Page 48 of Chameleon Killer

“Checking out.”

I flicked a look toward him. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Physically.” He pointed his fork at me as though saying, yes I can see you, but you’re not here in the room.

Then he waited. I hated that he knew waiting worked.

“The call,” I said.

His expression sharpened. “I figured.”

“He said we stopped looking at the bodies.”

“Not we.”

I looked at him.

“He said you.”

I repeated the phrase. “‘You finally stopped looking at the bodies’.”

“Exactly.”

I picked up the toast. “You remembered the wording.” Was I surprised? Not really. Was I impressed? Maybe.

“So did you,” he countered. His eggs were gone and he was spearing the slices of fruit like they offended him.

“That’s different.”

“How?” He paused to just stare at me.

“I’m obsessive.” I wrinkled my nose. “Remember?”

“So am I. I just dress it up in management responsibilities.”

I twisted to glance toward his living room. A whiteboard stood against the far wall beside one of the tall windows.

It was larger than the one in our improvised newsroom war room. Not a cheap office board mounted with brackets, but a heavy rolling unit with glass panels on both sides. Half of it was covered in faded notes written in Flint’s blocky handwriting.

Dates.

Initials.

Place names.

Arrows.

At the top corner, in black marker, were the words:

ASSUMPTIONS ARE EVIDENCE YOU INVENTED YOURSELF.

Sliding off the stool, I left the last half of the toast on my plate then I walked toward it.

Behind me, Flint said, “Breakfast.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You can think and chew.” So bossy.