“It’s also temporary,” he reminded me in a much kinder voice. Yeah, he’d gone from provocation to soothe the crazy lady.
“So is everything,” I replied. Then, after a beat, quieter: “That doesn’t make it easier to sleep.”
Something flickered across his face. Not guilt. Consideration.
“I know,” he said. That was new. NotI understand. Notit’s protocol. Just—I know. It settled somewhere uncomfortable in my chest.
I turned away before I could unpack it. “If you don’t mind…”
“You and Flint didn’t finish that conversation,” Brewster said, voice level.
“No,” I agreed. “We postponed it.”
“For your sake?”
I glanced at him. “For everyone’s.” Then I flicked a look at the door. I didn’t want to have this discussion with Brewster either.
He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. “I’m having dinner brought in.”
“Fine.”
“No preference?” He sounded skeptical.
“Not really.” End of subject. That seemed to get the message across.
It was his turn to let out a slow sigh, a gentle exhalation and then he nodded. Without another word, he left my room and my shoulders drooped as soon as the door closed. Pivoting, I went for a change of clothes and headed to the bathroom. I needed to pee, wash my face, then decide on a shower.
Then I needed a new plan. Ultimately, I went with the shower. The ritual wasn’t quite what I would have done at my apartment, but it granted me the illusion of wiping the slate clean. Taking a breath. Reviewing what worked, what didn’t, and what was bothering me.
Flint.
Brewster.
The Unsub.
Not necessarily in that order.
I couldn’t do much with Brewster or the Unsub, not yet. But Flint? The push and pull worked between us because it challenged me to hone my stories, to get to the hook and the meat. Right now, he felt more like a roadblock than a razor blade and it bugged me.
Tilting my head back under the water, I let it wash over me, and imagined it taking the tension and irritation away so I could see a little more clearly.
Flint hadn’t said much on the ride back. The quiet in the car had been filled with all the things we weren’t saying. Me. Brewster. Flint. Frankly, it wouldn’t have surprised me if the fresh-faced puppy agent who’d been driving had been biting his tongue. More than once, I’d caught him eyeing me via the rearview mirror.
Still, I didn’t blame Flint fornotcontinuing the argument in the car. What he had to say to me was not for publicconsumption. The words hehadsaid while we were still at the studio echoed rang sharply even now.
You don’t get to decide that.
You went on air without clearance.
We’ll talk about this later.
Later meant judgment. Later meant consequences beneath the veneer of concern.
And the words I’d thrown back at him—measured, precise, cutting exactly where I knew they would—hadn’t given me the satisfaction I’d expected. They’d left a sting instead. Not regret exactly, but more than enough to make me unsettled as hell.
I hadn’t meant to sideline him.
I just hadn’t been willing to wait.
