Page 2 of Chameleon Killer

Soft chairs.

Warm lighting.

A live audience.

Morning television.

The host—I’d already forgotten her name if she’d even used one—smiled with practiced sympathy as she turned toward her guest.

"...joining us for her first television appearance since the attack that claimed the life of our network Vice President Guy Reardon, investigative journalist Mallory McBryan."

An almost unexpected relief flooded me. Though, the set’s bright optimism felt obscene for a conversation about murder.

The camera focused on her and I leaned back in my chair. Mallory looked—tired. More than just physically. They’d done a stellar job with her cosmetics. Her complexion appeared flawless, but the weariness in her mismatched eyes seemed magnetic.

The right eye was hazel, the left blue. The mixture of green and brown in her right always reminded me of the earth while her left eye was the sea.

The woman sitting beneath the studio lights wore the same careful posture. The same measured composure. But the pauses were different now. Someone had sanded down the sharper edges.

She chose each word as though someone else would be grading them afterward. Brewster could have coached these responses.

The cautious tone seemed utterly at odds with the fearless journalist who dug deep into her stories and tore them apart to see what made them tick.

Someone had taught her this caution or she’d learned it the hard way. Neither idea pleased me.

The host offered an expression that suggested concern without actually experiencing any.

"How are you doing?"

Mallory smiled politely. It never reached her eyes. "I'm working," she said.

An answer. Not the answer.

Interesting.

She was talking.

And for the first time in weeks, I could finally begin listening again.

The host leaned forward, her smile softening into something more sincere.

"First, Mallory... I'm really glad you're here."

The audience applauded.

Mallory acknowledged them with a small nod.

"Thank you."

"You've had an incredibly difficult few weeks."

"I imagine a lot of people in Chicago have." The immediate deflection was compellingly elegant and delivered with pristine grace.

"No," the host said gently. "I mean you."

A brief silence. Mallory folded one hand over the other in her lap. A habit she employed while buying herself time to make a choice. Usually when she was deciding how much truth she was willing to share.

"I've been fortunate." Another deflection.