Page 138 of Chameleon Killer

Who am I?

“Oh, no.” I wagged the pen toward the screen. “I already answered that question. My turn.”

A pause.

Then:

Simon.

I read it twice. Then tested the sound of it. “Simon.”

Yes.

“Is that your real name?”

No.

I laughed. “At least you’re consistent.”

Consistency facilitates trust.

“That sounds like something printed on a motivational poster in a serial killer’s break room.”

There was a longer pause.

You have an interesting imagination.

“I’ve been told.”

Simon remained on the screen. It was painfully ordinary.

I had expected nothing dramatic, but apparently some ridiculous part of me had anticipated a name with weight. Not something almost biblical. More mythological. Something a man choosing his own alias would select because he wanted to make a statement.

Simon was a man who filed his taxes early. Simon returned library books. Simon probably owned a sensible winter coat. Maybe that was exactly why he’d chosen it.

“Why Simon?”

My question.

I grimaced. “Right. Fine.”

What does my name tell you?

I lifted my brows, then pursed my lips so I wouldn’t smirk. “That you want me to say ‘Simon says’ at some point.”

Accurate.

I laughed. It was an assumption that he didn’t disagree with, go figure.

Now the cursor waited. I knew what I wanted to ask. The question had sat in the center of everything for days.

Still, I sharpened it before I spoke.

“Did you attack Guy Reardon?”

No.

No hesitation.