"Casey's legacy isn't just the cases she helped solve or the evidence she meticulously documented. Her legacy is the reminder that truth exists even in the darkest places, and that some people are brave enough to keep looking for it no matter how dangerous or difficult the search becomes."
I step back from the podium, my part in this performance complete. The funeral director takes over with smooth professional efficiency, guiding the service toward its conclusion while I retreat to a seat in the middle section, far enough from Shaw to avoid direct interaction but close enough to monitor her behavior.
She's not taking notes, not obviously recording anything, but her attention never wavers from me. When I shift in my seat, her gaze follows. When I reach for a tissue I don't need, she notes the gesture. Every micro-expression, every unconscious movement is being catalogued and analyzed with the same methodical precision Casey once brought to crime scene documentation.
The service concludes with Casey's mother delivering a brief statement about celebrating her daughter's life rather than dwelling on the circumstances of her death. It's a sentiment that would be touching if it weren't so naive, if the circumstances weren't the entire point of everything that's happened since Marcus Chen's body appeared arranged with mathematical precision.
As mourners begin filing out, exchanging quiet condolences and making plans to reconvene at the reception, I notice Shaw hasn't moved from her seat. She's waiting, letting the crowd thin out before approaching me with whatever professional courtesy she's prepared to offer.
I consider leaving immediately, using the crowd as cover to escape whatever conversation she has planned. But running would look suspicious, and I've already given her enough reasons to question my behavior. Better to face whatever she wants to discuss and maintain the facade of a normal, grief-stricken colleague.
"Dr. North," Shaw's voice is softer than usual, carrying what sounds like genuine sympathy as she approaches. "I'm sorry for your loss. I know you and Casey worked closely together."
The condolence catches me off guard because it sounds sincere rather than strategic. There's no hidden agenda in her tone, no subtle probing disguised as comfort. Just professional sympathy from one colleague to another, the kind of interaction that happens at funerals throughout the country every day.
Which makes me feel completely insane for suspecting her of orchestrating Casey's murder.
"Thank you," I manage, accepting the tissue she offers even though my eyes are dry. "She was…she was exceptional at what she did. The kind of colleague who made everyone around her better at their jobs."
"Your eulogy captured that beautifully," Shaw continues, her voice maintaining that same gentle tone. "It's clear you had great respect for her abilities and her character. Losing someone like that is never easy, especially under these circumstances."
I study her face, looking for any sign that the sympathy is manufactured or manipulative. But Shaw's expression is open, almost vulnerable in a way I've never seen before. As if Casey's death affected her too, despite their limited professional contact.
"Did you know her well?" I ask, curiosity overriding caution.
"Not personally, no. I'd observed her work at several crime scenes over the past year. She had a remarkable eye for detail and an intuitive understanding of how evidence fits together. The kind of natural talent that can't be taught." Shaw pauses, something flickering across her features. "I actually spoke with her briefly about the copycat cases. She seemed to have some insights about the methodology that impressed me."
My blood goes cold. Casey and Shaw discussed the murders? When? About what specifically?
"I didn't realize you two had spoken," I say carefully.
"Just once, at the Marcus Chen scene. She mentioned some irregularities in the suturing pattern that suggested the killer had theoretical knowledge rather than practical experience. Quite perceptive for someone so young."
The words hit like physical blows because they confirm my worst fears. Casey wasn't just noticing patterns; she was sharing her observations with other investigators, drawing attention to details I needed to remain overlooked.
She died because she was talking to the wrong people about the right things.
"Yes, she was very insightful," I agree, wondering if Shaw can hear the tremor in my voice. "Always saw things others missed."
Shaw nods, her expression growing thoughtful. "I hope whoever's responsible for this understands what they've taken from the world. Casey Holbrook was the kind of person who made our work matter, who brought integrity and intelligence to investigations that desperately need both qualities."
The irony is so profound it makes my chest tight with suppressed hysteria. Because I know exactly who's responsible, and integrity is the last thing driving their actions. Casey diedso someone could manipulate me back into Kent's orbit, so someone could force us both into a game we never agreed to play.
She died as a chess piece in someone else's psychological experiment.
"Thank you for being here," I say, needing to end this conversation before my composure cracks completely. "It means a lot to know her colleagues respected her work."
"Of course." Shaw reaches into her jacket and produces a business card, pressing it into my hand with gentle firmness. "If you need anything during this difficult time—professional resources, someone to talk through the grief, anything at all—please don't hesitate to call."
I accept the card, noting how her fingers linger against mine for a moment longer than necessary. As if she's trying to offer comfort through physical contact, trying to provide the kind of human connection that tragedy demands.
The gesture should be reassuring. Instead, it makes every nerve in my body scream with paranoia.
Because as Shaw walks away, her professional heels clicking against the funeral home's polished floor, I'm hit with a fragment of memory so vivid it makes me dizzy. Someone in professional clothing standing at the back of another funeral, watching mourners with the same analytical attention Shaw brought to Casey's service.
Someone who looked exactly like the woman who just offered me her card.
***
