“Was that a question or a judgment?”
“Just confirming.”
I leaned forward. “Is this where you start asking if I ever bring men home? If I leave the door unlocked? If I smile too much when I read murder stats?”
“I don’t care about your smile,” he said, which was a lie. “I care if you’ve ever received personal communications from this unsub outside the network’s knowledge.”
I shrugged. “Define personal.”
“That’s the problem,” Brewster said quietly. “You don’t know how personal it’s already gotten.”
His tone wasn’t cruel. But itwassurgical. He wanted me off-balance. I’d used the same tone myself with hesitant sources.
Flint straightened from the wall, stepping closer. “Alright, that’s enough. You’re not profiling her, Brewster, you’re playing psychological chicken.”
“No,” I said, before Brewster could answer. “Let him. I’m curious what he asks next.”
He didn’t disappoint.
“What do you like on a date?”
I snorted. “That’s the question?”
“I’m gauging how you respond to intimacy,” he said, mild as ever.
“Is that what the FBI calls flirting these days?”
“I don’t flirt.”
“No, you corner,” I replied, sharp and sweet.
Brewster didn’t move, but his gaze lingered. Unapologetic. Heavy.
“I like a man who’s quiet,” I said after a moment, watchinghim. “Someone who pays attention. Who knows when to speak and when to shut up. Someone who doesn’t reach unless I let them.”
Silence rippled between us like static.
Flint stepped closer again, his presence going taut with territorial warning.
“Anything else you want to know?” I asked, not looking at him.
“Yes,” Brewster said. “Did you ever think—even once—that the letters might be a response to something you did before this story started?”
My stomach coiled. Because Ihadwondered that. A half dozen times.
I didn’t let it show.
“I’ve been covering true crime for just over three years. In depth stories, investigations. National, not just local. You think I can track what I said that triggered him? Maybe I mispronounced his city. Maybe I called his victim ‘her’ when it should’ve been ‘him.’ Or maybe he just decided I was the one.”
“You make a lot of assumptions.”
“I make a living,” I snapped.
“You ever wonder if you liked the attention?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t answer that. The silence that followed was thick, more honest than any answer could’ve been.
I stood again, needing the movement.
