Her breath hitched—barely—but it did. She was riding the high now, the crash delayed. Unsurprisingly, Mallory didn’t retreat.
“You watched me,” she said. Not accusing. Not curious, exactly. The slight narrowing of her eyes told me she’d just connected two things she hadn’t meant to put together yet.
“Yes.”
“Not like the others.” The others in the studio? The unsub? Flint? The audience? There were so many others she could be referring to, but I just answered her question directly.
“No.”
She studied me for a beat, as if reconsidering the question. “How, then?”
I didn’t rush the answer. Let the space sit. Let her feel the same pause she’d just used on air. “Like someone keeping time,” I said. “You weren’t feeling your way through it. You were setting the pace.”
Her mouth parted a fraction. Surprise—clean, unguarded. She hadn’t expected to hear it put that way.
“That’s what he’s doing, too,” she said, quieter now. Not defensive. Testing.
“Agreed.”
“And you’re okay with that.”
I shook my head once. Small. Deliberate. “No.” When she said nothing, I continued, “I’m okay with watching how you move when it matters.”
That got her.
Not a step back. Not a smile. Just a stillness that told me I’d hit something honest. Her breathing slowed, matched mine without her realizing it. Mirroring—subtle, involuntary.
“You make it sound like I was taking a risk,” she said.
“You were,” I replied, keeping it to that sharp bluntness she seemed to prefer. “You don’t flinch, even when you should. Just being behind that desk and speaking to a camera didn’t make it any less of a risk.”
Her pupils widened—just slightly. Adrenaline, not fear. She caught it a second later and locked it down, jaw setting, posture tightening back into control. The moment, however, had already registered.
She exhaled through her nose. “That’s a dangerous thing to notice.”
“I know,” I said, not sugar-coating it. Mallory McBryan was a force to be reckoned with and she thrived on a challenge. Backing her off the story would be impossible.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged, steady. “You’re comfortable letting that happen,” she murmured, more to herself than to me.
“No,” I said, not allowing the inaccuracy of that statement to hold. “I’m comfortable lettingyouhappen.”
The words landed heavier than I intended.
Her eyes flicked down—to my mouth, just briefly—then back up, sharper now. She was cataloging me the way she did everything else, but adrenaline made the catalog messy. Incomplete.
“You’re enjoying this,” she said.
“Careful,” I replied, some of my own amusement bleeding through. “You’re projecting.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair.” Then, more softly, she added, “I’m wired. I don’t like being this wired.”
“You always are after a clean risk,” I said. “You just don’t usually have an audience that can answer back.”
That stilled her.
She turned away, paced once, then stopped—hands fisting at her sides like she was grounding herself through muscle memory.
“I don’t regret it,” she said, almost daring me to scold her.
