I had avoided any speculation. I’d been quite careful about that.
"You implied."
A snort escaped me. “What you mean to say is I took too many breaths without clearing it with you.” That chokehold had begun to chafe. I was ready to chew my own leg off to get free of this trap.
"You know exactly what I mean."
I did.
That was the problem. Everything had become implication. Every interview with their profilers, their field agents, their tech guys. They parsed every sentence, every headline, and every silence.
They wanted me muzzled and off-air permanently. Flint had gone to bat but after Reardon’s death, even the network had withdrawn their support.
The woman staring back from the mirror slowly disappeared beneath damp cotton rounds until freckles emerged across my nose and the circles beneath my eyes reclaimed territory no concealer could permanently win.
Better.
More honest.
I peeled the microphone pack from the waistband of my trousers before changing into faded jeans, hiking boots, and a charcoal sweater that had survived more airports than I cared to count.
The blazer stayed hanging in the wardrobe.
The heels joined it.
The woman from television remained in the dressing room. It was time for me, the journalist, to slip quietly back into my own skin.
I unlocked the door.
Brewster stood exactly where I'd left him.
Dark suit.
Dark overcoat.
Dark circles beneath eyes that looked as though they hadn't slept much better than mine.
"I thought you'd gone away." It was a lie and I didn’t care if he knew it.
"I was waiting."
“Typical.” I bypassed him, but he fell into step beside me before I even reached the hallway.
"You shouldn't have said someone wanted us to stop asking questions."
“Everyone wants someone somewhere to stop asking questions.” It was a flippant response.
“Mallory,” he growled my name and there was just a glimmer of satisfaction piercing the dark cloud of my mood. It took a lot to push his buttons.
I was getting really good at it. "I didn't realize I needed federal approval for complete sentences."
His jaw tightened. "You know the Auditor watches you."
"According to the ratings, lots of people watch me." I shrugged. “Free country.”
"Don't be deliberately difficult." He snapped.
"I'm not being deliberate at all." Another lie, well, a half-lie. It was a deliberate choice at this point but more of a default. Brewster had begun to piss me off.
He lowered his voice. "You made that sound personal."
"It is personal." He’d get no argument from me on that one.
"Yes,” Brewster hissed, then said nothing as we passed a tech in the hall. Once we were clear, he added, “Very personal to him."
Another shrug of my shoulders. "To Chicago. To the public. To the families of his victims."
"To you."
I stopped walking. "So we're finally saying it out loud."
His expression never changed. "I've been saying it."
"No." I folded my arms, not smirking but there was frisson of excitement threading through my irritation. "You've been implying it."
For just a second something flashed behind his eyes. It was gone before I could name it but it was something sharp and visceral. A cross between frustration and possession, maybe. Either way, he wasn’t happy with me.
Too. Damn. Bad.
"You've become emotionally involved."
"The vice president of my network was murdered." I pointed out.
“Reardon was a power player and you didn’t like him.”
Was that supposed to make it okay? I raised both of my eyebrows. “I liked Colin,” I reminded him. “He was more than just a lawyer. He was my friend.”
Silence. We rarely said Colin’s name, but his death lived between us like an open wound. It hurt my soul to think about it and I kept bleeding from that injury where no one could see.
It had always been personal, but Colin made this much more.
Brewster blew out a slow breath. "I'm trying to keep you alive."
"I know." I folded my arms, because I didn’t want his comfort or his guilt.
"I don't think you do."
"I know more than you believe." I stepped around him. "I just don't think that's your only motivation anymore."
His silence behind me echoed loudly. A brief, but fierce smile pulled at my lips. Good. His reactions told me I was getting closer.
"Mallory."
Flint.
Just hearing his voice loosened something between my shoulders I hadn't realized I'd been carrying since I'd stepped onto the stage.
He leaned against the far wall outside the production offices, one hand wrapped around a cardboard coffee carrier, the other shoved into the pocket of his coat.
No badge, security detail, or disappointment.
Just coffee and his welcome face.
He looked at me first. It was an open gaze, one that held appreciation, affection, and something more.
"You survived daytime television." The droll, but dry comment held a wealth of unspoken commentary. He couldn’t believe I did a daytime television interview of all things. It worked better than he expected. I had surprised him, again, and he liked it.
"Barely."
He held out one of the cups.
"Oat milk latte. One shot of hazelnut."
“Of course you remembered.” I smiled despite myself. When it came to regular coffee, I was a black coffee no sugar. Espresso was a different beast.
"I remember important things."
Behind me I could feel Brewster disapproving of our exchange.
I didn't have to turn around. I knew how expressionless he would be. I’d been seeing it for weeks. Brewster guarded his face, but not his eyes.
No matter how much he believed differently.
I didn’t have to question if Flint noticed it. He noticed everything, but when he moved a half step closer to me, it translated. The small gesture might be overlooked by everyone else. But not me.
Not Brewster.
"You ready to go?" Flint asked, his voice low and warm, carrying that rich cadence that had once made him one of the best broadcast journalists in the country before he'd traded the anchor desk for the newsroom.
He didn't tell me what we were doing.
He didn't tell me where we were going.
He asked.
It was such a small thing, but after three weeks of being managed, monitored, redirected, and protected, the choice felt almost startling.
