“It’s more than postcards, Ms. McBryan,” Brewster said evenly. “We’ve identified a pattern of letters that never reached you or the newsroom. The postcards were forwarded. The longer ones were intercepted and archived.”
I looked at Flint. He didn’t meet my eyes—like he’d already decided this wasn’t a fight he was willing to have with me.
“He’s right, Mal,” he said quietly. “They’ve been screening everything for days.”
Brewster continued. “At least ten confirmed. Same handwriting. No return address. No usable prints. No DNA. But the writing is consistent. The letters were mailed from multiple locations—some local, some out of state. Changes in internal mail handling delayed several of them.”
I folded my arms. “So… slow mail?”
His jaw tightened. “No. Selective delay.”
“More or less. The last letter you received came in on Friday, it was sent from Oak Park. The post mark was dated eight days ago.” Brewster raised his brows. “That delay is working in his favor. It makes him even more geographically tough to pin down.”
“I hardly think he’ll be sending any of his letters or postcards from anywhere near his actual address.” It wouldn’t make sense. Unless he assumed that was what we would assume. Then it would make a terrible amount of sense. That thought would trouble me.
“That doesn’t address the voicemail you received.” Brewster kept his focus on me.
Not reacting at all took every ounce of my on-air poise. “Voicemail?”
Flint let out an aggrieved sigh. “Yes, a message was left on the station’s tip line.”
Transferring my attention to Flint, I raised my brows. “The station tip line ormytip line?”
He didn’t even blink. “The station’s line, as well as, yes, your line. The one on the main tip line was forwarded to me. So I checked your private line.”
Irritation riffled through me. “Thank you for deciding to share that information. Do I get to hear the messages left by thisallegedstalker?” Since we were going with the absolute asinine terminology.
“No,” Flint said. “Because this isn’t your story anymore.”
Aggravation blew through me like a desert hot wind.
“We’re getting off topic here.” Brewster shifted the full weight of his attention to me and actually stepped into my line of sight, blocking Flint. “How did you link this Auditor and other information to the current string of disappearances?”
“Are you going on record, Agent Brewster, confirming that these cases are the work of one person?” The fact that he asked the question suggested I was right.
“The investigation is ongoing, I have no comment on the veracity of your supposition.” Brewster almost smiled. It was a nice counter. “However, I am curious what drove you to make those leaps?”
“I’m not willing to comment on my process at this time.” Two could play at that game. “As for the rest of this, I’m willing to cooperate with the FBI and with the network—but not at the cost of my time on-air or the stories I’m working on.”
Flint’s jaw tightened. For a second, I thought he might let it go.
He didn’t.
“For fuck’s sake, Mallory,” he said, rounding on me. His voice was low, sharp—too controlled to be anger alone. “This isnota game.”
“No,” I said, meeting him head-on. “It’s not. It’s a story.”
I stepped closer before I could talk myself out of it. “And it’s one I plan to follow until I get to the bottom of it. That’s my job.”
A beat.
His eyes flicked over my face like he was cataloging damage before it happened.
“Even when it scares you,” I added quietly.
“Your job is not worth your life.” The words came out rougher than he probably meant them to. He looked so genuinely distressed that for half a second, I almost wanted to apologize—until he dragged a hand through his sandy blond hair and added, “No story is worth that.”
“That’s not true and we both know it.” I kept my voice even, but I didn’t soften it. “Please don’t pretend otherwise when you’ve walked into war zones for less. We both have.”
