Page 137 of Chameleon Killer

“Don’t start.”

I could almost imagine amusement on the other side, which was absurd because there might not even be another side. For all I knew, the responses were routed through three countries, generated by some obscene combination of automation and anticipation, while the actual man drank coffee six blocks away.

Or six states.

Or six thousand miles.

I had no evidence he was anywhere near me. There I went again. Facts and assumptions. Dammit.

“If we’re going to continue this,” I said, “I need something to call you that you choose.”

Why?

“Because you know my name.”

You know mine.

“I know the one I invented.”

Does that make it less real?

I thought about the question. “The Auditor is real because people agreed it was real.”

Including you.

“I started it.”

Precisely.

“That doesn’t mean it belongs to you.”

No.

The answer came immediately. I frowned. “You really don’t like it.”

Incorrect.

“What, you’re fond of it?”

Irrelevant.

“So you have an opinion.”

Everyone has opinions.

“You work very hard to pretend you don’t.”

That is another observation.

“One you’re not denying.”

The cursor blinked.

“Give me a name.” I leaned back, pleased with myself.

Why?

“Because I’m tired of calling you the Auditor when you keep insisting that isn’t who you are.”