Page 35 of Chameleon Killer

Right. Why?

None of it made sense. Not then. Certainly not now.

Flint walked toward the board, marker already in his hand.

“Reardon didn't suddenly wake up believing journalism could change the world.” Flint’s clashes with the executive had been legendary. For the most part, Reardon had been hands off of Flint’s newsroom. “But he suddenly increased the budget all the way around for the news room.”

Flint wrote one sentence across one of the few empty spaces at the center of the board.

WHY NOW?

The words seemed to rearrange everything around them. I paced the room. I thought better on my feet and doing a circuit got the blood moving. It also let me change the angles at which I was looking at the board.

"I think we're asking the wrong questions," I said, testing the theory aloud to see if it sounded as solid outside my head as it had inside it. "The question isn't why someone killed Guy."

I deliberately left the Auditor's name out of it.

It didn't belong there.

No matter how many times I turned the evidence over in my head, Guy Reardon and Colin Thorne still refused to fit the pattern. I hadn't been able to verify the numbers allegedly left with Colin. I'd managed one blurry photograph before Brewster stepped in and ended my access to the scene, wrapping the rest of the evidence behind yellow tape and federal authority.

"So..." Flint said slowly, already following the path my thoughts had taken. "The question becomes why Guy suddenly started investing in long-form investigations."

His gaze lifted to meet mine. "Specifically yours."

I frowned. "You're sure it was my investigations?"

I knew what I brought to the newsroom. Confidence had never been my problem. Neither had ambition. But experience had taught me one lesson too many to ignore.

Trust. Then verify.

Flint didn't hesitate. "Yes."

The single word settled into the silence between us.

"I had to justify the budget increases to the board more than once. Every time they questioned travel, forensic accounting, outside counsel, or another research request..." He paused, replaying meetings I'd never had to attend. "Guy shut them down."

I blinked. "He fought for it?" That just didn’t fit my mental image of the executive. At all.

"He fought for you."

I stared at him. Why hadn't he ever told me? Then I answered my own question. Because he never needed credit for doing his job.

Running the newsroom meant more than assigning stories. It meant running interference with corporate, pushing back against executives who only saw profit margins, and making sure reporters had what they needed before they realized they needed it. Flint had been fighting battles on my behalf for years without ever mentioning them.

The realization settled somewhere behind my ribs. I turned back toward the board, letting my eyes drift over Guy's photograph.

"I always assumed he tolerated me because the ratings justified the expense."

"You were wrong." There wasn't an ounce of doubt or play in Flint's voice. "The ratings mattered," he admitted. "But they existed because of you."

I looked back at him.

“You don't just report stories, Mallory. You make people care about them. That's not something you manufacture in a focus group.”

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. "You turning into a fan, Flint?"

His own smile appeared, slow and unmistakably genuine. “Been one longer than you think.”