Page 104 of Deadly Mimic


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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.

“This call,” I said slowly, “this is them threatening to replace you if you keep pushing it?”

He didn’t deny it. Which was… telling.

“You’re willing to lose your job for this?” I asked, softer than I meant to.

His gaze held mine. “I’m willing to lose my job to keep you alive.”

My throat tightened. It would’ve been so much easier if he’d said he was doing it for the case. Easier if he’d been clinical.

He wasn’t.

My phone buzzed then.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Brewster’s gaze flicked down, then back up. “Flint.”

I didn’t bother pretending. I grabbed the phone and answered the call before it could ring a third time.

“Mallory,” Flint’s voice came through immediately, clipped and tight. “Tell me you’re seeing this.”

“I’m seeing it,” I said.

“Good.” No, not good. “Reardon is losing his mind. Legal is in conference. The network wants a statement. I’ve got three producers trying to rewrite your career in real time.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, masking my own unsettled feelings beneath as professional a tone as I could muster. “That sounds like a Tuesday.”

“This is not a joke,” Flint snapped. “There’s a body.”