The second BA shifted, uncomfortable. “You think… copycat?”
I let the word hang there, ugly and convenient.
“Maybe,” I said.
The suit closest to the head of the table seized on it. “Or an accomplice. Someone in his orbit.”
Orbit. Like the Auditor was a sun and bodies were just debris.
I kept my gaze on the screen. “Or someone building a narrative.”
The supervisor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “A narrative for who?”
I didn’t look at her when I answered.
“For him,” I said. “And for us.”
Because the Auditor wasn’t just killing. He was speaking. He liked to be understood.
That was the part people kept missing.
They thought understanding made you soft. Sympathetic. Corrupt.
Understanding was how you predicted the next move and how you survived.
“He doesn’t rush,” I said, more to the table than to any one person. “He doesn’t need spectacle. He doesn’t need noise.”
I watched the suit’s face tighten at the last word. He wanted spectacle. Spectacle made headlines. Spectacle made funding. Spectacle made fear a commodity.
“The Auditor’s not sloppy,” I continued. “He’s deliberate. When he wants attention, he takes credit. When he wants fear, he makes it louder. When he wants control?—”
I stopped there.
Because control was what had been forced.
Forced by Mallory going live. By Washington posturing. By the task force trying to box a man who didn’t fit.
Forced by me.
I didn’t say any of that.
I didn’t mention proximity. I didn’t mention access. I didn’t mention opportunity, or the simple truth that some deaths weren’t about what the victim had done.
Some deaths were about what they unlocked.
The supervisor leaned on the table. “So your assessment is… what? That this isn’t him?”
I kept my face unreadable.
“My assessment,” I said, “is that we should be cautious about assuming this change is organic.”
A reasonable statement. A responsible one.
A perfect shield.
Because I wasn’t asking this question because I was unsure.
I was asking it because the room needed a different shape—and I needed to see who noticed when it changed.
