Page 83 of Chameleon Killer

“Aren’t you the case agent?”

“I’m the profiler attached to the task force.”

Right. “That distinction seems to only matter whenever it’s convenient.”

“It matters legally.”

“Well that definitely answers one of my questions.”

His gaze sharpened. “Which question?”

Projecting just the faintest aura of smugness regardless of whether I actually felt any worked to soften up harder targets. “You won’t answer the ones you can’t control.”

He actually snorted. “That isn’t what I said.”

“No,” I said, agreeing with him. But rather than just accept my comment, he frowned slowly. My respect for him climbed back up a notch. He didn’t trust my graciousness. Smart. “You may not have said that, but it’s absolutely what you meant.”

For a moment neither of us moved as we stared at each other. We’d had sex in the kitchen at the safe house. Intense. Intimate. Inappropriate.

It hadn’t seemed to mean much at the time, to either of us. Yet the memory arrived uninvited and unwelcome. I’d let exhaustion, grief, and familiarity blur a boundary I should have never crossed. There had been no real discussion afterward.

As far as I could tell, Elliot had simply chosen discretion—at least when he wasn’t trying to control me. For me? It had been a mistake that I didn’t want to repeat. Particularly not while he was at the heart of this story.

And would be for as long as he kept running interference.

Another reason to avoid him, since every disagreement now seemed to indicate that I was reacting personally and not professionally. I didn’t want to examine my motives too closely, not with Elliot—Brewster, I reminded myself sternly—standing so close.

The intimacy between us seemed to balloon outward with abrupt force. The last thing I wanted was to advertise our choice. It was bad enough that I questioned my own judgment, I didn’t want everyone else—Flint—questioning every decision I’d made before and since.

Impartiality was easier to defend when you hadn’t already compromised it.

Brewster watched me long enough that I wondered which part of that thought had reached my face.

“I’ll call you,” he said in a tone I couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn’t eager or apologetic, but there was a suggestion of…

“I may not answer.” The response spilled right off my tongue. Should I have waited longer than a breath to respond? More? But he seemed to have expected it.

“I know.”

He left before I could decide whether the words were resignation or warning. The office door swung shut behind him.

Through the glass, I watched him cross the newsroom. People moved around him without acknowledging the tension he carried. At least, not directly to him. Instead, they glanced after him, then at each other.

Flint emerged from the corridor leading to the control room. He didn’t intercept Brewster. He didn’t look at him at all. His attention remained on me.

Brewster noticed, because of course he did. They appeared to be on a collision course as their paths crossed near the assignment desk. Neither man slowed. Neither spoke. Yet the space between them seemed to tighten as they passed.

Then Brewster disappeared into the elevators. Flint waited until the doors closed before entering his office.

“Well?” he asked and while he didn’t make a show of it, I could practically feel him looking me over as if he could decipher everything that went down in here.

I handed him the records Brewster had accessed and printed off for me.

He looked at the pages rather than me. “That bad, huh?”

Raising my eyebrows, I paused mid-pace back to my cold coffee. “What?”

“You alphabetized the records,” he deadpanned. “Well, you put them in order by provider—“ His tone grew even dryer as he paged through. “Then date, record type, and…”