Page 24 of Chameleon Killer

Flint didn’t answer immediately.

Neither did I.

For one brief second, the three of us stood in Guy Reardon’s cleaned office, each holding a different version of the same question.

Who are you?

That was my cue. I adjusted my portfolio. “Insurance documentation.”

Mallory’s eyes dropped to my badge. Then my hands. Then the file. Not my face.

So very smart. Faces lied even as mine and theirs were. But hands—hands revealed a lot. Mine weren’t rough, or scarred. They looked like the hands of a person who handled a lot of paperwork. White collar.

“Busy day for paperwork,” she commented.

“Death complicates claims.” I ticked off another box. The form in my folder was exactly what I claimed it to be. I was assessing the room for the insurance investigation.

“So does murder,” she replied almost drolly and folded her arms.

“Alleged murder,” I corrected gently, sparing her a glance.

Her eyes lifted then. Blue and hazel. Lake and earth. Sharp enough to cut.

Flint looked between us.

Mallory’s mouth curved slightly. “Careful language.”

“Always best.” I gave a shrug.

“Depends on what you’re trying not to say.”

There she was. For a long moment, I forgot the room, the file, the badge, and the risk. .

Not because she was beautiful, though she was. Truly beautiful. But she was also completely awake and aware. Even exhausted, guarded, and with the FBI breathing down her neck, she noticed the edge of a sentence and pressed her thumb against it until it bled.

I wanted to tell her. Not everything. No, she wouldn’t appreciate a full confession. Not yet. Not until she’d done her job and figured it all out herself.

But I did want to tell her she was looking in the right direction. She needed to audit the living, investigate the edits, identify not just the similarities but the differences.

Instead, I lowered my gaze respectfully and wrote down a comment in the last line about the items not present that had been on the inventory.

Once done, I closed the folder and clicked the pen closed before sliding it into the internal pocket of my suit. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Flint stepped aside but Mallory didn’t. She remained near the doorway, forcing me to pass closer than necessary.

Testing me? Perhaps. Mallory had the sharpest instincts of any reporter I’d ever seen.

I appreciated that and respected them even more. As I moved past her, the scent of coffee and rain clung faintly to her. A perfume that hovered around her.

Her desk had smelled of paper, ink, and persistence.

This was worse, and so much more human.

I kept walking.

Behind me, Mallory said, “Flint.”

“Hmm?”