Page 285 of Chameleon Killer

I pointed at him. “That's my line.”

“I stole it.”

I gave a mock, if dramatic sigh. “Journalistic integrity is really going to hell around here.”

He changed the line to yellow. I allowed it because relationships required compromise. Also because he was right.

I hated that part. But only a little.

Our office occupied the second floor above a bakery in Logan Square, which meant every morning began with the smell of bread, sugar, and coffee drifting through the floorboards.

There were worse ways to go to work. There were also substantially more lucrative ones.

Our office had four desks despite there being only two of us. One belonged to the college intern who came in three afternoons a week and possessed the unnerving ability to locate public records that government agencies seemed convinced no one would ever find.

The other was theoretically for growth. Mostly it held boxes. Our equipment was good because Flint refused to compromise on that. Our furniture came from an office liquidation sale. The coffeemaker had been my contribution.

Flint hated it. I loved it.

Again, compromise.

The lettering on the glass door still looked new.

CARTER McBRYAN

INDEPENDENT INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM

The name had been Flint’s idea. I'd argued for McBryan Carter. He'd pointed out that sounded like a law firm. I'd countered that Carter McBryan sounded like a country singer.

Eventually we'd flipped a coin.

He won.

I remained suspicious.

The network had offered both of us an extraordinary amount of money to stay. Then they'd offered me even more to stay without Flint.

That conversation had lasted forty-three seconds. The negotiations over ownership of my reporting had taken substantially longer.

Attorneys had become involved. Then more attorneys.

Alisha had described the whole thing as fun, which was how I learned there was something fundamentally wrong with her.

Eventually, we walked.

Technically, Flint had walked first..

I'd been in the middle of telling an executive vice president exactly where he could put the proposed eight-part streaming special when Flint slid his resignation across the table.

I had stopped mid-sentence.

He'd looked at me.

I'd looked at him.

Then I'd laughed.

I handed over my resignation the following morning—mostly so no one could say I was just copying him.