Page 36 of Chameleon Killer

The words landed somewhere beneath my ribs.

For one impossible heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink until it held only the two of us. The murder board faded into the background. So did the cold takeout, the coffee, the endless questions we'd been chasing for days.

My stomach performed an unsettling little somersault. Not because Flint had admitted he'd believed in me. Because I'd believed in him for just as long.

He must have seen something change in my expression. Thankfully, whatever it was, he let it pass.

Clearing his throat, Flint broke eye contact first and turned back toward the whiteboard. He uncapped the marker again. “We'll unpack that another day.”

An unspoken promise underscored that statement. It would happen. I could put money on it.

He drew a clean box around Guy Reardon's photograph before looking back at me. “What if he wasn't funding you?"

I looked at him and frowned.

"What if he was funding one investigation?"

My pulse quickened. Funding my investigation. Flattering, yes, but also—terrifying. What about my work had stood out to him enough to want to underwrite it?

I replayed the last eighteen months in rapid succession.

The stories Guy had personally approved. The fights that nearly boiled up between him and Flint. While I hadn’t had a lot of contact with him, there was gossip.

No one gossiped like a newsroom full of journalists. We might not be in the room for those meetings, but it took no time at all for the word to get around.

Guy had championed a few of the investigations, apparently liking their optics. Others he’d been dismissive of—more than once, he only let those stories slide if we prioritized the bigger investigations.

Then there were the tips. Not too many, but a couple that suggested I interview some people. At least one of those had given me my first taste of what the Auditor was after.

My stomach tightened. “Flint…”

"I know." The rough sympathy in his voice offered a comfort I didn’t want. Not right now.

"No." I shook my head slowly. "You don't."

"What?"

"I thought I was choosing those stories."

He didn't answer, nor did he have to. Somewhere along the way, someone might have been choosing them for me.

I began pacing.

Three steps.

Turn.

Three steps back.

The room suddenly felt smaller than it had five minutes earlier.

Turn.

“What if none of this started with the Auditor?” The questions began to scroll through my mind. A new one popping up each time I pivoted for the next three step pace.

"What if it started with Guy?"

Three steps. Turn.