Page 217 of Chameleon Killer

“He kept asking if Simon talked about him.”

“I noticed.”

“He kept asking whether Simon said he knew why Guy died.”

“Yes.”

Mallory's lips compressed. “He was scared.”

I thought back to Brewster through the glass. Credentials in his hand. The naked hatred in his face. “Yes.”

“Of Simon?”

I considered my answer. “Maybe.”

Her eyes returned to me. “Of what Simon knows?”

I didn’t have to answer, because of course it was what he feared. So we stood there in my kitchen, exhausted and barefoot and holding a conversation about murder before breakfast.

Apparently this was our normal now. Mallory's gaze dropped to my mouth and it lingered there long enough to be deliberate and not leave anything else open to interpretation.

Neither of us moved.

Then she said, “You never answered me.”

“About?”

“When.”

I knew. Of course I knew. I should have lied. Instead, I admitted, “Longer than I should have.”

“That isn't a date.”

“I'm not giving you one.”

“Coward.” She wrinkled her nose at me.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

She smiled. Then took one step closer.

My brain stopped functioning. “Mal.”

“What?”

“Don't.”

Her expression changed instantly and she stepped back. Not far, but enough. I still had my hands on her hips and she was still gripping my arms.

I hated myself for the hurt that flashed across her face.

“That's not what I meant.”

“Then maybe you should work on being specific about what you mean.” The reprimand was so prim it almost made me laugh.

Instead I looked at her. Really looked. She was exhausted, barefoot, and her hair was still damp. My too-large on her shirt hung off one shoulder. Her gaze was too sharp despite the red-rim of her eyes.

She was alive. I shifted my grip from one hip to her hand. My thumb moved over the pulse beneath her wrist. Fast.