Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
MALLORY
The atmosphere in the house shifted in the late afternoon, tightening with both weariness and anticipation. Weariness for the length of the day, but anticipation for the relief of evening’s arrival.
The agents rotated again. Doors opened and closed with more care. Someone checked the perimeter twice in the span of fifteen minutes and pretended it was routine. It wasn’t. Nothing had happened, which somehow made everything feel closer to happening.
I hadn’t spoken to Flint all day.
Well, not directly. A text. A clipped voicemail. Meetings ran long. Calls stacked. Network obligations. Corporate wanted briefings. Legal wanted contingencies. Everyone wanted him everywhere except here.
Brewster, on the other hand, hadn’t gone anywhere.
He hadn’t hovered. He never did. But he was present in a way that changed the shape of the room. A chair pulled out where I needed it. A door left open instead of closed. A glance that said I’m still thinking even when he didn’t speak.
The yes from that morning still pulsed under my skin like a second heartbeat.
He hadn’t explained it. Hadn’t softened it. Hadn’t clarified what help meant. And ultimately, he hadn’t withdrawn it.
That told me more than anything else that it was real. I was in the back hallway, halfway between the kitchen and the small office, when I heard his voice. Low. Controlled. Not meant for me.
I stopped without thinking.
“…no, I understand the concern,” Brewster was saying. “But waiting hasn’t produced anything we can see. And if you’re assuming silence equals disengagement, I think that’s a mistake.”
A pause.
I leaned my shoulder lightly against the wall, heart ticking faster. Eavesdroppers never heard anything good about themselves. I was fine with that, I just wanted to know what he said.
Information was power.
“Yes,” he continued, evenly. “I’m aware of the optics. I’m also aware that pressure doesn’t only come from visibility. Sometimes it comes from maintaining continuity. He’s already reached out to her twice, instead of rewarding him, we’re punishing him. Not seeing how that helps anyone.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“She’s not asking to freelance,” Brewster said. “She’s asking to stay relevant and on the story that got us this lead in the first place.”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
“Well,” he said, blowing out a breath. His tone went from firm and definitive to something softer and thoughtful.
“We put her back on air in a controlled way. It tells the Unsub their conversation isn’t over.
” Another pause. “Yes, I’m aware. But we don’t want him to think he gets to dictate when and how she reports on the story. ”
Another pause.
“No, I’m not implying that we are acting in his stead by keeping her contained and offsite, I’m saying we’re sending the wrong message.”
The air in my lungs stalled.
Whoever was on the other end must have taken over the conversation because Brewster went quiet. He also didn’t interrupt. I wanted to glance around the corner to make sure he was still on the phone, but that would definitely betray my presence.
During our short acquaintance, I’d learned that Brewster rarely interrupted or rushed people. He was infuriatingly patient and there was a kind of deliberateness to how he listened. I respected the skill, admired it, even when it annoyed me. Because it made him incredibly effective.
“No,” he said finally. “I am not challenging him to escalate. The point of a relationship is give and take. She gave. He gave. When she went back on the air, she gave him some more. Now we’ve taken her out of play.”
More silence.
“No, I said if he has responded, we haven’t identified it yet. That’s not a case of him not responding. We don’t know—”
This time the quiet had teeth. Whether the teeth were on our side or his boss’s remained to be seen. I assumed it was his boss because even his tone was deferential. Brewster might do many things, but based on what I’d observed so far, deferring to anyone else wasn’t one
“Absolutely not, sir,” Brewster said finally, when he resumed his side of the conversation.
“I’m saying we are in the honeymoon phase with the Unsub, he wants to impress her.
She has impressed him. If he can’t see her to check on whether she received his messages—yes messages or gifts—the likelihood that he sees it as rejection is high. ”
Arms folded, I leaned back against the wall. Brewster made a compelling argument. Again, the stretch of time where he said nothing seemed to extend.
“She understands timing better than anyone else in this situation,” he said slowly.
“Including me. I might understand the Unsub, but she sees him. More, she sees how to reach him. If we keep sidelining her, we’re not reducing the risk.
We’re retargeting it… the Unsub could take it out on other targets or McByran could decide to go rogue.
Either way—it doesn’t really work out for us. ”
A beat.
