Page 226 of Chameleon Killer

“Because he doesn't.” I did not tack the words “idiot” or “moron” on to the end of the statement.

“Then what does he want?” Martin challenged me.

I paused before opening my mouth. There were several answers to that question. The unsub wanted recognition, engagement, and validation. More, he wanted an audience capable of understanding him.

In this case, he specifically—fucking word—wanted Mallory as his audience. All of that was accurate, and they wanted to hear none of it. Because while I was right, those answers justified their suspension of me.

When I continued to say nothing, it was Warren who said, “That is why you’re done.”

“Understood.” I slid my hands into my pockets and forced my shoulders to relax. “As long as you understand that you’re taking the only profiler who understands his fixation off the case.”

“Correction,” Warren told me as he straightened the folders in front of him before sliding my credentials and my gun away. “I'm taking the profiler off the case who's developed one of his own.”

For one second, I wanted to hit him. I contemplated it. In my mind, it played out cleanly as my fist plowed into the faint smirk he wore and dislocated his jaw.

It was a simple albeit inelegant response that I craved. At the same time, I refused to act on that impulse. Rather than argue or give in, I withdrew another step.

“Go home,” Warren told me. “There will be a plane ticket waiting for you at O’Hare.”

“I can still consult.” It was a half-assed offer at this point. I had no intentions of walking away or consulting for this pompous windbag.

“No.” He didn’t even look at me. “You will also have no contact with McBryan or Carter.”

Not reacting cost me a great deal of energy.

“You will have no access to case systems. No contact with the unsub if he reaches out.”

“So—if he reaches out, you want me to ignore him?” I didn’t bother to disguise my disdain at that idea.

“I want you to notify me.” The dry delivery told me just how idiotic he thought I was being. Well at least we shared similar opinions of each other.

“You think he's going to call the field office?”

“I think if he contacts you, you don't engage.” He said the last with a snap, like done deal. The permanent period at the end of my involvement.

I almost laughed. “You're assuming I'll get a choice.”

Briefly, Warren’s expression altered. As if, finally, he understood.

The Auditor—Simon—had engineered everything about the previous night. From her invitation to the access card to the false floor and manipulated feed. He’d all but served up the information, the timing, and, I wasn’t too proud to admit it, my own reactions.

My phone vibrated. It wasn’t the Bureau’s phone which sat there with my credentials. This was my personal one in my pocket. I didn’t pull it out or offer any reaction for them to dissect.

When Warren raised his eyebrows, I pulled it out of my pocket. A message notification illuminated the screen.

Unknown sender.

I swiped it upward to reveal the message:

You performed almost exactly as I expected.

Everything inside me went silent. Warren circled he desk. “What is it?”

I didn't answer.

Another message appeared.

Almost.