Page 33 of Chameleon Killer

She would hate me for it. People often hated the person who kept them alive. I could live with that.

Chapter

Six

MALLORY

The Chinese food had gone cold an hour earlier. Neither of us seemed to notice. Or, if Flint had, he hadn't mentioned it. Cold or hot, it was still fuel. We'd both eaten worse in the field.

Flint had commandeered this conference room sometime during the first week after Guy's attack. It sat directly beside his office and, unlike the rest of the newsroom floor, had no permanent occupants and only one door.

We'd taped butcher paper over every pane of glass looking into the hallway, then covered that with black presentation boards scavenged from the promotions department.

From the outside, it looked abandoned. From the inside, it looked like what it was—our war room.

I approved.

Every available wall had disappeared beneath photographs, maps, timelines, financial reports, victim profiles, and handwritten notes connected by lengths of colored string that would have made conspiracy theorists embarrassingly proud.

Only ours happened to be supported by evidence. Mostly.

Flint stood in front of the largest board with a black marker tucked behind one ear and a white cardboard takeout container balanced in one hand. He'd rolled his sleeves to his forearms hours ago, and his tie had long since disappeared over the back of a chair.

His jacket hung from a coat rack beside the door.

Mine was draped over the back of my chair.

At some point we'd stopped pretending this wasn't where we'd been living.

I sat cross-legged in one of the conference room chairs with a carton of vegetable lo mein in my lap and a legal pad balanced against the edge of the table.

The noodles had congealed into one stubborn mass.

I stabbed them anyway.

Flint glanced over his shoulder. "You've been trying to eat the same bite for five minutes."

"I'm thinking."

"I know."

"Not even pretending surprise?”

“No.”

He reached across the table without looking and slid the carton of sesame chicken closer to me.

"You forgot protein again."

"I didn't forget." I ignored the jibe and stabbed the noodles with my fork and began to twist some free.

"You absolutely forgot." He practically growled the words.

"I made a choice."

“Ha.” His scoff was damn near triumphant. "This from the woman who insists coffee is a food group.”

"I drink it for your safety,” I reminded him while I stared at the board “Not mine. You should remember the sacrifices I make for you.”