"And what I did?"
"What you did was justice. Imperfect, dangerous, morally complex justice—but justice nonetheless." I reach for his hands, needing the physical connection to anchor this conversation in truth rather than philosophical abstraction. "My father was a killer who hid behind a badge. You stopped him from hurting anyone else. That's not evil—that's heroism disguised as violence."
Kent's fingers intertwine with mine, and I see something like relief cross his features. As if my moral clarity about our past reassures him that Shaw's manipulation hasn't fundamentally altered who I am or what I believe about the rightness of methodical violence when it serves genuine justice.
"Shaw doesn't understand that distinction," I continue, processing implications as I speak them aloud. "She sees technique divorced from meaning, methodology separated from moral framework. That's why her copying your methods feels so wrong—she's performing the actions without understanding the philosophy that justified them."
"She's using my signature to commit meaningless murders."
"Worse than meaningless. Actively harmful. She's perverting something that once served justice and using it to advance her own academic interests." The thought makes me sick with rage all over again. "She's desecrating the memory of what you did for people like me."
The conversation has moved beyond discussing Shaw's background into something more fundamental—a reaffirmation of the moral framework that connected us nine years ago, theshared understanding that violence can be justified when it serves justice rather than self-interest.
It's a dangerous philosophy, one that most people would find horrifying. But it's also the foundation of everything we've built together, the reason we can trust each other completely despite the darkness in both our histories.
"You know what's really twisted?" I say, another piece of the puzzle clicking into place. "When I first met Shaw two years ago, she positioned herself as a mentor. Someone who could guide my career development, help me navigate the complexities of forensic psychology."
Kent's attention sharpens. "You never mentioned meeting her before the copycat cases."
"Because I didn't realize the significance until now." I move to the window, staring out at the city lights while memories resurface with uncomfortable clarity. "She approached me at a professional conference, said she'd been following my work, thought I showed exceptional promise for someone so young in the field."
The memory tastes bitter now, knowing what I know about Shaw's real motivations. What felt like professional recognition at the time was actually predatory assessment, a experienced manipulator identifying her primary research subject.
"She invited me to lunch, offered to introduce me to influential colleagues, suggested we collaborate on research projects." I turn back to face Kent, seeing my own understanding reflected in his expression. "Classic grooming behavior, but disguised as professional mentorship."
"How did you respond?"
"I didn't take well to being condescended to." A smile tugs at my lips despite the darkness of what we're discussing. "Shaw kept treating me like a promising student who needed guidance rather than a colleague with my own expertise. She had this way of framing advice that made it sound like I was lucky to receive her attention."
Kent's expression suggests he can imagine exactly how that dynamic would have played out, given my tendency to resist anyone who tries to manage or manipulate me.
"It became competitive quickly. She'd make subtle comments about my youth, my lack of experience, how much I could learn from someone with her background. I'd respond by demonstrating that my insights were just as valid as hers, that age doesn't automatically confer wisdom." The memory makes my jaw clench with remembered irritation. "She didn't like being challenged by someone she considered beneath her intellectually."
"So she shifted strategies."
"Exactly. When mentorship didn't work, when I proved too independent to be molded into her ideal protégé, she started studying me differently. Less overtly, more systematically." The realization makes my skin crawl. "She's been documenting my behavioral patterns ever since, waiting for the right opportunity to use that accumulated knowledge."
Shaw doesn't understand that kind of moral complexity. To her, we're just two psychologically interesting subjects whose responses to trauma make for compelling research material.
She has no idea what she's actually dealing with.
"Shaw doesn't understand the distinction between justice and cruelty," I continue, the pieces of her psychology becoming clearer. "She sees technique divorced from meaning,methodology separated from moral framework. That's why her copying your methods feels so wrong—she's performing the actions without understanding the philosophy that justified them."
"She's using my signature to commit meaningless murders."
"Worse than meaningless. Actively harmful. She's perverting something that once served justice and using it to advance her own academic interests." The thought makes me sick with rage all over again. "She's desecrating the memory of what you did for people like me."
Kent moves toward me, and before I can say anything else, his hands frame my face, and his mouth covers mine in a kiss that tastes like gratitude and something deeper, something that might be awe.
When he pulls back, his eyes are intense with emotion I rarely see him allow to surface.
"I don't know if I'm the hero you paint me as," he says, his voice rough with something that sounds like wonder. "But you…Christ, Lila. You're magnificent."
The word hits differently than it should. People have called me similar things before—brilliant, exceptional, remarkable. Professors impressed by my academic performance, colleagues acknowledging my professional insights, even casual lovers trying to flatter their way into my bed.
But hearing it from Kent feels like recognition rather than flattery. Because he's seen me at my darkest moments, watched me channel rage into dominance and vulnerability into strength. He knows about the seventeen-year-old who helped position herfather's body with clinical precision, understands the woman who's built her career around studying minds like his.
He knows me down to my tar-black soul, and he still calls me magnificent.
