Chapter 19 #2
“Because he identified an indirect access point and exploited it,” I said, brushing my thumb along the edge of my phone.
“He bypassed the obvious channels. No email. No message. No overt signal. He used the archive process—annotations, internal cross-referencing, QA workflows. Systems people trust because they’re boring. ”
I paused as Brewster stood, reclaiming the coffee pot. The domesticity of the gesture felt absurdly intimate in the middle of this conversation. He refilled my cup without asking. Set it back in front of me.
I pressed my lips together.
“It tells me he understands institutional blind spots,” I continued. “He knows what people monitor and what they don’t. No one reads transcript annotations for threats. They’re looking for commas and clarity. Not conversation.”
“No,” Brewster said slowly, returning the carafe to the hot plate. “They aren’t.”
“It also suggests he’s familiar with investigative procedure. Forensics. Countermeasures.” I lifted my gaze to him. “Which means this wasn’t luck.” Before he could misread that as admiration, I added, “But we already knew that. Otherwise he wouldn’t still be active.”
That earned me a look—dry, unamused, edged with something like reluctant self-awareness.
“Thank you for that reminder,” he said. “I’d almost forgotten.”
“Self-pity is a bad look on anyone,” I told him.
A corner of his mouth twitched.
“And yet,” he said, eyes steady on mine, “you’re still sitting here.”
The implication lingered—unspoken, unmistakable.
So did the fact that neither of us had moved.
“Being a captive audience might have something to do with that,” I said, keeping my tone dry.
He studied me for a beat, then deadpanned, “Ouch.” One corner of his mouth tipped higher. “You wound me.”
“You’ll live.” The humor evaporated before it could linger.
“What?”
“I didn’t think he’d—” I stopped, exhaled once, and shook my head. “No. That’s a lie. I did think he would. I just didn’t think he’d be this… elegant about it.”
Brewster nodded, the movement small but deliberate. “He respects you.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
The honesty surprised me even as I said it.
“It shouldn’t.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. The calendar reminder flashed across the screen—Zoom call, already counting down. I’d managed to shove it entirely out of my head.
I reached for the laptop, then the earbuds.
“You’re not telling them,” Brewster said.
Not a question. An instruction.
“No,” I agreed without hesitation.
“You’re going to let this meeting stay about strategy.”
“Yes.” It was too late to cancel anyway—and if the Unsub understood workflows as well as we now suspected, there was no guarantee he wasn’t already aware of the meeting’s existence.
“Good,” Brewster said. “I’ll stay.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“I know,” he cut in smoothly. “I’m not asking either. I’ll observe.”
Once, that kind of unilateral decision would have irritated me. Now, it landed differently. Reassuring. Grounding.
I set the earbuds down and opened the laptop. As the meeting queued up, Brewster moved away long enough to refill both our mugs. When he returned, he didn’t reclaim his chair across from me.
He pulled it close. Right next to mine.
The heat of him pressed along my right side as he settled in, unhurried, utterly at ease. He placed the coffees, then flipped open a small notepad and clicked a pen like this was exactly where he belonged.
Like this was work.
At this rate, I was going to metabolize caffeine directly. My blood type was probably dark roast by now.
The Zoom chime sounded.
Brewster didn’t look at the screen. He looked at me.
“Ready?” he asked quietly.
I nodded.
Rudy Vargas’s face popped onto the screen first.
The familiar camera angle—slightly low, slightly wide—told me he was using his phone. Probably in his car instead of using his usual rig at the office. Rudy liked being in the field more than inside. I got that.
He flashed me a brief smile and a firm nod. The question in his eyes asked for an answer. You good?
I nodded once.
I’d spoken to him the night before, after hashing out a partial plan with Celia and Colin. The voicemail from the weekend still lingered at the edges of my thoughts—a chilling, precise reminder that someone was watching.
I didn’t share it. Some battles were meant to be fought alone.
Rudy looked like he always did when things mattered, a clean polo and I would guess his jeans and work boots.
Like he always said, professional didn’t have to mean uncomfortable, and nobody was watching him on screen and he liked it that way.
Gray-eyed, salt-and-pepper hair, permanent five o’clock shadow—his arrival on the call let me release a deep breath.
He’d always had my back on and off the job.
Two more windows joined the call.
Celia Roth appeared next, perfectly framed, lighting dialed in like she’d rehearsed it—which, knowing her, she probably had.
Charcoal gray suit sharp as a blade, cream silk blouse immaculate, understated gold jewelry catching the light when she shifted.
Control radiated off her even through the screen.
Colin Thorne appeared in a Brioni suit that felt like a deliberate departure from his usual armor.
The charcoal fabric was cut with Italian ease—fluid through the shoulders, clean at the waist, moving with him instead of holding him in place.
It wasn’t flashy, but it was unmistakably expensive, the kind of tailoring that suggested Rome rather than London, elegance over rigidity.
No tie. An open collar that softened the lines just enough to be disarming. A silk pocket square tucked with careless precision, as if he’d dressed for confidence rather than scrutiny.
He knew exactly what he was doing. Brioni wasn’t about tradition or restraint—it was about command without stiffness, power that didn’t need to announce itself. He looked like a man who could argue precedent all day and still walk out having rewritten it.
The call settled.
Muted mics. Then unmuted.
Coffee cups lifted in different locations. Office. Car. One background that was definitely a hotel room. Mine, was this, dead dull and plain kitchen. Utterly neutral and unremarkable with no view of windows.
