Page 286 of Chameleon Killer

We launched Carter McBryan three weeks later. Our first story had received eleven thousand views. Our second got thirty-seven thousand. Our third resulted in the resignation of a deputy commissioner.

That helped.

So did the lawsuit threat.

Nothing generated subscriptions quite like someone powerful announcing publicly that you were a liar. Alisha really liked that about us.

Flint set my coffee beside my laptop. “Drink.”

I looked at it, then him. “Was that an order?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my Flint?”

“Your Flint?”

Fuck.

His smile appeared slowly.

I reached for the coffee. “Don't make it weird.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. The casual affection still caught me sometimes. Not because it was unusual anymore. Because it wasn't.

We’d sold both our places three months ago and bought one together. Neutral territory, though Flint objected to that description on the grounds that relationships weren’t military campaigns.

I’d pointed out that he’d clearly never been in one with me before.

We flipped a coin over closet space.

I won.

He remained suspicious.

Turnabout was fair play.

I watched him cross toward his desk. His shoulder moved almost normally now. Almost.

The bullet had passed through high enough to miss bone and anything immediately life-threatening. The concussion from striking the floor had actually kept him hospitalized longer.

He still had physical therapy twice a week. He still occasionally woke at night when the shoulder cramped. And sometimes I woke because his hand was searching the bed for me.

He never mentioned that. Neither did I. I just caught his hand.

The official investigation into the shooting had eventually identified the man who attacked Flint. He had a record, several outstanding warrants, and a remarkably detailed text-message history demonstrating that he'd been paid to delay Flint Carter.

Delay.

The prosecutor enjoyed that word almost as much as I did. Elliot Brewster's financial records had supplied the rest. Not everything. Enough.

Guy Reardon's second toxicology sample was recovered from federal evidence storage exactly where Brewster had said it was.

The results established the presence of a stimulant inconsistent with Guy's treatment record.

The chain of custody established who had handled it. The recovered hospital records established more.