He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze, his eyes fierce with determination. “Always,” he says, the word carrying the weight of a vow, sealed in sweat and blood and the wreckage of our past. He presses a final kiss to my forehead, a gesture that’s both tender and territorial, and I know, without a doubt, that we’re in this until the end—whatever that end may be.
Chapter 24 - Kent
Dawn filters through the blinds in pale gold strips across Lila's face, highlighting the exhaustion etched in every line of her features. She's sprawled across my chest like she's claimed me as her personal territory, one leg thrown over mine, her dark hair spilled across my shoulder in waves that smell like her expensive shampoo and the musk of what we've been doing all night. Her breathing is deep and even, the kind of sleep that comes after being thoroughly wrung out—physically, emotionally, completely.
I've been awake for an hour, watching her sleep, cataloging the small details that reveal how much she's changed. The faint lines around her eyes that speak to years of careful analysis and controlled stress. The way she holds tension even in sleep, like someone who's learned that letting your guard down completely is a luxury she can't afford. The small scar on her collarbone that's new since we were together, probably from some accident she handled alone because there was no one there to worry about her.
But underneath all the changes, she's still her. Still the girl who helped me position her father's body with clinical precision, who asked intelligent questions about methodology and justice. Still someone who understands that the world is divided into predators and prey, and refuses to stay prey forever.
The morning light reveals the wreckage we left behind last night—clothes scattered across the floor, broken glass from the vase that didn't survive our encounter with the coffee table, the dining room table still bearing evidence of our earlier activities. Her apartment looks lived-in for the first time since I've beenhere, marked by genuine human passion instead of the sterile perfection she usually maintains.
It suits her better this way. Less museum exhibit, more actual home.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand, and I reach for it carefully, trying not to disturb Lila's position. The screen shows three missed calls from Nate, two text messages, and a voicemail that was left at five-thirty this morning. The timing makes my chest tight with apprehension, because Nate doesn't call before dawn unless something's seriously wrong.
The first text is succinct:Call me back. Now.
The second carries more urgency:Police were asking questions about you yesterday. Need to talk.
I ease out from under Lila's weight, noting how she makes a small sound of protest but doesn't wake. Years of functioning on minimal sleep while maintaining hypervigilance have trained her to rest when the opportunity presents itself. She shifts slightly, curling around the warm space I've left behind, one hand reaching unconsciously for where I was.
Even in sleep, she's looking for me. The knowledge sends something warm and protective through my chest, mixing with the cold calculation that Nate's messages have triggered. Because if the police are asking questions about Kent Shepherd, it means our careful distance from each other wasn't as impenetrable as I thought.
It means Lila's protection of me has put her on someone's radar as more than just a consulting psychologist who got too close to a case.
I pad quietly to the living room, stepping over broken glass and discarded clothing, and dial Nate's number. He answers on the first ring, like he's been waiting by his phone.
"About fucking time," he says without preamble. "Where are you?"
"Safe. What kind of questions?"
"The kind that suggest someone's been digging into your background more than we'd like." I hear the sound of coffee being poured, the familiar routine of a man who functions on caffeine and careful paranoia. "Detective named Finch came by the office yesterday afternoon, asking about Kent Shepherd's employment history, recent projects, whether I'd seen you lately."
My blood goes cold, because Finch is the detective working Casey's murder. The detective who recorded Lila's contradictory statements, who has sixty-three minutes of evidence that she's been obstructing justice.
"What did you tell him?"
"That you completed your current projects and moved on, like contractors do. That you paid your bills and kept to yourself. That I hadn't heard from you in weeks." Nate pauses, and I hear him light a cigarette despite his claims about quitting. "But he wasn't satisfied with the standard responses. He had specific questions about your schedule, your access to certain tools, your psychological state."
Psychological state. The phrase sits heavy with implication, because it suggests Finch isn't just investigating Kent Shepherd as a potential witness or person of interest. He's building a profile, looking for evidence that the mild-mannered furniture restorer might be capable of systematic murder.
"He knows something," I say, moving to the window and checking the street below for signs of surveillance. "Or suspects something."
"Worse than that. He had photos."
The words hit like ice water in my veins. "What kind of photos?"
"You entering and leaving the building where some Dr. North works. You at her apartment complex. You and her together in what looked like…an intimate conversation." Nate takes a long drag, exhales slowly. "Someone's been watching you both, documenting your connection. And now law enforcement has that documentation."
I close my eyes, processing the implications. Because if Finch has photographic evidence of my relationship with Lila, he can connect Kent Shepherd to Dr. Lila North in ways that go far beyond professional consultation. He can build a case that suggests coordination, collaboration, and possibly conspiracy.
He can prove that she's been protecting me from the moment this investigation began.
"How recent are the photos?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to hear the answer.
"Recent enough. Some from this week, some from last week. Professional quality, long-distance surveillance equipment. Whoever took them has resources and patience."
Shaw. The name crystallizes in my mind with perfect clarity, because she's the only person with access to both the police investigation and the professional resources needed for extended surveillance. She's been watching us, documenting our connection, waiting for the perfect moment to use that documentation to destroy us both.
