Page 176 of Chameleon Killer

Neither man corrected me and that was more than enough of an answer. I looked at the monitor again. Simon hadn't simply brought me here to talk.

He'd created an audience. No, that wasn’t right. He’d created two conversations. Two interactions. One for me. One for them.

And suddenly I understood why he'd been so particular about facts.

About narratives.

About names.

My skin prickled.

“What did he say to you?” Flint asked quietly.

Brewster looked at him sharply. “Don't.”

Flint ignored him. His attention remained on me. “What did you actually hear?”

I opened my mouth. Then stopped. Because that was exactly the question, wasn't it? What had I heard?

Nothing.

I'd read words on a screen. I'd attributed intention to them. Personality. Humor. Curiosity. A man.

A man called Simon. One I had constructed from language this time rather than a pattern.

Just as Flint and Brewster had apparently constructed something from whatever they'd been shown.

The thought made me cold. I closed my mouth.

“Mallory?” Flint asked.

I looked at him. For the first time since he'd come through the stairwell door, I didn't know whether telling him the truth was the safest thing I could do.

Not because I didn't trust him. Because I no longer trusted the space around us. “We're done here,” I said.

Brewster stepped forward. “No, we're not.”

I met his gaze. “Yes, Elliot. We are.”

“We need your statement.”

“You'll get one.”

“Now.”

“No.”

His frustration surfaced. “You walked voluntarily into a controlled meeting with an unidentified serial offender, disappeared from every surveillance system we had in place, and emerged from a floor that doesn't exist after we watched you spend more than an hour communicating with him. You don't get to decide this can wait.”

Flint shifted.

I put out one hand before he could say anything. Not because Brewster was right. Because I wanted to answer him myself.

“I went to twelve.”

Brewster stared at me.

“So did you.”