Page 86 of Chameleon Killer

At the deadpan response, I chuckled. “You don’t trust Brewster.”

“This isn’t about whether I trust him.”

“Doesn’t sound like a denial to me.”

It was his turn to narrow his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with profilers.”

“And evasive newsroom directors.” I pasted on a sweet smile to that last that just made him snort. Yeah, I wasn’t this nice on a good day. But it was almost—what? fun? Yes, it was fun to tease him

“I trust the FBI profiler to act according to what he believes is necessary.” The rather understated, but utterly dry delivery told me that Brewster lived down to his expectations of him. Not up.

I turned toward the glass wall. Brewster was gone, but I could still picture him moving through the newsroom with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to doors opening before he reached them.

“What aren’t you saying?” Flint asked.

I should have told him nothing. It wasn’t about trust, not between us. But at the same time, I knew the truth would matter.

“Elliot and I have a history.” That was a pathetic description for a bad decision made in the heat of the moment.

“I know.”

I turned. “What do you know?”

“You’ve gone from casually holding the upper hand and maintaining your professionalism to letting him get under your skin. You aren’t necessarily thinking strategically about him.” The suggestion of disappointment in his voice was softened only by the element of sympathy. He seemed to be assuming the source of the issue was Colin and Reardon.

Those were the most obvious to assume. On some levels, he wasn’t wrong. But…

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Flint went still. “I’m listening.”

The statement was neutral. His tone was almost bland. His eyes were neither and they scorched where they burned into me.

“Once.” I blew out a breath. “I slept with him—well, there wasn’t sleep involved. We hooked up. Once.”

The newsroom continued moving beyond the glass. Someone laughed near the assignment desk. A producer hurried past carrying a stack of scripts. The world didn’t pause to gawk at a confession I’d never intended to make.

Flint’s face revealed nothing. Not surprise. Not anger. Not—anything. It was as neutral a face as I’d ever seen him wear. It was his professional mask of unbiased reporting.

A distancing technique to be sure, but also… he wasn’t my friend, my partner, or even my boss at the moment.

“When?” he asked.

I didn’t want to answer that question. The timing was important. But the fact I didn’t want to answer it made me answer it. I wasn’t going to run away from this. A lie of omission is still a lie.

“When I was still in the safe house with him.”

His gaze shifted away for the first time.

I could have continued and tried to explain. Frustration. Proximity. Grief. Adrenaline. Exhaustion. I could lay out the details of how that bad choice was probably inevitable.

But all that would have just been a justification.

“It wasn’t a relationship,” I said. It wasn’t then. It still wasn’t now.

“I didn’t ask.” The lack of intonation on the words left a hollow ache in my gut.

“You were going to.” Even if he hadn’t, he’d wondered and I wanted to answer as completely as I could.