Page 97 of Chameleon Killer

We had spent too many years interviewing reluctant sources for either of us to pretend this conversation was casual.

I set my coffee on the table. “How close did you get?”

“Close enough.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I looked at the exterior, watched traffic patterns, and spoke to a security guard at a garage across the street.”

“You interviewed a witness.”

“I asked questions.”

I rolled my eyes. “That is the definition of an interview.”

“Only when you do it.” He was practically daring me now.

I stared at the bruise. “Did someone hit you?”

“No.”

“Did someone try?”

“No.”

“Did you fall?”

He exhaled through his nose then gave an almost resigned sigh. “A gate arm came down faster than expected.”

I looked from his face to the photograph of the garage. “You went inside.”

“I went into the garage.”

“That is inside the building.”

“Technically, that’s underneath it.”

“Flint.”

“Mallory.”

The familiar echo should have amused me. It didn’t.

“You don’t get to disappear into an abandoned building after telling me I’m not allowed to go there.”

“Right here.” He made a sweeping gesture to himself. “I didn’t disappear.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You were asleep.” He was ready with that answer too fast, and he almost sounded smug.

If not for the smugness, I might have let him get away with it. Maybe. I looked at my watch. “For five hours.” It had been after midnight when we got back here. I’d all but fallen into the bed.

“Four and a half.” The correction seemed automatic on his part. But then, we both did that, didn’t we?

“That doesn’t make—“ I shifted to wave at the board. “—this better.”

“I wasn’t trying to make it better.”