Chapter 20 #4
His mouth tightened. “That video gets some of it right.”
“Some?”
“Enough.” His gaze shifted back to mine. “But not all of it.”
Something expanded painfully beneath my ribs.
Brewster said, “Behavior isn't evidence of fabrication.”
Flint turned toward him. “No.” His tone went flat. “It's how I knew to look.”
Brewster's face hardened.
That strange friction between them that had nothing to do with jurisdiction or evidence returned.
Ruiz broke the tension.
“We can establish the audio was manipulated. Video's harder. Some of the frames appear authentic.”
“Appearing authentic isn't authentic,” I said.
“No.”
Brewster stepped around the workstation. “What did the real conversation contain?”
Alisha stood. “We're done.”
He ignored her.
“Did Simon mention Reardon?”
“No comment.”
“Did he mention the second toxicology?”
“No comment.”
“Did he tell you where to find it?”
“No comment.”
“Mallory.”
“No.”
The change in my answer stopped him.
Not no comment.
No.
“You don't get to ask me questions based on a fabricated recording and then demand I supply the version you couldn't capture.”
His expression tightened. “He manipulated you too.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” The certainty in my own voice surprised both of us.
Maybe everyone.
“He manufactured a conversation for you,” I continued. “He created evidence because he knew how you'd interpret it.”
“Exactly.”
“No.” I shook my head. “You still don't understand.”
His eyes narrowed.
“He didn't manipulate you into believing him.”
Silence.
“He manipulated you into believing yourself.”
Flint's head came around. Ortiz, who had been leaning near the door, straightened. Brewster said nothing.
I continued because I couldn't help myself. “You heard what you expected to hear. Conditioning. Isolation. Me becoming compromised.”
“That is what he's doing.”
“Maybe.”
“He's already convinced you to question me.”
“No, Elliot.” I took one step closer. “You did that.”
Something cracked. His nostrils flared. His shoulders tightened. His eyes went flat. There and gone.
But not before I saw it.
Suddenly I understood why Flint had told me to stop earlier.
It had nothing to do with Brewster yelling and everything to do with the balancing act the agent was playing. There was a drop and I didn’t know how far it went.
Alisha stepped between us. “Enough.”
Brewster didn't move.
Neither did I.
She looked at him first. “Agent Brewster, my client has cooperated with the collection of physical evidence and provided a factual statement regarding her movements. Your own technical personnel confirm your surveillance evidence was manipulated.”
“She has information relevant to two homicides.”
“Then pursue the appropriate legal mechanism.”
“You know as well as I do that journalists don't have an absolute privilege in Illinois.”
“Excellent.” Alisha smiled without warmth. “Then this should be educational for both of us.”
Ortiz looked away. Definitely hiding a smile.
Brewster's gaze remained on me. “Did Simon say I knew why Reardon died?”
There it was again.
Alisha turned. “Agent—”
But I answered because I wanted to see his reaction. “No.”
Brewster blinked. It was technically true. Simon had never said those words. Not those words.
Relief moved through Brewster so subtly I might have imagined it.
Then I added, “But you keep asking me that question.”
His relief vanished.
“Which is starting to make me wonder why.”
His expression changed as his mouth thinned and his eyes chilled. The professionalism all but vanished for one, long and painful heartbeat.
Flint moved. He didn't put himself dramatically between us. He simply came to stand beside me. Shoulder to shoulder.
Brewster saw that too.
Before anyone could speak, the door opened. A silver-haired man in an FBI windbreaker stood there.
I'd seen him before. Not tonight. He was one of Brewster’s supervisors. His gaze traveled over the room, paused briefly on me, then settled on Brewster.
“Elliot.”
Brewster's posture changed. “Sir.”
“Outside.”
“We're in the middle of—”
“Now.” The single word ended the argument.
Brewster looked toward me, then Flint and Alisha, before returning to me. Something in his face made the hairs rise along my arms.
He followed his supervisor into the hallway.
The door shut behind them.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Ortiz released a long breath. “Well.”
Alisha looked at her. “Don't.”
“I wasn't going to say anything.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
Ortiz smiled faintly.
I stared through the narrow glass panel beside the door. Brewster stood with his back partly toward us.
His supervisor spoke quietly. Another federal agent joined them. Then another.
Brewster shook his head once. Sharp.
The supervisor said something.
Brewster answered.
I couldn't hear the words. Didn't need to. His hands had gone to his hips. Classic defensive posture.
Then his supervisor pointed down the hallway.
Brewster glanced toward the interview room.
Toward me. Even through the glass, I felt his eyes collide with mine. The professional was gone. Completely. The man staring at me wasn’t my friend.
Not anymore.
Flint came to stand beside me. “What?” he asked.
“I don't know.”
“You're doing the face.”
I glanced at him. Despite everything, a laugh threatened. “I don't have a face.”
“Tragic design flaw.”
The callback landed softly between us. Something inside me loosened. Only a little.
Across the hall, Brewster's supervisor stepped closer to him. Their voices remained too low to hear.
But one phrase carried when someone opened a door farther down the corridor.
“—too personally involved—”
The door shut again.
Silence.
I looked at Flint.
He'd heard it too.
Alisha had too, judging by the way she slowly closed her legal pad.
Brewster's response didn't carry.
His supervisor's did. “This isn't about her protection anymore.”
My stomach tightened. Flint went absolutely still.
Brewster looked through the glass again.
At me.
Then at Flint beside me.
The supervisor said something else and held out one hand.
Brewster didn't move.
Not immediately.
Then his fingers went to the credential case clipped at his belt.
He removed it.
For the first time since I'd met Elliot Brewster, I watched someone else take control away from him.
He didn't wear it well.
The supervisor accepted the credentials.
Brewster's gaze never left mine.
Whatever happened next, questioning clearly wasn't over.
But something fundamental had changed.
The FBI profiler who had spent months telling everyone else how dangerous obsession could become was standing on the far side of the glass while his own supervisors quietly removed him from the board.
And I couldn't stop wondering what Simon already knew and how it was all going to play out.