Page 90 of Chameleon Killer

“Your constant use of that defense is beginning to sound a lot like the boy who cried wolf.” His tone was dry, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes.

I looked at him across the spread of hospital records. “Are we going to keep doing this?”

“Researching?” The response was almost too innocent. Flint could not sell that to someone who didn’t know him, it would never fly with me.

“You know that isn’t what I mean.”

The muscle in his jaw shifted once. “Do I?”

There it was. The smallest cut in the coolness of his voice and as sharp as the edge of tone.

I sat back. “You’re angry.”

“No.”

Eyebrows raised, I chose the high road and didn’t just say bullshit. “Well, you’re doing a very good impression of it.”

Blowing out a breath, Flint glared off into the distance for a split second before he focused on me again. “I’m not angry about what happened with Brewster.”

“That qualification is doing a lot of work.” Maybe I shouldn’t poke the bear, but the cool, precise distance from Flint was just—not normal.

And I didn’t like it.

He capped the highlighter in his hand. “I’m concerned because you can’t tell whether your judgment around him is professional or personal.”

Even expecting the answer it still stung. “I told you that because it mattered.”

“I know.”

“Yet, now you’re punishing me for it?”

His expression hardened. “Is that what you think this is?”

“I think you’ve barely spoken to me about anything except the story for three days.”

“We have a story and leads.”

“We had it before.”

The silence expanded. Beyond the paper-covered glass, the newsroom carried on without us.

Flint glanced away first, then down at the records. “You wanted space.” The words were almost too quiet, I had to strain to hear them.

“I never said that.” Did he really think that I’d wanted him to back off?

“No.” He shot me a sideways look, then flipped to a different page on the table. “You made it clear I’d crossed a line by asking questions.”

“You didn’t cross a line,” I said with a sigh.

“Then what did I do?” He lifted his head then and met my gaze. “What?”

Made me feel seen. Made me account for something I wanted to file away as a mistake. Made me wonder whether the professional neutrality on his face had concealed something far less neutral underneath.

None of those answers were safe.

“You were right,” I said instead because in his way, he had been. Another reason I’d wanted him to have the truth of it all.

Flint’s gaze lifted. “That isn’t an apology.”