Page 10 of Chameleon Killer

“Reardon was a power player and you didn’t like him.”

Was that supposed to make it okay? I raised both of my eyebrows. “I liked Colin,” I reminded him. “He was more than just a lawyer. He was my friend.”

Silence. We rarely said Colin’s name, but his death lived between us like an open wound. It hurt my soul to think about it and I kept bleeding from that injury where no one could see.

It had always been personal, but Colin made this much more.

Brewster blew out a slow breath. "I'm trying to keep you alive."

"I know." I folded my arms, because I didn’t want his comfort or his guilt.

"I don't think you do."

"I know more than you believe." I stepped around him. "I just don't think that's your only motivation anymore."

His silence behind me echoed loudly. A brief, but fierce smile pulled at my lips. Good. His reactions told me I was getting closer.

"Mallory."

Flint.

Just hearing his voice loosened something between my shoulders I hadn't realized I'd been carrying since I'd stepped onto the stage.

He leaned against the far wall outside the production offices, one hand wrapped around a cardboard coffee carrier, the other shoved into the pocket of his coat.

No badge, security detail, or disappointment.

Just coffee and his welcome face.

He looked at me first. It was an open gaze, one that held appreciation, affection, and something more.

"You survived daytime television." The droll, but dry comment held a wealth of unspoken commentary. He couldn’t believe I did a daytime television interview of all things. It worked better than he expected. I had surprised him, again, and he liked it.

"Barely."

He held out one of the cups.

"Oat milk latte. One shot of hazelnut."

“Of course you remembered.” I smiled despite myself. When it came to regular coffee, I was a black coffee no sugar. Espresso was a different beast.

"I remember important things."

Behind me I could feel Brewster disapproving of our exchange.

I didn't have to turn around. I knew how expressionless he would be. I’d been seeing it for weeks. Brewster guarded his face, but not his eyes.

No matter how much he believed differently.

I didn’t have to question if Flint noticed it. He noticed everything, but when he moved a half step closer to me, it translated. The small gesture might be overlooked by everyone else. But not me.

Not Brewster.

"You ready to go?" Flint asked, his voice low and warm, carrying that rich cadence that had once made him one of the best broadcast journalists in the country before he'd traded the anchor desk for the newsroom.

He didn't tell me what we were doing.

He didn't tell me where we were going.