Page 234 of Chameleon Killer

“What does he want?”

“No idea.” Flint's voice had changed.

The warm, lazy man who’d left the bed had vanished. This was the Flint who assessed exits and threats and knew exactly where every weapon in his apartment was located.

He glanced at me. His eyes traveled down. Then back up. Some of the severity cracked. “Mal.”

“Hmm?”

“Clothes.”

“He interrupted.”

“That isn't an argument.”

“It is to me.” I folded my arms and jutted out a hip.

His mouth twitched despite himself. Then the intercom sounded again and the amusement vanished.

“That was the front desk,” he said. “They finally let him up.”

“Finally?”

“He's apparently been down there for several minutes.”

That made me pause.

“Why didn't they call you?”

“They did.”

I looked toward the bedroom.

Oh. Right. We'd been busy.

Flint touched the screen beside the intercom.

The camera feed changed.

Elevator outside the apartment. The doors opened. Elliot Brewster stepped out.

For several seconds, neither Flint nor I said anything. I'd seen Brewster exhausted. Angry. Bleeding. Half-dressed—I grimaced. Professionally furious.

I'd never seen him like this. Disheveled. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. No tie or jacket. No bad clipped to his belt. No sign of his holster. I didn’t even see a phone in his hand.

His hair looked like he'd been dragging his fingers through it, and shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes.

He looked like absolute hell.

“They pulled him.”

Flint's gaze remained fixed on the monitor. “Looks that way.”

Brewster glanced toward the camera and then directly into it. It didn’t surprise me that he knew where it was. Then he continued down the hall toward it—toward us.

Something tightened low in my stomach that had absolutely nothing to do with what Flint and I had been doing ten minutes ago.

“Why is he here?”