Page 144 of Chameleon Killer

“I didn’t say that.”

Then the distinction remains incomplete.

“Elliot wants control.”

The cursor stopped.

For some reason, saying it here felt far worse than when I thought it back in Flint’s office.

“Flint wants me to come back.”

Another pause.

Better.

I stared at the word. “You are an asshole.”

Probably.

I snorted. “Glad we settled that.”

Your question.

“Yes.”

You asked why Simon?

He remembered. Of course he did.

“I did.” I tapped one foot against the leg of the desk. “Are you going to answer?”

Yes.

I waited.

Nothing.

“You know, timing is part of communication.”

I am aware.

I folded my arms.

Eventually, words appeared.

Simon was the first person who taught me that being correct and being believed are unrelated conditions.

The humor vanished from the room. I read the sentence again. There was more there. Far more.

He’d named a person, an origin, maybe even a wound or—maybe just maybe—another carefully selected narrativie.

“Who was he?”

Another question.

“Call it follow-up.”

No.