"The truth. About your father, about what really happened that night, about why you've been protecting me." The words taste dangerous on my tongue, because speaking them aloud makes them real in ways that could destroy us both. "About the fact that Shaw has been orchestrating this entire situation as some kind of psychological experiment."
"They'll arrest me for obstruction of justice."
"Probably. But it's better than being arrested for murder."
She considers this with the kind of careful calculation I recognize from watching her work through complex problems. Weighing consequences, analyzing possibilities, looking for solutions that minimize damage while maximizing our chances of survival.
"If this were a murder mystery," she says finally, a hint of dark humor creeping into her voice, "the more obvious killer would be Detective Finch himself. Too convenient that he's the one leading the investigation, too clean that all the evidence points away from him."
The observation makes me pause, because she's not wrong about the psychology of mystery narratives. The person leading the investigation often turns out to be the one orchestrating the crimes, hidden in plain sight behind professional authority and institutional access.
But I've been studying Finch's behavior patterns, analyzing his motivations and methods with the same attention I once brought to hunting predators. He reads like genuine law enforcement—tired, overworked, frustrated by cases that don't follow normal patterns. Not someone playing elaboratepsychological games, but someone trying to solve murders that make no logical sense.
Shaw, on the other hand, reads like someone who enjoys intellectual puzzles more than human suffering. Someone capable of killing innocent people in the name of academic advancement, of treating violence as data collection rather than genuine harm.
Someone who sees murder as research methodology.
"If it is Finch," I tell Lila, letting steel creep into my voice, "I'll take care of him myself."
The promise carries load that goes beyond professional necessity, because I mean it with every fiber of my being. If Detective Emmett Finch is responsible for Casey's death, for terrorizing Lila, for using my signature to kill innocent people, then he'll discover exactly why the Carver's original work was so effective.
He'll learn that some people deserve death, and that I'm still capable of delivering it with surgical precision.
Lila studies my face, reading the commitment there, the willingness to do whatever becomes necessary to protect her. Something shifts in her expression—not fear, but recognition of the man who once killed her father because it needed doing.
The man who won't let anyone hurt her and walk away from the encounter.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," she says, but there's approval in her voice. Because she understands that some problems can only be solved through careful application of violence, that some people forfeit their right to continued existence through their own choices.
That justice sometimes requires getting blood on your hands.
We spend the morning in comfortable domesticity, sharing coffee and the kind of quiet intimacy that feels stolen from whatever time we have left. Lila makes breakfast while I research Shaw's background, both of us moving around each other in her kitchen like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
But underneath the normalcy, there's an electric tension that comes from knowing we're probably living on borrowed time. That tomorrow, or tonight, or in the next hour, law enforcement might arrive with warrants that will separate us permanently.
That this might be our last morning together before everything changes.
"Found something interesting," I tell Lila as she sets a plate of eggs Benedict in front of me. The presentation is perfect, professional-looking, the kind of meal that belongs in expensive restaurants rather than kitchens where fugitives plan their next moves.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call, and I glance at the screen, expecting Nate or possibly Finch with questions I can't answer honestly. Instead, I see a name that makes my chest tight with possibilities I'd hoped to avoid: Mara.
Lila’s eyes narrow, the green sharpening to a feral glint as she registers the name flashing on my phone screen. Mara. A single word, innocuous to anyone else, but to Lila, it’s a match struck in a room doused with gasoline. Her posture shifts, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening, the predator in her waking fully now, claws unsheathed. The air in the kitchen thickens, charged with a primal, possessive energy that crackles like static before a thunderstorm. She sets her fork down with deliberate precision, the clink of metal against porcelain slicing throughthe quiet, and leans forward, her gaze pinning me in place like a specimen under glass.
“Who’s Mara?” she asks, her voice low, deceptively calm, but there’s a razor’s edge beneath it, a warning that I’m treading on treacherous ground. Her fingers curl around the edge of the table, nails digging into the polished wood, leaving faint crescent marks. I can see the calculations running behind her eyes—analyzing, dissecting, deciding how much this name threatens the fragile, blood-soaked bond we’ve rebuilt.
“Someone from the life I built after,” I say, keeping my tone even, careful not to ignite the jealousy I can already feel simmering in her. “A friend. Nothing more.” But the words feel hollow, inadequate, like trying to explain a shadow to someone who’s only ever known fire. Mara was physical comfort, a fleeting distraction from the void Lila left, but never a replacement. Never her.
The phone buzzes again, insistent, vibrating against the table like a heartbeat, and Lila’s eyes flick to it, then back to me, her lips curling into a smile that’s more challenge than warmth, sharp and dangerous. “Answer it,” she says, her voice a velvet blade, smooth but cutting. “Let’s see how much of a ‘friend’ she is.”
“Lila—” I start, but she cuts me off, rising from her chair with the fluid grace of a panther stalking prey. She’s still in my oversized shirt, the hem skimming her thighs, the fabric clinging to her curves in a way that makes my mouth dry. The sight of her in it—claiming it, claimingme—sends a jolt of heat through me, despite the tension coiling in my gut. She rounds the table, her movements slow, deliberate, and before I can react, she’s standing between my legs, her hands braced on my thighs, fingers digging in just enough to make me feel the bite of her nails through my jeans.
“Answer it,” she repeats, her voice dropping to a husky command, her eyes locked on mine, daring me to defy her. “I want to hear what she has to say. And I want her to hearyou.” The implication lands like a punch, and my cock twitches, already half-hard from the intensity in her gaze, the possessive edge in her voice. This isn’t just jealousy—it’s a need to stake her claim, to erase any trace of another woman from my life, to prove she’s the only one who matters.
I reach for the phone, thumb hovering over the answer button, but she snatches it from my hand, swiping to accept the call with a flick of her wrist. “Put it on speaker,” she says, her tone leaving no room for negotiation, and she sets the phone on the table, Mara’s voice crackling through the line before I can brace myself.
“Kent? Thank God, are you okay?” Mara’s voice is laced with worry, familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten with guilt. “Nate told me about the police, about the questions. Where are you?”
Lila’s eyes darken, her lips pressing into a thin line as she hears the concern, the intimacy in Mara’s tone. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but her fingers tighten on my thighs, a silent command to keep my attention on her. I swallow hard, trying to focus on the conversation, but Lila’s already moving, her hands sliding up to my belt, unbuckling it with swift, practiced movements. The clink of metal is loud in the quiet kitchen, and I grit my teeth, knowing Mara’s still waiting for a response.
