But I’d meant it like one.
I made myself shrug, casual. “You don’t think it’s more likely he’s trying to scare me off the story? You said it yourself—he’s watching. He wants control. He wants the narrative.”
“Maybe,” Brewster said. “Or maybe he’s rewriting the narrative because of you.”
I held his gaze. “You sound like you want that to be true.”
Flint stepped in again, voice sharp. “What exactly are you saying, Brewster? That she’s next on the list?”
“I’m saying she’s already in the story,” Brewster said calmly. “Whether she likes it or not. Whether you like it or not.”
He turned his focus back to me.
“You didn’t ask why he only killed men,” he said. “You assumed it. You stated it. But you didn’t ask.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t blink.
“Because it’s not the question that matters,” I said. “Patterns don’t start fully formed. They stabilize.”
Brewster’s gaze sharpened.
“And what came before?” he asked.
“Noise,” I said. “False positives. Unrelated cases. The kind you don’t chase.”
His voice dropped a fraction. “And if it wasn’t noise?”
I met his eyes, steady.
“Then it would show,” I said. “And it hasn’t.”
That thought lodged like a shard of ice behind my ribs. My pulse jumped before I could hide it.
“I’m not your damn lightning rod,” I said, quieter now.
“You might be,” he replied, just as soft. “And we don’t get to control how he chooses his symbols.”
“Then why me?”
“You challenged him,” Brewster said. “You saw him. He thinks that’s a connection.”
“He’s wrong.”
“Maybe,” Brewster allowed. “Remember, connection doesn’t require agreement. You of all people, know that. You’ve made a career out of it.”
The reminder stung, because he wasn’t wrong. I didn’t just report the news. Ishapedit. Found the narrative, framed the path. Shone the spotlight where others didn’t bother to look.
I was good at getting inside people’s heads.
It never occurred to me that someone might think they were entitled to it.
Flint had gone silent. I could feel him across the room, a human pressure point. He didn’t know where to land anymore—defend me or contain me.
“Are we done?” I asked finally, my voice hard.
Brewster’s eyes lingered on mine, reading every flicker.
“No,” he said.
