Page 3 of Chameleon Killer

"Fortunate?" The host’s gentle smile flickered. Had she not prepared for this interview?

"I survived." The matter-of-fact delivery lacked any self-pity and seemed to change the vibe in the room immediately. The camera angles allowed me to see some of the audience.

Mallory wasn’t inviting sympathy or empathy. She was just acknowledging a fact.

The host hesitated before asking the question everyone expected.

"Some stories detail that you were one of the last people to speak with Guy Reardon prior to his attack.”

“That’s what they say,” Mallory said, accepting the premise without actually confirming it. She moistened her lips, a brief movement, almost a blink and you’ll miss it. But she didn’t reach for water or take a drink.

"And you visited him while he was in the hospital."

"I did." How frustrating for the bubblegum host with her toothpaste commercial bright smile and cheerful demeanor. Mallory wasn’t giving her a lot to work with.

The host exhaled. "But he never regained consciousness?" It wasn’t quite a question.

"No." That single syllable carried more weight than any prepared statement the network had released over the previous two weeks.

The audience grew noticeably quieter.

"I've spoken with a number of people who work with you," the host continued. "One thing they all said was that Guy believed in your work."

The tension in her shoulders easing at the apparent topic shift, Mallory smiled, a genuine one this time. But there was a mingling of sadness and amusement. When Mallory focused on the host, she shifted almost uncomfortably.

"So I’m told." A beat—not a long one, but a pause so effective, I got it. Mallory chose it. “So he said himself previously.”

"And now he's gone."

I took another sip of the coffee. They really should have found someone more competent to handle this interview. Mallory gave her no room to work, at all. I respected Mallory’s choices, but I had more questions.

Mallory seemed to wait a moment as if she expected the host to say something more. When she didn’t, Mallory said, “Yes.”

"Has that changed how you look at the story?"

Finally, a question Mallory could sink her teeth into. She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she cast a glance toward the audience. It made me wonder what thoughts traveled behind those vivid eyes.

"It reminded me," she said at last, "that headlines have families attached to them."

There you are. She didn’t answer the host’s bland question, she addressed a far better one.

Undeterred, the host nodded slowly. "But you still intend to keep covering this investigation?"

"I'm a journalist." Mallory's smile disappeared.

"That's not what I asked." It was the first real pushback from the woman with her sunshine demeanor.

Mallory met her stare for stare. "I'm still committed to finding the truth."

The audience applauded at her conviction, but I focused on her omission. She was committed to the truth. Not the investigation, the story, or even the vaunted FBI.

Truth.

The distinction mattered.

"So," the host said carefully, "do you believe the man known as the Auditor is responsible for Guy Reardon's death?"

The studio became impossibly still. One woman in the front row clasped her hands tightly together and compressed her lips into a thin white line. She seemed almost disturbed to have applauded earlier.