That did it. I straightened, irritation snapping into something sharper. “You’re the one who keeps saying waiting is part of the process. That patiencematters. That not reacting is strategy.”
“And right now,” he replied, finally looking at me, “you want to move because you’re vibrating out of your skin.”
I didn’t answer. Which should be answer enough. I took a drink of the coffee. It was too damn hot and scalded my tongue. Perfect.
“You’ll have to continue to be patient, however. There are standing instructions,” he continued, easily, swiping something on his screen. “You don’t go back on air without clearance.”
The words were carefully neutral. Bloodless. Institutional.
That wasnewsto me.
“From who,” I asked, already knowing.
His pause was fractionally too long. “Above my pay grade.”
I exhaled through my nose. Of course. Washington. Or someone who wanted to be mistaken for it. And Flint—because it was always Flint—had gone over both our heads and called in a favor. The bastard knew everyone.
I smiled, but there was no humor in it. “So now I’m grounded.”
He spared me a glance as he shrugged. It was almost a dismissal. “You’re protected.”
“By people who aren’t here,” I shot back. “Who don’t have to sit in this house and watch the clock eat itself.” Who weren’t involved in the case. Or knew anything about making a connection with a story.
Well, Flint knew, but that was why he was a bastard, because he did know.
Brewster didn’t argue that. Which only pissed me off more.
“You think I’m being impulsive,” I said.
“I don’t think anything,” he responded in a tone so mild it aggravated me on a soul level.
I snorted. “Right. So… you’re just the good little agent, punching the clock, following the orders and doing what you’re told.”
That didn’t even net a response. He just swiped the screen, his eyes flicking across it as though he were reading. While he read, he sipped his coffee.
Worrying at the raw spot on my tongue, I was tempted to go kick the wall. At least if I stubbed my toe, or something, it might distract me from this.
“You realize the longer you keep me here and out of the spotlight, he could very well decide it’s not worth it and drop all contact?” I pressed. “Then what? You’ve lost your best lead.”
Brewster didn’t answer immediately.
He finished his sip first. Set the mug down with care. Then he looked at me like I’d just recited a familiar argument he’d heard from others—and buried them anyway.
“Fools rushing in don’t become leads,” he said calmly. “They become the story.”
I wasalreadythe damn story. My mouth opened, ready to argue…
“And before you say it,” he continued, tone almost conversational, “no—you’re not his type.”
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“He hasn’t targeted women,” Brewster said. Flat. Clinical. “Not directly. Not yet. His pattern favors male subjects, professional visibility, perceived moral authority. As I believe you described quite well.Youdon’t fit.”
The word yet sat there, poisonous. Unspoken.
His being right did not make me feel any better. I crossed my arms. “Comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be,” he replied. Then, as if reconsidering something, he paused. Just long enough for the silence to stretch to the part where I wanted to throw things again. “Then again…” He exhaled a long breath. “There’s always a first time for everything.”