“Yes. I’m recommending it.”
I didn’t hear the end of the call. Pulse loud in my ears, I retreated down the hall quietly before he could end the conversation and catch me.
My hands were shaking. The man made a hell of an argument. In advocating for me, I believed his argument even more than my own. He wasn’t just willing to stand next to the live wire with me, he flat out grabbed it and put it in my hands.
Once in my bedroom, I closed the door before leaning back against it. I worked on getting my breathing under control. I asked if Brewster would help. He said yes.
That call said he was doing what he said. Excitement threaded through disappointment. The contrasting feelings surprised me. In my head, Flint should’ve been the one having that conversation.
Flint would’ve argued from the trenches.
From scraped knees and late nights and the kind of reporting you did before anyone knew your name well enough to protect you.
He knew why it mattered that a journalist told the story—not a press release, not a corporate statement, not an agenda shaped in a boardroom.
He believed in getting it out before it got buried.
Brewster was arguing something else entirely. Not for safety, not for optics—but for momentum. For psychology. For the simple, dangerous truth that stories didn’t pause just because institutions wanted them to, and predators didn’t stop moving just because the narrative stalled.
That he was doing it for me—or at least, with me in mind—twisted something low in my chest. I hated how much I wanted him to win that argument. Packing away the wistful idea that “if only Flint had been the one doing it…” I headed for the bathroom and splashed some water on my face.
There was a knock at the door twenty minutes later.
Two knocks. Evenly spaced.
I opened it.
Brewster stood there, phone gone, jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he’d been working his ass off. He studied me briefly. “You heard,” he said.
Not a question.
I didn’t bother pretending. “Enough.”
He studied me for a second, as if recalibrating. Then he nodded once. “Okay.”
“I didn’t know you were going to call in and advocate it all out loud,” I admitted. In truth, it made me reassess him. Brewster was an FBI guy. He wanted the collar. Maybe more than I wanted the story. Maybe. So far, he’d been a by the book guy too.
“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”
“Flint’s going to lose his mind,” I added.
“He already has,” Brewster replied calmly.
Well, that explained the twenty minute delay.
“He just doesn’t know where to aim it yet,” Brewster continued with a shrug.
That earned a sharp breath of laughter from me before I could stop it. “He’s not here,” I said, needing to offer some support and defense. “As far as I know, he can’t even come back without an escort.”
“Yes.” No deflection. No apology.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, quieter now. I was still moved by the fact he’d taken my request literally and acted on it. So few people were as direct in either their responses or their actions.
He didn’t step closer. Didn’t soften his voice. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
He met my eyes then. Really met them.
“Because if we’re going to keep pressure on, we need to be the ones who decide how,” he said, “and because you’re right, you need to be in the power seat. He reached out to you. He needs to be able to see you.”
The room felt smaller. “Will they go for it?”
“To be decided,” he admitted. “The assistant director is talking to the director. BAU is reviewing. I have a good feeling about it. But they aren’t convinced yet.”
That was… disappointing. More than I wanted to admit.
“What happens if they say no?”
“Until we have a firm decision, speculation is pointless.”
“So,” I said drawing out the word. “You have no idea.”
“I didn’t say that.” He added another shrug. “But once we have a decision, we can plan how to navigate from there.”
“I don’t want you doing this because you feel responsible,” I said.
“I don’t,” he replied.
“Is it because you’re curious?” I had no idea what I wanted his answer to be.
A pause. Fractional. Honest.
“Partially.”
“And the rest?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Because you’re the best lever we have.”
I should have bristled. Instead, heat climbed my spine—unwelcome, undeniable. “And you’re okay with that?”
“No,” he said simply. “But I’m okay with standing next to you while you use it.”
The words settled between us, heavy and charged.
Flint’s absence loomed like an unanswered call. The Auditor’s silence pressed in from the other side. Somewhere between them, Brewster was choosing to stay.
I crossed my arms, more to keep my hands from betraying me than anything else. “So what happens now?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smile. A warning.
“Now,” he said, “we discuss how you plan to keep him listening.”
My pulse jumped.
“I thought you didn’t want to speculate until we had a concrete answer.”
His gaze held mine, steady and unreadable. “I don’t.”
“Then why are you—”