He nodded like he expected it. “A lot?”
“Enough.”
“Anything stand out?”
I gave him a little smile. “You mean besides the now-famous dismemberment gift set?”
His expression didn’t flicker. “Prior to the finger. Anything obsessive?”
“Of course. I’m on television. People send weird things all the time. Love letters. Hair. One guy sent a sculpture of me in what Ithinkwas wax, but I didn’t test it.”
Flint made a quiet sound in his throat.
I kept going. “Most of it goes to the network, gets filtered. Some of it gets forwarded. Some slips through.”
“Have you kept any of it?”
“No.”
Brewster didn’t blink. “Have you ever signaled the unsub during a broadcast?”
“What?” I blinked. “No.”
“You’ve never addressed him on air? Even indirectly? A look. A pause. A phrase.”
“Jesus,” Flint muttered.
“I look into the camera because that’s myjob,” I shot back. “But I don’t anchor broadcasts in Morse code. I don’t do wardrobe subliminals. And if Iwastrying to signal him, you think I’d be dumb enough to admit it?”
Brewster leaned back slightly. Not a retreat—just a shift in angle. Still hunting.
“Do you think he’d see it if youdidtry to signal him?”
I let out a breath. Controlled. “Yes.”
That got a flicker. “Why?”
“Because he’s watching. Always. That’s how this works.”
He nodded slowly. “What’s your favorite thing to do off-camera?”
I didn’t answer right away. That seemed to please him.
“I mean,” he said, still cool, still circling, “assuming you take time off. Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do with it?”
I arched an eyebrow. “This feels less like an interview and more like a bad date.”
“Answer the question.”
“I like swimming,” I said… “Late at night. In cold water. It clears my head. Don’t write that down.”
He didn’t write that down, but something in his eyes shifted.Noted.
“You live alone.”
