Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
MALLORY
Two days after we crossed that imaginary line and Brewster kissed me, a body showed up to remind us the world didn’t give a damn about anyone’s boundaries.
It was morning. The safe house was still half-asleep—lights on timers, the air cold enough to make the tile feel mean. The coffee in the pot smelled neither fresh nor old. But it contained caffeine and right now, that was what I needed.
The television in the front room was already on.
Not loud. Never loud in a safe house. Just low enough to be background noise, but there was a hum of conversations taking place around the house itself. At least two agents were on their phones at opposite ends of the kitchen, both talking away from each other.
Investigating. Following up. Asking questions.
brEAKING NEWS flashed on the Chyron scrolling across the bottom of the screen while a shaky aerial shot took center stage and the anchors moved up to a small window in the corner.
I barely registered the anchor’s words—she was a morning show anchor, chirpy and full of pep.
Just the kind of upbeat that made mornings bearable for some people.
No one should be that happy. But, there she was—Felicia Ritchins, that was her name—giving the most sincere and cheerful report about a police investigation…
There was usually a rhythm to these reports. I knew the camera choices. I knew the way they framed a story when they wanted to keep you watching without giving you anything you could actually use.
The image cut to crime scene tape. To a cluster of uniforms. To a blur of a covered shape that might’ve been a tarp or might’ve been a body and was absolutely a body.
My stomach turned over once—slow, deliberate—as if it wanted to test whether I was still capable of feeling sick about this.
The anchor’s mouth moved, but my brain snagged on details instead.
The time stamp in the corner.
The location.
The neighborhood type.
The fact that they were showing the scene from a distance like they’d been told not to get closer.
They hadn’t been told not to get closer by the police.
They’d been told not to get closer by someone higher up.
My coffee sloshed against the rim as I set the mug down too hard.
“Found early this morning,” the anchor said. “Authorities have not released the identity of the victim, but sources indicate—”
I muted it.
The silence was worse. In silence, my mind filled gaps.
I stood there staring at the screen anyway, watching the crawl at the bottom: INVESTIGATION ONGOING. NO SUSPECT. PUBLIC ADVISED TO AVOID AREA.
No suspect.
I almost laughed. Almost.
He wasn’t a suspect. He was an audience that had decided to climb onto the stage.
Behind me, the soft hush of shoes on wood.
The air shifted. Not dramatically. Not theatrically. Just enough that my skin noticed before my brain did.
Brewster.
He didn’t announce himself. He never did. He walked into a room the way he walked into a conversation—like he’d already been here the whole time and you were the one catching up.
He stopped at my side. Too far away to touch, but too close to pretend we were merely coexisting in this space.
His gaze flicked once to the television. Took it in. Cataloged. Filed. Then he looked at me.
“You saw it,” he said.
No greeting. No softness. The words slapped down between us like he was delivering a report.
“I did,” I said, resisting the urge to say no shit, since I was still watching it.
He didn’t ask if I was okay. Apparently, we weren’t wasting time or questions on anything obvious. Most of the time I appreciated that trait of his. Today? I wasn’t entirely certain.
He leaned in and unmuted the television long enough to catch the anchor’s next sentence.
“—unconfirmed reports suggest similarities to the ‘Auditor’ cases currently under federal review—”
Brewster muted it again. His jaw flexed once. Not anger. Not shock. Something colder.
“Is it him?” I asked, and hated how my voice sharpened on the last word like I wanted it to be yes.
Brewster didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the screen like he could pull truth out of pixels.
“Maybe,” he said finally. “Or maybe it’s meant to look like him.”
“Copycat,” I murmured.
“Or a message,” Brewster corrected.
My throat went dry. “To you?”
His eyes cut to mine. “To us.”
Was that supposed to make me feel better? If so, he failed. Us seemed the most dangerous word in this house.
I turned away from the television and grabbed my phone. My thumb hovered over the notifications I’d refused to open all night—mentions, tags, clipped commentary. My hand wanted to swipe them away like a reflex.
“Don’t,” Brewster said.
The word was quiet.
It still stopped me.
I looked up, irritation flaring. “Don’t what.”
“Don’t go looking for it there,” he said, meaning the internet, the noise, the swarm. “That’s not where he talks to you.”
“Then where?” I snapped.
Brewster’s gaze didn’t waver. “Where you least want to admit he can reach you.”
