Page 8 of Chameleon Killer

Studio powder.

Mascara.

The version of me people expected to see. I finger combed the stiffness out of my hair.

“Dammit, Mallory,” Brewster said and there was a faint thump as though he bumped his fist to it or maybe it was his head.

I liked the second image. Maybe a little too much.

“We’re already at ‘dammit, Mallory’?” I kept my tone light and amused, two things I was not feeling.

“You didn’t give us much of a heads up on this interview.”

He was lucky I’d given them any kind of heads up. Getting out from under their thumb had proven difficult.

I reached for the cleansing wipes.

“You should have vetted this with us.” He was more than a little incensed.

Pausing mid-face clean, I considered the locked door. This seemed a bit much⁠—

"You went off script."

Ah.

I laughed once. It wasn't particularly amused. "You mean I answered the questions."

"You answered around them."

"They invited a journalist," I said as I scrubbed away another careful layer. "Not an FBI press release."

His sigh carried through the door.

"You know why I asked you not to speculate."

"I didn't." I had avoided any speculation. I’d been quite careful about that.

"You implied."

A snort escaped me. “What you mean to say is I took too many breaths without clearing it with you.” That chokehold had begun to chafe. I was ready to chew my own leg off to get free of this trap.

"You know exactly what I mean."

I did.

That was the problem. Everything had become implication. Every interview with their profilers, their field agents, their tech guys. They parsed every sentence, every headline, and every silence.

They wanted me muzzled and off-air permanently. Flint had gone to bat but after Reardon’s death, even the network had withdrawn their support.

The woman staring back from the mirror slowly disappeared beneath damp cotton rounds until freckles emerged across my nose and the circles beneath my eyes reclaimed territory no concealer could permanently win.

Better.

More honest.

I peeled the microphone pack from the waistband of my trousers before changing into faded jeans, hiking boots, and a charcoal sweater that had survived more airports than I cared to count.

The blazer stayed hanging in the wardrobe.