Page 237 of Chameleon Killer

I glanced at Flint.

He didn't look at me.

“Carter.” Onscreen, Brewster's expression tightened.

“You were removed from the investigation less than six hours ago.”

Interesting, but not surprising. Flint had apparently been counting too.

“This isn't about the investigation.”

That got my attention. Flint's too. “Then you have even less reason to be here.”

Brewster stepped closer to the camera. “He contacted me.”

Everything stopped. Flint looked at me. I stared at Brewster's image.

My pulse accelerated.

Simon.

Of course. Because apparently the man couldn't leave a single piece on the board without moving it.

“When?” I asked.

Flint shot me a look. Too late. Brewster heard me. His gaze shifted slightly, as if he could somehow see through the camera and into the apartment.

“This morning.”

“What did he say?”

“Mal.”

I looked at Flint. Right. We shouldn’t do this through an intercom and Flint didn’t want him in here.

Brewster answered anyway. “He knows about Reardon's toxicology.”

The last remnants of warmth left my skin.

Flint swore softly.

I moved closer to the screen. “What does he know?”

“I don't know.”

“You just said⁠—”

“He knows I withheld it.”

That shut me up. Not because Simon knowing surprised me. Because Brewster had finally said the word.

Withheld.

Not overlooked.

Not compartmentalized.

Not awaiting authentication.