Once in my bedroom, I closed the door before leaning back against it. I worked on getting my breathing under control. I asked if Brewster would help. He said yes.
That call said he was doing what he said. Excitement threaded through disappointment. The contrasting feelings surprised me. In my head, Flint should’ve been the one having that conversation.
Flint would’ve argued from the trenches. From scraped knees and late nights and the kind of reporting you did before anyone knew your name well enough to protect you. He knew why it mattered that a journalist told the story—not a press release, not a corporate statement, not an agenda shaped in a boardroom.
He believed in getting it out before it got buried.
Brewster was arguing something else entirely. Not for safety, not for optics—but for momentum. For psychology. For the simple, dangerous truth that stories didn’t pause just because institutions wanted them to, and predators didn’t stop moving just because the narrative stalled.
That he was doing itfor me—or at least, with me in mind—twisted something low in my chest. I hated how much I wanted him to win that argument. Packing away the wistful idea that “if only Flint had been the one doing it…” I headed for the bathroom and splashed some water on my face.
There was a knock at the door twenty minutes later.
Two knocks. Evenly spaced.
I opened it.
Brewster stood there, phone gone, jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he’d been working his ass off. He studied me briefly. “You heard,” he said.
Not a question.
I didn’t bother pretending. “Enough.”
He studied me for a second, as if recalibrating. Then he nodded once. “Okay.”
“I didn’t know you were going to call in and advocate it all out loud,” I admitted. In truth, it made me reassess him. Brewster was an FBI guy. He wanted the collar. Maybe more than I wanted the story. Maybe. So far, he’d been a by the book guy too.
“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”
“Flint’s going to lose his mind,” I added.
“He already has,” Brewster replied calmly.
Well, that explained the twenty minute delay.
“He just doesn’t know where to aim it yet,” Brewster continued with a shrug.
That earned a sharp breath of laughter from me before I could stop it. “He’s not here,” I said, needing to offer somesupport and defense. “As far as I know, he can’t even come back without an escort.”
“Yes.” No deflection. No apology.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, quieter now. I was still moved by the fact he’d taken my request literally and acted on it. So few people were as direct in either their responses or their actions.
He didn’t step closer. Didn’t soften his voice. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
He met my eyes then. Really met them.
“Because if we’re going to keep pressure on, we need to be the ones who decidehow,” he said, “and because you’re right, you need to be in the power seat. He reached out to you. He needs to be able to see you.”
The room felt smaller. “Will they go for it?”
“To be decided,” he admitted. “The assistant director is talking to the director. BAU is reviewing. I have a good feeling about it. But they aren’t convinced yet.”
That was… disappointing. More than I wanted to admit.
“What happens if they say no?”