A chill skated down my spine.
Before I could press, his phone buzzed.
Once. Twice.
He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t even look annoyed, which almost worried me more. After he took the phone out, he read the screen, and then exhaled through his nose like he’d expected this moment and hated it anyway.
“I have to take this,” he said.
I almost said of course but bit it back. Sarcasm wouldn’t save us from federal bureaucracy.
Brewster gestured toward the office. “Come on.”
I followed him, because despite everything I’d said about not being controlled, my body still reacted to his voice like it was a hand at my back.
The office door shut behind us with a soft click.
He set the phone on speaker. A beat later, a voice filled the room—male, older, polished to the point of being frictionless.
“Agent Brewster.”
“Sir.”
There was someone else on the line too. I could hear it in the pause lengths, the faint paper shuffle, the way the voice didn’t quite own the space alone. This wasn’t one superior calling with concern. This was a conference. This was a decision forming in real time.
“Brief us,” the voice said.
Brewster didn’t glance at me. His posture stayed neutral, but his presence angled subtly—like he’d positioned his body between me and the phone.
Protection.
Or possession.
I couldn’t tell anymore, and that was its own kind of problem.
“Body discovered this morning,” Brewster said. “Press has already tied it to the Unsub. We do not have confirmation it’s him.”
“And your assessment?” the voice pressed.
Brewster’s jaw ticked. “If it is him, it’s not random. It aligns with pressure points. It’s responsive.”
“Responsive to what?”
Brewster’s gaze flicked to me for a fraction of a second.
“Responsive to our disruption,” he said instead. “The narrative shifted. We introduced movement. This could be him reasserting control.”
“And you believe returning McBryan to air would reduce that risk?” another voice cut in—different tone, sharper edge.
Ah. There it was—why I was suddenly in the know and in the room. I crossed my arms, because otherwise I might’ve reached for something to throw.
Brewster didn’t flinch. “I believe keeping her off air is not reducing risk. Not significantly enough to matter. All it’s doing is relocating the target and pressure points.”
There was a pause, the kind that told me they were about to disagree.
“Agent Brewster,” the first voice said, “your proximity to the asset is becoming a concern.”
Asset.
I hated that word. I hated how it made my skin crawl. I hated how it made me feel like I should step back even though there was nowhere to go.
Brewster’s expression didn’t change, but something hard settled behind his eyes. “My proximity is operational,” he said flatly. “Protecting the asset requires she trust me and to do that, she has to see me and I have to be here.”
“Operational,” the second voice echoed, skepticism threaded through the syllables. “Or compromised?”
My breath caught.
Brewster’s gaze snapped up like a blade.
“Say what you’re implying, sir,” he said, voice still controlled but edged now, “or don’t imply it.”
Silence.
Then, smooth as oil: “We’re reassessing leadership on this operation.”
That sentence slapped like a trapdoor snapping open and the floor vanishing beneath my feet. I hovered right on the precipice of falling. If this were a cartoon, my legs would be windmilling like mad to keep me up. I stared at Brewster, waiting for his reaction.
He didn’t react. He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t argue for his job.
“If you replace me,” he said, arguing for the case, “you risk resetting the asset, damaging her trust in us and forcing whomever you assign to have to rebuild it all over again. That will cost us momentum both with the investigation and the conversation with the Unsub.”
He sounded so damn reasonable, it was almost insulting.
“And you think you can manage that conversation?” the second voice asked.
Brewster’s mouth tightened. “I think she can. And I think I’m the best lever you have to keep her alive while she does it.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t like the word lever either, but something about the way he said it—like he’d put himself on the line without blinking—hit me in the ribs.
“Stand by,” the first voice said. “We’re convening further. Do not take independent action. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The call ended. The speaker went silent. The office suddenly felt too small. Like it had shrunk around us the moment Washington stopped listening.
Brewster stayed staring at the dead phone screen for a beat too long.
Then he looked at me.
His eyes were a little darker than they’d been in the kitchen.
“What,” I said.
He exhaled once, as if choosing between ten options and hating every single one.
“We may need you back on air,” he said.
The words hit my body first.
Relief—bright, immediate. Excitement—sharp enough to hurt. Fear—right behind it, like a shadow that had been waiting.
“You’re serious.” I blinked.
“I’m serious,” he confirmed.