The suit at the head of the table tapped a finger on his folder. “We don’t have time to chase hypotheticals,” Kline said, already done with it.
Of course he said that.
Washington hated questions it couldn’t answer on a schedule.
“The public narrative is already forming,” he added, and there it was—the real fear. “If we start floating alternative theories, we look fractured. Weak.”
I didn’t argue hard.
I didn’t need to.
I let him have the soundbite. Let him think he’d shut me down.
Pushback meant predictability.
Predictability meant control.
The supervisor opened her mouth, then closed it again. Feld didn’t interrupt. She filed it away. She’d seen enough cases to know I wasn’t overthinking. She also knew Washington would call it that because admitting uncertainty made them look mortal.
The suit’s gaze cut to me. “Agent Brewster, we need you aligned.”
Aligned.
Like I hadn’t been the spine of this operation since the day they decided Mallory McBryan was both asset and liability.
“I understand,” I said, calm as frost.
And I meant it.
I understood exactly what they needed.
A divided task force.
A manageable narrative.
Mallory exposed—but not abandoned.
The Auditor was watching the wrong people.
Hale met my eyes once. Not agreement. Not accusation. Just acknowledgement.
Hale lingered as the others filed out—slow enough to be deliberate, not slow enough to be obvious.
“You’re not wrong,” he said quietly, eyes on the screen like the case might still be listening.
I waited.
“Just make sure,” he added, “that when this breaks, it breaks where you expect.”
He didn’t wait for my answer. Didn’t need one. He left with the door swinging shut behind him.
The meeting ended the way these meetings always ended—action items, reassurances, controlled optimism. Men in suits leaving with the belief that they were steering the ship because they’d said “course correction” out loud.
I waited until the room emptied.
Until the glass walls reflected only me.
Then I stood.
