He stared me down like he thought he could push me back with sheer conviction. He couldn’t. The fingers of his right hand curled into a fist.
Mallory reappeared behind us, bag over her shoulder, mouth set in a grim line.
“I’m going,” she said flatly.
Flint turned, about to argue—but one look at her stopped him. Whatever fire was in his chest, it wasn’t hotter than hers.
“Mallory—”
She didn’t blink. “Flint, it’s fine. I told you. I’m not stupid.”
Flint blew out a breath and stepped back. Smart man.
The smell of coffee had filled her place. She bypassed us and filled two tumblers in the kitchen. She snagged the camera off the shelf on her way back.
When she offered the second tumbler to Flint while ignoring me, I almost smirked. Flint grunted, but then she bumped his hip with hers.
“Suck it up,” she murmured. “You’re getting what you wanted.” That earned her a faint snort. He also didn’t deny it.
We exited in a triangle—her between me and Marsden, Flint pacing like a tiger behind glass.
Downstairs, our black SUV was already waiting.
Mallory climbed in without a word. Flint climbed into the passenger seat. Apparently, he was coming with.
Journalists.
As I slid into the seat beside her, I caught the look she gave me in the window’s reflection.
Wary.
Calculating.
I didn’t blame her. If I were her, I wouldn’t trust me either.
But I wasn’t here to make her comfortable.
I was here to catch a killer—and now she was the best lead I had.
Chapter
Eight
MALLORY
The safe house wasn’t as grim as I expected. But it was close.
Gray walls. Reinforced windows. Spartan furnishings. Every surface felt like it had been wiped down with bleach and bad intentions. There was a couch, a table, a kitchenette, and a bedroom I didn’t bother looking at. I’d be lucky to sleep anyway.
Flint followed us in, face still set to “boiling.” He hadn’t stopped muttering under his breath since the car. Elliot Brewster locked the door behind us with a casual flick of his wrist, like he’d done it a thousand times before. He probably had.
I dropped my bag at the edge of the couch and stayed standing.
“Nice place,” I said. “Really screamsdon’t get comfortable.”
Brewster didn’t crack a smile. “Good. You’re not supposed to.”
He motioned for me to sit at the table. I didn’t. He waited. Silent. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world.
