Page 265 of Chameleon Killer

Had he done something to Flint before he—no.

I stopped the thought before it finished. I had no facts. I could imagine a thousand terrible things and every single one would feel real inside my head.

That didn’t make any of them true.

Facts, Mal. I licked my too dry lips. Facts. What do I know?

Flint had gone upstairs.

Brewster had come into the conference room.

Those were the facts.

Everything in between was unknown.

I held onto that.

The car slowed. The stink of exhaust burned my nose. My pulse accelerated. A turn, then another. Gravel crackled beneath the tires.

Then we stopped.

I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing to play unconscious. It seemed embarrassingly cliché. On the other hand, clichés became clichés because they occasionally worked.

The engine shut off. The adrenaline-fueled race of my heart seemed to increase along with the throb in my head.

Silence rushed in.

A door opened.

Closed.

Footsteps.

Slowing my breathing seemed eve more impossible.

The trunk opened. Light struck my face. I didn't move.

For three seconds, neither did Brewster.

Then he said, “I know you're awake.”

Dammit.

I opened my eyes and squinted into the brightness. It just added new pain to my already surging head.

Elliot Brewster stood above me. He looked terrible. Worse than he had outside Flint's apartment. Worse than at the diner.

His shirt had wrinkled badly. Sweat darkened the collar. Stubble shadowed his jaw. His eyes looked too bright and as red-rimmed as my own.

He had a gun. The last kind of registered almost belatedly like—oh look, a gun.

“You put me in a trunk.” My voice came out a hoarse croak and I coughed.

“I needed to move you.”

Needed to move me? I wasn’t sure if it was his choice of phrasing or the fact he sounded like it was my fault that pissed me off more.

“You put me in a fucking trunk.”