Page 192 of Chameleon Killer

“What?” he asked.

I stared at him. “You believed this.”

“We believed it was live.”

“You believed I said those things.”

“Yes.”

“About you.”

His expression didn't change. But the answer mattered. “Yes.”

Flint interrupted. “Mal.”

I looked toward him. Something in his eyes asked me to come back. Not physically.

Here. Now.

I inhaled slowly.

Alisha touched the table.

“We're done with playback.”

“No,” I said.

She looked at me.

“I want to see the rest.”

“That's not necessarily wise.”

“I know.”

“But?” She wanted me to clarify why I would agree.

“But I need to know what they think they heard.”

She considered me for several seconds. Then looked at Ruiz. “Continue. No questioning.”

Brewster started to object.

Alisha didn't even glance at him. “No questioning.”

Ruiz resumed.

We watched.

My conversation became someone else's edit.

There were enough truthful pieces to make the false ones credible. Enough genuine reactions to sell fabricated dialogue. Enough silence to let anyone listening fill in motives.

It was brilliant.

I truly hated admitting to that.

Simon hadn't fabricated an entirely new Mallory. He'd curated me by using selected moments, then rearranged them to change the context as he turned facts into narrative.