Kent walks out of my bedroom—his stay in the spare room totally abandoned by now—and his eyes find mine immediately, searching my face with the kind of careful assessment that's become second nature since this nightmare began.
"How bad was it?" he asks, his voice carrying the weight of someone who's been imagining worst-case scenarios for hours.
I look up at him and feel something fundamental crack in my chest.
Kent stands in my doorway still wearing the dark suit he put on this morning, his tie loosened but not removed, looking like he's been carrying the weight of my grief alongside his own guilt about Casey's death.
He came back to me.
He's here, present and solid and real in ways that anchor me to something beyond paranoid spiral and memory fragments that may or may not be accurate.
"I think I'm losing my mind," I whisper, the admission torn from somewhere deeper than professional pride or carefully maintained control.
Kent moves toward me with deliberate slowness, settling on the couch beside me without touching, without making assumptions about what kind of comfort I need. "Tell me what happened, baby."
So I do.
The words pour out in fragments: Shaw's presence at the funeral, her genuine-seeming condolences, the memory that hit like lightning of someone at my father's funeral who looked exactly like her. The growing certainty that I'm either being manipulated by someone who's been watching me for years, or suffering a complete psychological breakdown.
Kent listens without interruption, his expression growing more troubled with each detail I share. When I finish, he's quiet for long moments, processing implications I can't begin to untangle.
I don’t realize I’m crying until he cradles my cheek, his thumb swiping at the wet, hot trail of my tears.
"Does the timeline work?" he asks finally.
"Maybe? I don’t know. I barely remember the funeral. It was all so—" I gesture helplessly at Shaw's business card, which I dug out from the bottom of my purse. "I just know that I can see her face so clearly, standing apart from everyone else, watching how people grieved instead of grieving herself. Exactly the way she watched me today."
Kent reaches for the business card, studying it with the same methodical attention he once brought to planning more permanent solutions. "Unless she wasn't alone. Unless someone was training her, teaching her to observe and document from a young age."
The possibility hadn't occurred to me, but it settles into my mind with terrifying logic. What if Shaw isn't the mastermind behind the copycat murders, but a carefully groomed asset? Someone who's been shaped and directed toward this moment since she was young enough to blend into crowd scenes at funerals?
"That's even worse," I breathe, because it suggests institutional planning, resources, and patience that extend far beyond individual vendetta.
Kent sets the card aside and turns to face me fully. "You're exhausted. Grief and stress are making everything feel more threatening than it probably is. When did you last eat? Last sleep properly?"
I try to remember and can't. The past few days have blurred together into a haze of crime scenes and cover stories and psychological pressure that's been building since Marcus Chen's body appeared arranged with mathematical precision.
"Come on," Kent says, standing and offering his hand. "Bath first, then food, then we'll figure out what's real and what's paranoia. I’ve been so happy about having you in my arms again, we’ve been replacing basic human functions with fucking. Let me take care of you, please."
How pathetic I must look that he doesn’t even look surprised when I don’t argue.
I just accept his extended hand, letting him guide me toward the bathroom with the kind of gentle authority I'vecraved since this nightmare began. He starts the water running, testing the temperature with his fingers while I sit on the edge of the tub and watch steam begin to fog the mirror.
"Arms up," he instructs softly, and I obey without question, letting him lift my black funeral dress over my head. The silk pools around my feet like spilled ink while Kent's hands move with clinical efficiency, unclasping my bra and sliding my underwear down my legs.
There's nothing sexual in the gesture, nothing predatory or opportunistic. Just care, pure and simple, offered without expectation or agenda.
The bathwater is perfect. Hot enough to unknot the tension in my shoulders, scented with lavender bath salts Kent must have found in my cabinet. I sink into it with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like the beginning of another sob, letting the heat penetrate muscles that have been clenched with stress for days.
Kent kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves before reaching for my shampoo. "Lean back."
His fingers work through my hair with surprising gentleness, massaging my scalp while warm water cascades over my forehead. The simple pleasure of being cared for—of having someone tend to basic needs I've neglected in favor of crisis management—nearly undoes me completely.
"I failed her," I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Casey trusted me, looked up to me, and I used that trust to protect a killer while she died because of information I should have shared."
Kent's hands never pause in their gentle ministrations. "You were protecting us both. You couldn't have known someone would target her specifically."
"But I should have. Should have realized that anyone connected to me would become leverage." Tears mix with bathwater, and I don't try to stop them. "She made terrible cookies, Kent. Every Friday, these awful experiments that we all choked down because she tried so hard to make everyone happy."
