Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
MALLORY
The safe house wasn’t as grim as I expected. But it was close.
Gray walls. Reinforced windows. Spartan furnishings. Every surface felt like it had been wiped down with bleach and bad intentions. There was a couch, a table, a kitchenette, and a bedroom I didn’t bother looking at. I’d be lucky to sleep anyway.
Flint followed us in, face still set to “boiling.” He hadn’t stopped muttering under his breath since the car. Elliot Brewster locked the door behind us with a casual flick of his wrist, like he’d done it a thousand times before. He probably had.
I dropped my bag at the edge of the couch and stayed standing.
“Nice place,” I said. “Really screams don’t get comfortable.”
Brewster didn’t crack a smile. “Good. You’re not supposed to.”
He motioned for me to sit at the table. I didn’t. He waited. Silent. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world.
Flint broke first.
“She’s not a suspect, Brewster. She’s a journalist. You don’t get to treat her like she’s part of your case file.”
“She is part of my case file now.” Brewster didn’t even look at him. “She’s the first confirmed contact with the unsub. She’s not a suspect. She’s a point of contact.”
“Don’t talk about her like she’s a damn carrier pigeon.”
“I’ll talk about her like what she is—an active link to a killer we’ve been chasing for eleven years.” Now Brewster turned, slow and deliberate. “You want to be useful? Stop trying to be the white knight in a media badge.”
Flint’s jaw flexed.
“I’m here to make sure you don’t try and steamroll her into doing something reckless.”
“That’s funny. I was thinking the same about you.”
I cut in before they could pull out measuring sticks and start swinging.
“Enough. Both of you.”
They both looked at me. Neither liked being told what to do. Too bad.
“If we’re doing this, we do it my way. I answer questions. But I’m not your witness. You want cooperation? Earn it.”
Brewster considered me for a long beat. Then—impossibly—he nodded.
“You’re not on record. For now.” He set his phone on the table, face up to show it wasn’t actively recording. “This is preliminary.”
I sat. Crossed my arms. Met his eyes. They were darker up close—gray, yeah, but the kind that flicked to charcoal when he zeroed in. And he was zeroing in.
“Start with how you tied the West Loop murders to the Cold Creek killings.”
Straight to the jugular.
“I didn’t tie them. I noticed the way they were untied—too clean. Too intentional. The cuts, the way the bodies were positioned, how the press releases were written to bury the forensic overlap.”
“You think someone’s hiding it?”
“I think someone was. Until recently. Now, it’s coming apart. He’s escalating.”
Brewster’s jaw moved just enough to show he agreed. He didn’t say it.
“What details did you withhold from your coverage?”
I smiled, thin and sharp. “What makes you think I withheld anything?”
He leaned in, not missing a beat. “Because if you didn’t, you’re either incompetent or suicidal…”
“Careful, Brewster.” Flint made a low noise of warning. “You don’t get to interrogate her like a suspect and call it ‘strategy.’”
I ignored Flint, keeping my attention on Brewster.
“There were details. Phrases in the letters. Repetition in syntax. I reached out to a linguistic analyst at Stanford to do a deep dive. The unsub uses compound sentence structures obsessively. Long clauses. Almost academic. It’s not ranting—it’s patterned.”
“Like he’s building up to something.”
“Yes.”
Brewster glanced toward the window. Not for long. Just enough to think.
“Did the letters ever mention you directly?”
“Not until recently.”
“And now?”
“They’re personal. Obsessive. But not sexual. He talks about my voice. My persistence. Says I ‘look where others don’t.’ He respects that.”
“That’s why I don’t like them,” Flint muttered. “That’s how they pick their targets.”
“It’s also how they justify what comes next,” Brewster added, low. “He’s testing the water. Seeing how close he can get before she pulls back.”
“Well I’m not pulling back,” I said flatly. “So if you’re trying to convince me to hide out in this box and let the story unfold without me, stop now.”
“I’m not,” Brewster said. “I want to understand how he uses you. Because that’s how we’re going to find him.”
He didn’t blink when he said it. Didn’t soften it. That was the difference between him and Flint.
Flint wanted to keep me safe.
Brewster wanted to use me.
Neither of them wanted to admit how close those two things could be.
I stood. The walls felt closer now. The air staler.
“I need coffee,” I said.
“I’ll get it,” Flint offered, already turning.
“I said I need coffee.” I moved past both of them, needing the distance more than the caffeine. My back burned with the weight of their stares.
Brewster didn’t trust me.
Flint didn’t want to let me go.
And me?
I didn’t trust either of them.
But I needed them both.
At least for now.
