Page 70 of Chameleon Killer

“Yet, that does not answer the question.”

I balled up a piece of paper that had older notes on it. I needed to squeeze something. “He survived the initial attack. Why does that matter?”

I looked toward Guy’s name. There were surgeries, neurological assessments… more issues. He had never woken up so I just treated the days as a medical delay between the attack and his death.

The silence grew louder. “What are you saying?” I asked, needing to understand.

“What conclusion did you accept without examining it?”

“That the attack killed him. Or at least, he died as a direct result of the attack.” If he had died a year later due to complications from the assault, he would still have died from the attack.

“Did it?”

Rubbing a hand against my face, I studied the timeline we’d been constructing. Guy had been found alive. Transported. Stabilized. Operated on. Monitored. Then, eleven days later, he had died.

I rose from the chair and crossed to the board, pulling the phone cord as far as it would reach.

“Was Guy supposed to survive?” Had that been the clue? Had the attack failed—or had his survival created a second opportunity?

“What evidence would answer that?” He sounded so even-handed, like a professor, prodding me to understand.

“His medical records.” Another reason we were trying to get them.

“And yet you don’t have them.”

“If you know, then tell me.” It came out more of an order than a question.

“Why?” The soft emphasis on the word grated.

“Because you called me.”

Another pause. Not too long this time, I could have sworn I heard a smile when he asked. “Did I call to provide answers?”

“No.” I stared at Guy’s name, like the answers were right there. All I had to do was grab them. “You called to see whether I could find them.”

“Better.”

The word no longer felt like approval.

“If you believe there is no distance you will not travel for the truth, Ms. McBryan, you should first determine who is choosing the road.”

The line went dead. For several seconds, I remained beside the board with the receiver pressed to my ear, listening to nothing.

A throat cleared behind me.

I turned.

Flint stood in the doorway. His coffee was gone, and whatever he had heard had stripped the usual dryness from his expression. “Was that him?”

I lowered the receiver. “Yes.”

His gaze moved over my face as though he expected to find damage there. “How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

I looked at the phone. Then sighed. Long enough for the Auditor to assess my work. Long enough for me to answer questions I hadn’t known he was asking. Long enough for him to point me toward Guy’s eleven missing days without offering a single fact I could verify.