Page 125 of Chameleon Killer

The Auditor paused, then said, “The men who have decided that they own your attention.”

Brewster’s face became a mask. My own pulse hammered hard enough to hurt.

Mallory looked beyond the camera, as if she could somehow see through walls, rain, and distance to where we sat.

“Flint?” My name in her voice. It was a question, not an accusation and she didn’t seem afraid.

The promise I’d made her dug in between my ribs. I’ll bring you home. I leaned toward the screen even though she couldn’t see me.

“I’m here, Mal.”

It was a whisper. But then the Auditor answered for me. “Yes,” he said. “He is.”

Chapter

Sixteen

MALLORY

Midnight changed the city.

Traffic never disappeared completely, but it surrendered the battle for dominance. The constant rush dissolved into isolated sounds—a train somewhere beyond the river, tires hissing over damp pavement, the distant wail of a siren that belonged to somebody else's emergency.

Flint parked half a block from the address. Neither of us said anything.

The office building stood twelve stories high, all dark windows and unfinished ambition. Construction fencing still enclosed part of the entrance where redevelopment had stalled two years earlier. A banner advertising luxury office space flapped lazily against the chain link.

Partially vacant, at least, officially.

My hand drifted into my coat pocket until my fingers found the smooth plastic access card.

Alone.

The single word felt more menacing now than it had sitting in the newsroom or at Flint’s apartment.

Flint shut off the engine and neither of us moved. “You can still decide not to go.” The careful neutrality in his voice was enough to bolster my confidence.

He really didn’t want me doing this, but he was also not going to make it a fight to stay. He got it. He got the work. He got—me.

“I know,” I assured him. Not because he needed the words, but because I wanted to give them to him.

“You don't owe him anything.”

A smile curved my lips. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

Silence settled between us again. The dashboard clock rolled over to 11:52.

“I've been thinking,” I admitted.

He smiled without humor. “That's usually when I get nervous.”

With a snort, I smacked the back of my left hand against his arm. It wasn’t a true blow but more a hey in physical form. ”I mean I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“Which part?” He turned his head and looked at me.

“Where you said, I wanted you close enough to catch me.”

Understanding flickered across his face. “I shouldn't have said it like that.”