Chapter 21 #4
I considered the fake feed. The altered conversation. The emphasis on Elliot. The way Brewster reacted each time Simon's name came up. Then something clicked.
“Mal.” I straightened and it brushed her chest to mind. I dropped hands to her hips to keep her steady.
“What?”
“The feed.”
She waited.
“It wasn't primarily for us.”
Her brow furrowed.
“It had to be. You were the audience.”
“No. We were recipients.”
“What's your distinction?”
“Target.” The word fit. Her expression sharpened as I continued. “He didn't need to convince me you trusted him.”
“No?”
“Because I'm not running the investigation.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Brewster.”
“Yes.”
The son of a bitch really was clever. I flexed my hands against her hips.
“The fake conversation told Brewster exactly what he already feared. Simon was conditioning you. You were beginning to trust Simon. You didn't trust Brewster. You thought Brewster wanted control.”
Mallory went still. “Which is mostly true.”
“That's why it works.”
She swore quietly. “He used me to take a swing at Elliot.”
“Yes.” A very elegant, and pointed swing. He’d hit his target too.
“But why?”
I stared at her. We both knew the obvious answer. “To provoke him.”
The room seemed colder. Mallory rubbed her palms along my arms.
“Simon already knew how he'd react.”
“Or wanted to test his theory.” I leaned more toward the former than the latter, but both were probable.
Her gaze wandered toward the whiteboard. Brewster's name wasn't on it. Not yet. It would be—I didn’t have to say anything. She was thinking the same thing.
“He kept asking if Simon talked about him.”
“I noticed.”
“He kept asking whether Simon said he knew why Guy died.”
“Yes.”
Mallory's lips compressed. “He was scared.”
I thought back to Brewster through the glass. Credentials in his hand. The naked hatred in his face. “Yes.”
“Of Simon?”
I considered my answer. “Maybe.”
Her eyes returned to me. “Of what Simon knows?”
I didn’t have to answer, because of course it was what he feared. So we stood there in my kitchen, exhausted and barefoot and holding a conversation about murder before breakfast.
Apparently this was our normal now. Mallory's gaze dropped to my mouth and it lingered there long enough to be deliberate and not leave anything else open to interpretation.
Neither of us moved.
Then she said, “You never answered me.”
“About?”
“When.”
I knew. Of course I knew. I should have lied. Instead, I admitted, “Longer than I should have.”
“That isn't a date.”
“I'm not giving you one.”
“Coward.” She wrinkled her nose at me.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
She smiled. Then took one step closer.
My brain stopped functioning. “Mal.”
“What?”
“Don't.”
Her expression changed instantly and she stepped back. Not far, but enough. I still had my hands on her hips and she was still gripping my arms.
I hated myself for the hurt that flashed across her face.
“That's not what I meant.”
“Then maybe you should work on being specific about what you mean.” The reprimand was so prim it almost made me laugh.
Instead I looked at her. Really looked. She was exhausted, barefoot, and her hair was still damp. My too-large on her shirt hung off one shoulder. Her gaze was too sharp despite the red-rim of her eyes.
She was alive. I shifted my grip from one hip to her hand. My thumb moved over the pulse beneath her wrist. Fast.
Mine wasn't any better.
“You've been awake for almost thirty hours.”
“Twenty-seven,” she corrected. “So have you.”
“That doesn't help.”
“I slept Thursday.” She waved it off like an unimportant fact.
“Briefly.”
“Are you monitoring my sleep now?” A light gleamed in her eyes as she all but dared me.
What else could I do but be honest? “Yes.”
“Creepy.”
“Mallory.”
She sobered.
I didn't release her. “I need to know this isn't just adrenaline, and chasing the story, and tonight.”
Her eyes searched mine. “It isn't.”
“You could have died.” Right, wrong, or indifferent. The minute she’d gone into that building, she’d risked her life. I’d let her do it.
“But I didn't.”
“You thought you were meeting a serial killer.”
“Alleged.”
I glared.
“Sorry.” Her meek expression wouldn’t fool a five year old.
“No, you're not.”
“No,” she said with a faint smile. “I’m not.”
I huffed out a breath. “You've had cops pointing weapons at you, spent hours being questioned, watched somebody fabricate a conversation using your face and voice, and watched Brewster get pulled off a case he's obsessed with.”
“Yes.”
“Adrenaline is as bad as alcohol when it comes to consent.”
Something softened in her expression. “I know.”
“I won't be the next bad decision because you need to feel something other than scared.”
The instant I said it, I regretted the wording.
Mallory didn't. She stepped closer again and leaned into me as her hands slid up my arms to my shoulders.
“I made that mistake with Elliot,” she whispered.
My hand loosened on her hips. “Mal—”
“No.” She shifted her grip and this time, it was her hand on my chin and the rasp of my stubble against her hand reminded me it’d been far too long since I’d shaved. “Listen to me, Flint. Yes, I made that mistake with Elliot. You—you aren’t a mistake. You never have been.”
Then she kissed me.