Page 149 of Chameleon Killer

Because then it becomes my conclusion.

I frowned. “And you want it to be mine.”

No.

The correction came swiftly.

I want it to be supported.

That silenced me. He wasn’t asking me to trust him. Quite the opposite. He wanted me to verify his data.

Trust, but verify.

My stomach tightened. That phrase belonged to me. To Flint. To our work. Not him.

“Where do I find the order?”

That I can answer.

I waited.

The words came slowly, one line at a time.

Do not request medical records.

Request laboratory billing reconciliation for the final seventy-two hours of Mr. Reardon's admission.

A second line.

Compare the accession numbers to the pathology department's specimen log.

One number will not belong.

I stared. That was—almost violently specific and testable. Exactly the kind of lead I could corroborate without believing a word he said.

“Why are you helping me?”

My question.

I sighed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

No.

“Fine.”

What did the student accused of cheating teach you?

I blinked. We had come all the way back to eleven-year-old me. “That being right after the fact doesn’t undo the damage.”

Incomplete.

I thought harder. “That facts don’t matter if nobody bothers to establish them before the narrative takes hold.”

Better.

I narrowed my eyes. “You really like symmetry.”

It has uses.