Page 126 of Chameleon Killer

“No.” I looked down at my hands. “You absolutely should have.”

Another quiet moment stretched between us. Flint waited me out. It was this kind of patience that had helped him not only develop a rapport with the people he interviewed, but also let him take the time for a story to breathe.

“I do that,” I admitted, not altogether comfortable with making this admission. But this was Flint…

“You do what, exactly?”

“I reach for you when everything starts falling apart.” I had been—for an uncomfortable amount of time. I couldn’t even track to when I started.

He didn’t say anything, just watched me with cool, assessing eyes. The lack of emotion didn’t deter me, he was waiting to see what I said. Or at least, I hoped that was what he was doing.

The most difficult part of all was “I didn’t realize that I was doing it.” Didn’t that just suck to admit?

“I know.” That soft acknowledgement coupled with his awareness stung more than a disagreement would have.

I laughed, once. It was far more self-deprecating than humorous. “You keep saying that.”

“I’m trying not to make this harder for either of us than it already is.” A carefully worded admission that reminded me of just who he was. Beyond the newsroom, beyond the job, and beyond—well just beyond. He was my friend. Had been for longer than we’d worked together.

I shifted in the seat and faced him. “You aren’t.” He really wasn’t. He challenged me when I needed to be challenged and he’d been right there to help at every sharp turn and angle.

He turned partially, but I got his sweep of the area through the windshield and side mirror before he met my gaze once more. “You've never asked me not to worry.”

“No.” What would be the point of asking for that? We all worried. It came from understanding the darkness in the world.

“You've only asked me not to stop you.”

Because that was true, neither of us argued it. His neutral tone told me that was a difficult enough challenge for him. “I’m just not sure when I burn the last of my credit with you.”

“You’ve got a lifetime subscription,” he said as I opened the door. “That is not something you ever need to worry about.”

Cold air rushed into the car as I processed that last statement and the little thrill of hope that just bloomed into being in my chest.

Before I could step out, Flint said, “If anything feels wrong...”

“I leave,” I promised him. I would trust my gut on this. As much as I tried to demonstrate I wasn’t uneasy, I was. This wasn’t the safest thing to do. But nothing worth accomplishing was ever truly safe.

“If anything changes…”

“I leave.” That was the plan.

A beat of silence as I stood on the sidewalk and looked back inside at him.

Then he said, “If he asks you to go somewhere else⁠—”

“I’ll leave.” I didn’t even let him finish that one.

His jaw tightened and his lips compressed into a thin white line. Then with a huff of breath, he said, “I really hate how quickly you answered those.”

He sounded so disgruntled, I almost wanted to laugh. Inappropriate? Maybe but I’d rather laugh than cry. “What can I say? I do listen.”

“I know.” There it was again, the open acceptance of who we both were and I smiled. “So have I,” he added. “I know you need to do this. I don’t have to like it, but I can support you.”

Me. Not what I was doing. The distinction was clear and I respected it. For the first time in days, something eased between us. The conflict. The stress. The need on both sides that put us both in opposition and partnership.

It didn’t erase the distance. Not yet. But it showed me that we hadn’t blown that bridge. Maybe we’d have to Indiana Jones our away across, but we could do whatever we needed in order to get the story and keep each other safe.

“I’ll be here,” he said. He’d be here to get me out if he had to and he’d come prepared. It was—impressive.