Brewster didn’t slow down as he pushed the door open to the office, stepped inside, and turned just long enough to make sure I followed before letting it swing shut behind me. No waiting. No checking. His presumption still irked.
The room was spare. Desk. Two chairs. A corkboard with nothing pinned to it yet. No personal effects. No tells. It looked like a space designed to be temporary—which I supposed it had to be. Who lived in a safe house permanently?
He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, then didn’t take his own right away. Instead, he leaned a hip against the edge, arms folding loosely as he studied me.
Not assessing.
Listening.
I sat.
“Say it,” he said.
“Say what?”
“The thing you didn’t say in the kitchen,” Brewster replied. “The part you swallowed.”
I smiled thinly. “You like to make a lot of assumptions.”
Instead of responding, he merely stared at me. Waiting.
I exhaled once, slow. “If he went to that much trouble to reach me privately, then the worst thing I can do is pretend it didn’t happen.”
Brewster nodded. Not approval. “Agreed.”
“But—and this is a big but—if I overreact,” I continued, “I validate whoever in the FBI and at the network who decided to muzzle me.”
“Also agreed.”
“Well, don’t get all verbose with me, Brewster. You might talk my head off.” The dry remark earned me a slight flicker of a smile.
When he continued to say nothing, I almost rolled my eyes. “We need to discuss what being on the same team means, later.” But since he merely raised his eyebrows, I spread my hands as I crossed one leg over the other. “Fine, if my current options are antagonize him or validate someone else, I choose the third option.”
That earned me his full attention. “What third option?”
“Well, what do you know, you found three words for me.”
His scowl actually made me smile. Then he pushed off the desk, circled it and took his seat. The hard jerkiness of the motions betrayed his irritation and thatalsomade me feel better. I hated being anyone’s marionette. Once seated, however, Brewster pinned me with his gaze.
“Explain.”
I didn’t sigh. One step forward, two syllables back.
Gaze locked on mine, he continued to wait. A stubborn part of me wanted to force the impasse. What petty satisfaction I might get from the contest wouldn’t advance the rest of my agenda.
With that in mind, I leaned forward, “I don’t need a camera to communicate. He already proved that. Which means I don’t need to wage a war with Flint or the network to go back on air.”
Brewster’s eyes narrowed.
Letting him stew on that, I settled back in my seat again. “Which also means I don’t need to fight it out with your superiors either. That eliminates the two largest road blocks.”
The crease between his brows deepened and his nostrils flared. A small tell, but definitely one. I’d gotten to him by dragging it out.
Good.
Happy enough with that small bit of success, I spread my hands. “All I really need to do is let him know that I heard him—and that I’m not gone.”
Surprise flickered across Brewster’s face. “So, you don’t go back on the air, yet.” He seemed to sound that out like he was considering the angles.
