Page 191 of Chameleon Killer

I looked at him. He wasn't watching the monitor anymore. He was watching me.

“What?” I tried to keep my voice low, but it was a small room.

His jaw tightened. “Nothing.”

That meant something. But we continued. The footage showed gestures I remembered making.

A laugh.

Looking toward the ceiling.

Leaning back.

Picking up the pen.

But the words around those movements didn't match my memory.

Some did.

Fragments.

Pieces.

Simon asking about why I became a journalist.

My childhood story.

Except rearranged.

Shortened.

My jokes appearing after different questions.

The voice said: “Elliot wants control.”

I stilled.

Onscreen, I answered: “He does.”

I wanted to say I hadn’t said that, but I had. Just—not there. Not like that.

Simon had asked about Brewster eventually. Hadn't he? My memories began shuffling themselves. The very sensation made me nauseous.

This was how contamination worked after all. I was seeing a version that I knew wasn’t true and it made me question my whole recollection. It didn’t replace everything wholesale, just made the edges variable.

Then this synthetic Simon said, “And you allowed him to have it.”

Recorded me looked down. “Not anymore.”

I closed my eyes. “Stop.”

Ruiz paused the feed.

Silence.

I opened my eyes again.

Flint had gone pale. Brewster had not. He looked intent. Too intent.