Page 67 of Chameleon Killer

"I asked about evidence."

None.

Not anymore.

“I need more,” I said. “More information. More facts.”

I didn’t ask for the truth. Not again. I wanted it, but I wouldn’t ask for it.

The man spoke again. “What changed your mind?”

I swallowed. “The accusation. Accusations, I should say.”

“Explain.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I shifted in the seat to lean forward, elbows on the conference room table. There were stacks of papers strewn across it, haphazardly organized, but organized all the same.

“The so-called crimes were broad in scope. Nothing pointed to specific incidences. That seemed to be at odds with evidence left at earlier scenes. Evidence attributed to you.” I tacked that last word on more out of habit. I had no way to prove any of it had been done by him.

Not without the actual evidence.

“And?”

I sighed. Lowering my hand to tap my nails against the table top. “What little I saw seemed like your work.”

“Seemed?”

“Yes. Seemed. But it wasn’t, was it?”

Another pause. Long enough that I wondered if he'd hung up. Then, he said, “Better.”

Not praise. A grade.

I hated how much I wanted a higher one. I straightened in the chair. “Why did you choose them?”

Silence.

I replayed the question and corrected myself before he could.

“Your targets,” I said.

The word settled uneasily between us.

Not victims.

Targets.

Victim implied innocence. Target implied intention—selection based on criteria I still didn’t understand.

People chosen because of what they had done, what they had taken, and what they had escaped.

But Colin and Guy had not fit.

“What made someone eligible?” I asked. “Was it the crime? The profit? The failure of the system to punish them?”

“Why do you believe I chose them?”

“Because the scenes were deliberate.”