Page 212 of Chameleon Killer

Mallory's expression changed. “And I know Simon?”

“That isn't what I said.”

“It is what you meant.”

“No.”

She waited.

“Mal,” I sighed. “It's what I'm afraid you mean.”

That wiped away her irritation. “Flint.”

“I heard a fake version of you tell him you believed him.”

“I don't.” She assured me and it wasn’t heard to feel the frantic beat of her pulse beneath my fingers as my hand glided along her throat.

“I know that now.”

“I told him I didn't.”

I really wished we’d been able to see the actual interaction. Even knowing he manufactured parts didn’t erase the images in my head. “That's not the version we heard.”

Her gaze softened. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn't do it.”

“No. But you had to sit there believing it.”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

Then she said, “He asked why I became a journalist.”

Of all the things I expected, that wasn't one of them. “What?”

“His first real question.”

I stared.

Mallory retreated from my touch, but not my nearness and retrieved her mug, then seemed to think better of it and returned it to the counter.

“He asked why I became a journalist.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I didn't like being lied to.”

That fit. “Sounds pretty true to me.”

“He said it was incomplete.”

I snorted. “Of course he did.”

Mallory's mouth twitched. “Then he asked for the origin.”

I waited.