Bit managed a weak smile, grateful for her sudden awareness of social boundaries. She began pulling on her gloves, signaling that their impromptu interview was concluding.
“I did see Heather once talking to Figg Whitlow, which I thought odd. Seemed pretty intense, too.” Paula shook her head in disapproval. “I’ll never understand why young folks want to cover their bodies with ink. Skin is an organ, you know. Anyway, the two of them run in different circles. We have those in Harrowick, too, you know.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stillman,” Bit said, genuinely appreciative despite the dental trauma he'd endured. “You've been very helpful.”
Paula raised her scarf to cover her chin, preparing for the cold. He hadn’t given it much thought, but he must have gotten used to the odor of Bengay ointment. Either that, or his nose hairs had been damaged beyond repair.
“I have excellent vision, Bit. And an excellent memory. If your team needs more information, you know where to find me.”She gestured toward her house across the street. “First-floor window on the left. That's where I keep an eye on things.”
With that, she opened the door, unleashing another blast of frigid air that he could have done without. The cold burned Bit's lungs as she slid out of the seat with a plop. The door slammed behind her with a finality that seemed to punctuate the bizarre encounter.
He observed the elderly lady as she crossed the street with brisk, determined steps, never looking back. She climbed the porch steps to her front door and eventually disappeared inside.
For several long moments, Bit sat motionless, staring at the empty street. The Bengay scent had returned slightly, and the false teeth incident would no doubt haunt him for days. He was already spinning the explanations in his mind of how he'd been ambushed by a denture-wielding neighborhood watchwoman while minding his own business.
“Drones,” Bit muttered to himself as he grabbed the bag of Twizzlers and shoved them into the glove compartment. He wouldn’t be eating them any time soon. “Next time, I’ll send armed drones to monitor Little T’s progress.”
9
Brooklyn Sloane
January 2026
Tuesday – 10:52pm
Orange embers drifted upward from the burning logs in the small fireplace, spiraling lazily in the air before vanishing into the draft above. The stale air carried the rich scent of woodsmoke, tinged with the faint sweetness of pine sap. It was the crackle from the fire, with the occasional pop of resin, that Brook found mentally soothing.
She adjusted her position on the bed. Her back protested, leaving a dull ache that spread between her shoulder blades after hours of work. She rolled her neck to ease the stiffness while her gaze drifted over to the single coffee maker on the small side table. She'd been modifying the profile since dinner, and a hot cup of coffee would certainly hit the mark.
Unfortunately, such a task would require her to move her laptop, her tablet, and the file of crime scene photos that were currently spread out over the thick comforter.
She glanced down at her tablet and tapped her stylus against the edge in agitation. Something wasn’t fitting together properly. The established profile had already asserted that the unsub stopped killing either because he was dead, incarcerated, or physically unable to continue. But after her conversation with the Moores this morning, she found herself questioning that assumption.
Her laptop chimed, the sound abrupt in the quiet cabin.
Brook set her tablet aside and reached for the computer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as Graham's name appeared on the incoming video call. She clicked to accept, adjusting the screen's angle against the uneven surface of her lap.
“Hi,” Brook greeted as Graham's handsome face filled the screen. The background behind him was the interior of a private jet. “I thought you were leaving earlier today.”
Graham shifted slightly, the faint movement causing the video to pixelate before smoothing out again. The glitch was on her end. Bit had warned her that their connection would hiccup every now and then. The satellite modem and router that powered the team’s connection were in his cabin, the signal bouncing through a series of range extenders he’d planted around the property.It wasn’t perfect, but it kept the team online in the middle of nowhere—and that was all that mattered.
“…meeting at Quantico ran longer than expected.” Graham’s voice came through before finally matching his motions. “How are things on your end?”
“Cold.” Brook gave a small shrug. “And not just the weather. Fortunately, I think we made some headway with the Moores today.”
“And the unconventional accommodations?”
“Rustic is the polite term.” Brook gestured vaguely at the space around her. “But the generator hasn't failed yet, which I'mcounting as a win. The place smells like it survived several floods and a couple of mold outbreaks, but the fireplace works.”
“I see you brought your own creature comforts.” Graham’s gaze drifted toward the side of his screen. She didn’t need to follow it to know he was referring to the Keurig.
“I have my priorities,” Brook replied with a small smirk. “I spoke with Arden before leaving the city yesterday.”
“Can we not discuss this while I'm trapped in a metal tube on a runway?”
Brook couldn’t contain her laugh, and she was suddenly glad that he’d reached out to her before leaving the country.
“Fair enough,” Brook conceded, understanding that they would need to circle back to the topic sooner rather than later. It was obvious that he wasn't opposed to the relationship so much as he was uncomfortable acknowledging it. “How long before you take off?”
