The information feels disappointingly normal, nothing that explains the kind of calculated manipulation we'veexperienced. "That doesn't sound like the background of someone who becomes a serial killer for academic purposes."
"No obvious red flags," Kent agrees. "But I found something interesting from her high school years. A classmate named Jennifer Morrison died in what was ruled an accidental drowning during a school camping trip."
I pause, blinking at him. "Accidental, how?"
"Fell from a cliff into a river during a nighttime hike. No witnesses except Shaw, who reported finding the body and claimed Jennifer had been walking alone despite repeated warnings about safety protocols." Kent's voice carries the kind of careful neutrality that suggests he's found more significant information than he's initially revealing. "The investigation was minimal—small town, popular student, no reason to suspect foul play."
"But?"
"Shaw was the one who suggested the nighttime hike to Jennifer. She was also the one who volunteered to look for her when she didn't return to camp. And according to the incident report, she was remarkably composed when reporting the death—no emotional distress, very clinical in her description of finding the body."
The details create a picture that's disturbingly familiar: someone who can manipulate others into dangerous situations, who remains calm under pressure, who views other people's suffering with clinical detachment rather than emotional response.
Someone who might see human beings as research subjects rather than individuals deserving of empathy.
"How old was she?"
"Seventeen. Almost the same age you were when I killed your father."
The parallel sends a chill down my spine because it suggests Shaw's capacity for manipulation and violence has roots that go back decades. That she's been refining her methods, building her skills, possibly committing acts that were never recognized as crimes because she was sophisticated enough to make them look accidental.
"I was going to tell you this the night Mara called," Kent continues, his voice carrying undertones of regret. "Before we got…distracted."
Heat floods my cheeks as I remember that night—Mara's phone call interrupting our investigation planning, the way jealousy and possession had overwhelmed rational discussion. How we'd spent hours fucking instead of sharing crucial information about the woman who's been manipulating both our lives.
"We need to stay focused," I say, as much to myself as to him. "Shaw is too dangerous for us to let personal feelings compromise our judgment."
Kent nods, but there's something in his expression that suggests he understands the deeper implications of what I'm saying. That staying focused means maintaining the partnership we've built while resisting the impulse to let passion override strategic thinking.
"What do you think she gains from framing you?" he asks, returning to the fundamental question about Shaw's motivations. "Academic recognition? Professional advancement? Publishing opportunities?"
I consider the possibilities, trying to think like someone who views human suffering as raw material for scholarlyresearch. "Maybe all of those things. A comprehensive study of how violent trauma affects psychological development, how childhood exposure to methodical killing influences adult behavioral patterns. She could be building toward a career-defining publication."
"Using your life as her primary case study."
"And using innocent people's deaths as data points." The thought makes me sick with rage all over again. "Marcus Chen, Rebecca Martin,Casey—they died so she could document my responses to escalating psychological pressure."
Kent's expression darkens with something that looks like familiar anger, the kind of controlled fury I recognize from our most intense conversations about justice and necessity. "What did I have to gain from killing Harry Jenkins?" he asks, his voice carrying bitter sarcasm. "Some people are just fucked up, Lila. They don't need rational motivations for the harm they cause."
The comparison hits me like a slap, so fundamentally wrong that it makes my vision narrow with sudden, blazing anger.
"Don't you dare," I snarl, spinning to face him with hands clenched into fists. "Don't you dare compare yourself to her."
Kent's eyebrows rise at the vehemence in my voice, but I'm not done. Can't be done when he's just equated his methodical justice with Shaw's academic sadism.
"You killed my father because he was a monster who…Kent, you of all people know what that bastard did to me. On top of having murdered my mother, we both know he would have eventually killed me, and I would’ve felt like it was a fucking mercy at that point. Someone had to stop him, and the system designed to protect people like me had failed completely." My voice rises with each word, carrying nine years of certainty aboutthe rightness of what he did. "Shaw is killing innocent people to advance her career. She's using trauma as research material and treating human beings like lab rats. How dare you suggest that's the same thing?"
The silence that follows feels charged with dangerous energy. Kent watches my face with the kind of careful attention that suggests he's processing not just my words but the passion behind them, the absolute conviction that what he did was fundamentally different from Shaw's calculated manipulation.
"You're right," he says finally, his voice quiet but steady. "I'm sorry. What I did had purpose, meaning, and necessity behind it. Shaw is killing for curiosity, for academic advancement, for the intellectual satisfaction of conducting psychological experiments on unwilling subjects."
"Exactly." I take a shaky breath, trying to quell the rage that flared so quickly. "You saved lives by ending one. She's destroying lives to satisfy her own intellectual vanity. Those aren't comparable motivations."
Kent stands, moving toward me with deliberate slowness. "I needed to hear you say that. Needed to know that you still understand the difference between justice and cruelty, between necessary violence and recreational sadism."
His words make me realize this wasn't just a casual comparison—it was a test. He wanted to see if Shaw's manipulation had corrupted my understanding of morality, if learning about her decade-long psychological experiment had made me question the rightness of what we shared nine years ago.
"Shaw is evil," I say with absolute certainty. "Not because she kills people, but because she kills them for meaningless reasons. Because she treats human suffering as entertainment,as intellectual puzzle-solving rather than the profound moral magnitude it actually carries."
