Page 172 of Chameleon Killer

Then Foster called from inside the floor. “Brewster.” Something in his voice interrupted us.

Brewster turned.

Foster stood in the doorway. “You need to see this.”

When Brewster strode after him, I shot Flint a glance, but he already had my arm and we followed.

The corridor looked exactly as it had when I'd come down it earlier. Raw drywall. Construction dust. Exposed conduit overhead. Temporary lights throwing ugly shadows across unfinished concrete.

Except it didn't.

Something was wrong.

I slowed.

Flint nearly bumped into me. “What?”

I pointed.

The black stencil beside the stairwell door read: 12

Flint stared at it. Then looked back toward the stairs we'd just climbed. “No.”

Brewster followed his gaze.

Foster said, “That's why I called you.”

“We came from twelve,” Brewster said.

“Yes.”

“And we're on⁠—”

“Twelve.”

No one spoke.

I looked at the number again, then I laughed. I couldn't help it. Not because anything was funny.

Because of course.

Flint looked at me as though I might have finally lost my mind. “What?”

I pointed at the number. “Specificity.”

His expression suggested that didn't improve matters. Brewster's did.

“And what does that mean?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” I waved him off. It might take me too long to explain.

“That doesn't sound like nothing.”

“It was something he said.”

“When?” Another demand. Brewster’s clipped tones were starting to grate on my nerves.

“During the conversation.”