It didn’t take nearly long enough nor did either of them back off.
Brewster remained across from me after I returned with the coffee I didn’t need. I sat—deliberately on the far side—but distance meant nothing to a man who specialized in dismantling space with words.
He hadn’t touched his phone on the table, but it was there like a loaded gun. The air was warm, but I couldn’t stop the chill along my spine.
Flint stood by the kitchenette now, arms folded, pretending not to hover.
“So,” Brewster said, voice smooth, low. “Let’s start again. Different angle.”
I sipped the coffee. Didn’t respond. He took that as encouragement.
“Have you ever received fan mail before this case?”
“Yes.”
He nodded like he expected it. “A lot?”
“Enough.”
“Anything stand out?”
I gave him a little smile. “You mean besides the now-famous dismemberment gift set?”
His expression didn’t flicker. “Prior to the finger. Anything obsessive?”
“Of course. I’m on television. People send weird things all the time. Love letters. Hair. One guy sent a sculpture of me in what I think was wax, but I didn’t test it.”
Flint made a quiet sound in his throat.
I kept going. “Most of it goes to the network, gets filtered. Some of it gets forwarded. Some slips through.”
“Have you kept any of it?”
“No.”
Brewster didn’t blink. “Have you ever signaled the unsub during a broadcast?”
“What?” I blinked. “No.”
“You’ve never addressed him on air? Even indirectly? A look. A pause. A phrase.”
“Jesus,” Flint muttered.
“I look into the camera because that’s my job,” I shot back. “But I don’t anchor broadcasts in Morse code. I don’t do wardrobe subliminals. And if I was trying to signal him, you think I’d be dumb enough to admit it?”
Brewster leaned back slightly. Not a retreat—just a shift in angle. Still hunting.
“Do you think he’d see it if you did try to signal him?”
I let out a breath. Controlled. “Yes.”
That got a flicker. “Why?”
“Because he’s watching. Always. That’s how this works.”
He nodded slowly. “What’s your favorite thing to do off-camera?”
I didn’t answer right away. That seemed to please him.
“I mean,” he said, still cool, still circling, “assuming you take time off. Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do with it?”
I arched an eyebrow. “This feels less like an interview and more like a bad date.”
“Answer the question.”
“I like swimming,” I said… “Late at night. In cold water. It clears my head. Don’t write that down.”
He didn’t write that down, but something in his eyes shifted. Noted.
“You live alone.”
“Was that a question or a judgment?”
“Just confirming.”
I leaned forward. “Is this where you start asking if I ever bring men home? If I leave the door unlocked? If I smile too much when I read murder stats?”
“I don’t care about your smile,” he said, which was a lie. “I care if you’ve ever received personal communications from this unsub outside the network’s knowledge.”
I shrugged. “Define personal.”
“That’s the problem,” Brewster said quietly. “You don’t know how personal it’s already gotten.”
His tone wasn’t cruel. But it was surgical. He wanted me off-balance. I’d used the same tone myself with hesitant sources.
Flint straightened from the wall, stepping closer. “Alright, that’s enough. You’re not profiling her, Brewster, you’re playing psychological chicken.”
“No,” I said, before Brewster could answer. “Let him. I’m curious what he asks next.”
He didn’t disappoint.
“What do you like on a date?”
I snorted. “That’s the question?”
“I’m gauging how you respond to intimacy,” he said, mild as ever.
“Is that what the FBI calls flirting these days?”
“I don’t flirt.”
“No, you corner,” I replied, sharp and sweet.
Brewster didn’t move, but his gaze lingered. Unapologetic. Heavy.
“I like a man who’s quiet,” I said after a moment, watching him. “Someone who pays attention. Who knows when to speak and when to shut up. Someone who doesn’t reach unless I let them.”
Silence rippled between us like static.
Flint stepped closer again, his presence going taut with territorial warning.
“Anything else you want to know?” I asked, not looking at him.
“Yes,” Brewster said. “Did you ever think—even once—that the letters might be a response to something you did before this story started?”
My stomach coiled. Because I had wondered that. A half dozen times.
I didn’t let it show.
“I’ve been covering true crime for just over three years.
In depth stories, investigations. National, not just local.
You think I can track what I said that triggered him?
Maybe I mispronounced his city. Maybe I called his victim ‘her’ when it should’ve been ‘him.’ Or maybe he just decided I was the one. ”
“You make a lot of assumptions.”
“I make a living,” I snapped.
“You ever wonder if you liked the attention?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t answer that. The silence that followed was thick, more honest than any answer could’ve been.
I stood again, needing the movement.