Flint had never tried to run my life.
He'd challenged my reporting. Tore apart my copy. Sent me back to verify sources I swore were airtight. We'd argued over headlines, ethics, anonymous attribution, and whether the story was ready to air.
But when the debate was over...
The decision had always been mine.
Somewhere over the past few weeks, that distinction had become impossible to ignore.
Flint trusted my judgment.
Brewster trusted his own.
I wasn't entirely sure when that difference had begun to matter so much.
Only that it did.
More than either of them probably realized.
I nodded.
"Yeah."
His smile wasn't broad enough to draw attention, but I caught it anyway. It softened the hard lines around his mouth, chasing away the exhaustion he'd been carrying almost as long as I had.
For the first time all morning, I felt like I could breathe.
Flint fell into step beside me, not in front of me, not behind me.
Beside me.
Exactly where he'd always been.
Whatever was happening around us—whatever the FBI thought they knew, whatever game the killer was playing, whatever secrets Guy Reardon had died protecting—one thing had become painfully clear.
Flint and I were on the same side.
Neither of us was entirely certain who else was.
As we started toward the elevators, Brewster followed us. "You still need protection."
I glanced at him over my shoulder as Flint hit the button for the elevator and the doors opened. He held the doors open as I met Brewster’s cool eyes and met him stare for stare.
“I know.”
His jaw flexed almost imperceptibly. “Then stop making my job harder.”
I couldn't help it. I smiled.
“Your job is to investigate a serial homicide, Agent Brewster.” I tipped my head toward him. “Mine is to ask inconvenient questions until someone gives me answers.”
“You're part of this investigation now.”
“I've always been part of it.” My smile faded. “I just don't happen to work for you or the FBI.”
His expression remained infuriatingly composed. “You're minimizing the danger again.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I'm refusing to surrender my autonomy because it makes your paperwork easier.”
A muscle ticked along his jaw. “You think this is about paperwork?”
“I think you've spent the last three weeks assigning agents to my building, approving where I sleep, deciding which interviews I should accept, and critiquing every sentence that comes out of my mouth while working diligently with the network to go over Flint’s head and keep me off the air.”
“Because someone killed the vice president of your network,” Brewster gritted out.
“And Colin.” I held his gaze. “I haven't forgotten either of them.” I let that hang there for a moment. Then I added, “If you are truly concerned that those around me are targets, you might want to keep your distance—unless you really are trying to use me as bait.”
For just a moment, something almost human crossed his face. Regret. Fatigue. Maybe guilt. Then it was gone.
“I don't want another body.”
Why did I not believe him?
“Shockingly,” I said, maintaining as neutral a tone as I could because being snide would get me nowhere. “Neither do I.”
“Then let me do my job.”
I folded my arms. “With respect, Elliot…” His name felt strangely intimate no matter what had happened between us. Even more revealing to use it in front of Flint. “I have let you do your job. For weeks now. But you’re not in charge of me.”
Silence settled between us.
He looked at me the way investigators looked at evidence that refused to cooperate. Finally he exhaled. “You're impossible.”
“So I'm told.”
Standing with his back to the elevator doors to keep them open, Flint watched us almost impassively. Almost. Because the corner of his mouth twitched at my response.
“If you get anything,” Brewster said, his voice returning to business, “anything at all…”
“I'll call.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
I took a step backward into the elevator.
“But here's a thought.” I met his eyes one last time. “Instead of following me around Chicago, maybe go investigate.”
His brows lifted.
“You're the FBI.”
I shrugged.
“Be federal.”
For the first time since we'd met, the mask slipped. Not much. Just enough for irritation to flash across his face.
“I am investigating.”
"Good." I stepped backward into the elevator as the doors began to close. "If I come across something before you do, you'll be my first call."
The doors closed between us. Only then did I let out the breath I'd been holding.
Flint waited until the elevator began its descent before speaking. "You know, that’s the first time I’ve seen him almost lose that professional veneer of his.”
I glanced sideways. "I thought he hid it pretty well."
"He has." Flint's mouth curved into the hint of a smile. "I've just spent too many years interviewing politicians and liars not to notice the cracks."
I laughed because he had a point. It was one of the things about Elliot that made trusting him a challenge. "Which one do you think he is?"
His smile lingered another heartbeat, then Flint shrugged. "We’ll have to let history decide.” That told me Flint didn’t trust him either.
Not anymore.
I leaned back against the elevator wall, the tension finally beginning to bleed out of my shoulders. "He needs to stop treating me like evidence."
Sobering, Flint shook his head. "He doesn't know how."
"What does that mean?"
"It means..." He searched for the words. "Most agents like him spend their careers chasing people others can't predict. But you are making him feel like he’s losing control of the one person he can.”
"And that's my problem because...?"
"It isn't." His voice softened. "But it will become yours if he starts believing protecting you matters more than respecting you."
The elevator chimed and then the doors opened to the parking garage. Neither of us moved right away. I wasn’t sure Brewster respected me now.
That was an uncomfortable thought.
Very uncomfortable.
Finally, Flint looked at me. "Come on, we’ve got work to do."
I glanced at him then pushed off the wall, coffee in hand to follow him. We had work to do.
We.
Together.