Page 201 of Chameleon Killer

She made a face. “I feel naked.”

I looked at the CPD sweatshirt. “That's unfortunate phrasing.”

Her eyes narrowed, then she laughed. It came out tired and husky and real. The sound stroked over me harder than ever before.

Because I'd spent an hour listening to a manufactured version of it. It was nothing on the real woman. Circling the car, I opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

“Bossy.” She wrinkled her nose at me.

“Exhausted.”

“Pfft. Exhausted or well-rested, you're always bossy.”

“That too. So get your gorgeous ass in the car and stop arguing with me.”

She climbed in. I shut the door and walked around to the driver's side.

By the time I started the engine, Mallory had pulled the seat belt across herself and tucked one leg beneath the other.

I stared.

“What?”

“Boots.”

She looked down. “What about them?”

“Off my seat.”

“Your seat has survived war correspondents.”

“It hasn't survived you.”

She deliberately tucked the other leg underneath herself with a smirk.

I shook my head. Some fights weren't worth having. I pulled out and accelerated toward the exit. The garage arm lifted. Morning waited outside.

Chicago at seven-thirty on Sunday looked almost civilized.

Traffic remained light. Delivery trucks occupied loading zones. Joggers moved along the lakefront as if getting up voluntarily at this hour constituted evidence of moral superiority.

Mallory watched the city through the passenger window. I let her.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask so badly my teeth hurt. What did he say? Why Simon? What did he tell you about Reardon? What did he ask about me? What did you tell him? Was your smile real?

Were any of them?

The questions lined up behind my teeth.

I swallowed every one.

Mallory had spent the last several hours being interrogated by men who believed they were entitled to her answers and obedience.

I wasn't becoming another one.