Brewster didn’t appear on camera. He sat just out of frame beside me, close enough that I could feel his presence like a physical constant. A quiet weight at my back. Watching.
Celia didn’t waste time.
“We need to talk about pressure,” she said. “Yours. The network’s. And how long we can afford to keep you off-air without losing control of the narrative.”
“Define control,” I said.
Colin adjusted his cufflinks, a gesture so habitual it bordered on reflex. “Legal exposure. Liability. If you go back on air and something happens—”
“Something is already happening,” I cut in. “Just not where you can see it.”
Brewster shifted beside me. Not interrupting. Just… attentive.
Rudy leaned closer to his camera. “The silence is spooking people. Not the right people—at least not the ones who are going to bat for you. But there are some who want to take advantage of it.”
That didn’t surprise me. I’d busted my ass to get to my position. The longer I was off the air, the more available my spot looked.
“Everyone else is rushing in to fill it.” I was already aware of that, it was why I wanted off the bench. At the same time, it had to be strategic. As much as I wanted to demand my spot back, I didn’t want to look like I was running scared professionally or personally.
Celia nodded. “Exactly. The longer that goes on, the more challenging taking your spot back is going to be.”
Colin frowned. “Authority is not safety. While you’re off the air, that doesn’t mean the network can just dismiss your contract. We have the leverage to make them roll over when we’re ready for you to go back. When it’s safe.”
“Maybe,” I agreed verbally. I trusted my team. They would make this happen. Our contracts were iron-clad for a reason. “But if you train the audience to not look for me anymore or you make them tired of tuning in only to find I’m not there… then some of my leverage goes away.”
That was just business facts. Colin nodded once, but Celia waved a hand.
She trusted my reputation and my audience scores too much.
Rudy though, he frowned. Because in the news business, you were front page and on the screen, or you were yesterday’s bird cage liner and a half-forgotten callback in the archive.
The conversation flowed from there—risk matrices, controlled appearances, theoretical guardrails.
I stayed measured. Strategic. Calm. Professional.
I stuck with it, because even if I trusted in the reasons to stay off the air at the moment, I refused to let anyone think I was just going to roll over and play dead.
All the while, Brewster remained silent.
I felt his attention like a steady hand between my shoulder blades. Tracking who spoke over whom. Noting where tension spiked. Watching when I yielded ground—and when I didn’t.
Celia promised follow-ups. Colin warned about contingencies. Their windows blinked out one by one. Then Rudy unmuted.
“You doing good, kid?” he asked quietly.
“I’m surviving,” I told him. “Bored off my ass, but surviving. How are you? They give you someone else to follow while I’m sidelined?”
He snorted. “I got babysitting with Squeeky McGee.”
I almost spluttered coffee. “Okay, Jackson is not that bad—anymore.”
To be fair to Rudy, Jackson McGee had been a wet behind the ears, fresh out of college with a bachelor’s in broadcast journalism and the cockiness of young people everywhere who thought they knew what they were doing.
A few really bad moments had almost ended his career early.
Then he’d been given the “human fluff piece” beat to work some of the shine off of him.
“He’s got the lunchtime news, and it’s all old ladies, cookie sales, and kid scouts building beaver bridges and shit.” Rudy mimed a thumb and forefinger gun before putting it to his head and making a shoot gesture. “He also insists on doing vocal exercises before he starts a segment—every time.”
I had to bite my lip, cause, yeah, that sounded terrible. Right, so I put on a sympathetic smile. “So, rub some of the newness off of him. Drop him in front a meatier story, teach him.”
“Mall, kid, I love you. But Squeeky is still Squeeky cause he think he still knows everything and it’s us Plebians who haven’t managed to catch up to his greatness.”
Making a face, I shook my head. “Well, I’ll do my best to get back and rescue you.”
“Thank God,” Rudy said with vehemence. “But for now, you stay alive and in one piece.”
“You too.” I lifted a hand to say goodbye but he was already gone. The call ended and the screen went dark.
The safe house hummed back into focus.
I exhaled.
Only then did Brewster lean in, close enough that his lips practically brushed my ear.
“Now,” he said softly, “we talk about what our next move is.” His nearness sent a ripple of goosebumps over my flesh.
“Our move?”
“Yes, you’re keeping your people out of it and that’s a good thing. But we need to decide how we’re going to respond to the Unsub.” He didn’t back off an inch, and every syllable let his breath whisper against my earlobe.
My stomach went taut and my nipples peaked. The swift, physical reaction also sent a flush through my system. Refusing to be overwhelmed by the attraction, I shifted in my seat to face him. He was still too damn close but I lifted my chin.
“Is this your way of trying to control me?”
Something shifted then. Subtle. Electric. I swore I could feel the way his gaze caressed me as he studied me.
“Be careful how you decide to play this, Mallory,” Brewster said softly. “You want to keep me as your ally.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is that a warning?”
For half a second, the world narrowed to the space between us. His eyes dropped—this time to my mouth. Just long enough for the wildness to spark. Then he looked back at me, a bare hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
“Yes,” he said.
Then he pushed his chair back and rose.
"Let’s go.”
He was out of the kitchen and down the hall with me a couple of steps behind him before I realized I’d just—obeyed. Stopping abruptly, I glared at his back but he didn’t wait for me, just went into the office he’d claimed and most likely expected me to follow.
And dammit, that was exactly what I did.