Page 135 of Chameleon Killer

“Because you’ll argue with my definition.” I stared at the screen, daring him to disagree.

A pause.

Probably.

I laughed despite myself. “There. See? Progress. Self-awareness.”

I sat again, but this time angled the chair slightly rather than facing the monitor squarely. It was ridiculous how much difference a few degrees made. Less interrogation room. More interview.

Maybe that was another narrative I was constructing for myself. Something to examine later.

“For this to work,” I continued, “I ask a question. You answer it. Then you ask one and I answer.”

Questions are not equivalent.

The idea of saying duh occurred to me but we weren’t that close. I rolled my eyes though. “Obviously.”

Then your proposal is inherently unequal.

“So is every conversation ever held between two people.”

Not necessarily.

“Now who’s being philosophical?”

Specific.

“Of course.”

I drummed my fingertips on the desk.

“Fine. We account for unequal questions. Either person can refuse to answer.”

Without consequence?

That stopped me. “From the other person? Yes.”

That is not the same thing.

“No.” The response came slowly because I got where he was going. A refusal was, in fact, a form of information. So was hesitation, asking for clarification, and changing the subject.

Every interview I’d ever conducted depended on the things someone didn’t say as much as the things they did.

“If either of us refuses,” I said, “the other is allowed to draw whatever conclusions they want from that refusal.”

Accurately?

“I’m not promising accuracy.”

Then what are you promising?

“Not to punish you for refusing.”

The cursor remained still.

“Same rule applies to me.”

Still nothing.