I hated that about myself.
I didn’t answer right away.
Then: “Silence,” I said. “For now.”
He inclined his head. “I’ll be in the next room.”
After he left, I sat on the edge of the bed and let myself feel it—the ache, the residual buzz, the strange hollow satisfaction of a move that had landed clean and still rearranged the board.
I’d gone on air knowing he would hear me. What I hadn’t anticipated was how clearly I would feelexposedafterward.
Not by the unsub. Not by Flint.
By Brewster.
That awareness unsettled me more than any reprimand could have. It wasn’t desire—right? I wasn’t interested in him. The thought didn’t come out as strictly declarative as it should.
Uncertainty was dangerous in its own way.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of the house settling around me. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed softly. Plates. Footsteps. Normalcy pretending to exist.
Tomorrow would bring consequences. Flint would press. Brewster would watch. The unsub would respond—or not—and either option would matter.
But tonight, there was only this: the aftermath of choosing not to wait, and the realization that I didn’t know how to want less momentum anymore.
That might cost me.
The question was—who would make me pay?
Chapter
Fifteen
BREWSTER
By the time the food arrived, the house had settled into its nighttime configuration—lights dimmed, perimeter checks logged, agents rotating down to skeleton staffing. Predictable. Controlled.
Necessary.
Mallory hadn’t come out of her room. I hadn’t expected her to. She’d asked for silence, and silence, once offered, was something you respected or you lost the privilege of being useful.
I was clearing the plates when Flint appeared in the kitchen doorway. He didn’t knock or clear his throat. He just stared at me. That told me what kind of conversation he thought this was going to be.
“Walk with me,” he said.
Not a request.
I set the plate down carefully. No rush. No resistance. “Where?”
“Anywhere she can’t hear us that doesn’t involve leaving her in this house alone.”
That narrowed the field.
We moved down the hall toward the rear office—one of the few rooms without shared ventilation. Flint closed the door behind us and leaned back against it, arms crossed, jaw tight.
He looked like a man who’d come in to fight. It was a reminder that Carter was not just an executive, but had cut his teeth in the field as a journalist. Like Mallory, he had walked right into danger to get the story.
Clearly, he was ready to throw himself at me or maybe between her and me. Either way, I kept my arms loose and my posture relaxed
