Page 129 of Chameleon Killer

I rested my forearms on the desk. “Then ask.”

The cursor blinked once. Twice. Three times.

Why did you become a journalist?

“That’s your opening?” I frowned.

Yes.

No hesitations this time. A swift, three letter answer and it sat there on the screen.

“Hmm,” I said, leaning back in the chair. “I won’t lie, I expected you to ask something about murder in general or specific.”

Once again, he didn’t make me wait for an answer.

Everyone expects murder. Few understand real curiosity.

“So, you’re curious about me? I have a biography up on the network’s website.” I was pretty sure there was even a wiki page somewhere about me too.

That’s what has been published. I want to know your answer.

“You don’t think those are my answers?”

No.

I couldn’t really argue with that. “Not everything is a deep dark secret of psychological value.”

Why did you become a journalist?

Apparently, this was our first line in the sand or maybe it was our tenth.

“I don’t like to be lied to.”

Incomplete.

I rolled my eyes. “Judgy much? I disagree. It’s an answer.”

It’s motivation, yes. But I want the origin.

Before I could scoff or challenge him again, he added:

You understand the distinction. You just don’t want to talk about it.

Called out, I supposed.

I took longer to answer than I wanted to admit. My nails tapped a slow rhythm against the desktop while I arranged thoughts I had no interest in sharing.

I hated being the one answering questions.

That was the whole point of becoming a journalist. My place had always been behind the notebook, asking, observing, deciding what mattered. Not sitting across from someone who insisted I peel back my own reasons.

I considered standing up and walking out. There was every chance in the world he would let me. There was every chance he wouldn't.

The uncertainty settled heavily in my gut. Safe had never been particularly satisfying. Stories rarely lived there. I drew a slow breath. So, if I wanted answers, I was going to have to surrender a few of my own.

“I was eleven.”

The cursor remained still, waiting.