I'm wearing his t-shirt and nothing else, the soft fabric hanging loose around my thighs, while he's in just his boxer briefs. It's domestic in ways that should terrify me, but instead feel like coming home after years of living in carefully constructed professional facades.
"Shaw is still out there," I say, because my practical mind won't let me sink completely into this peaceful moment. "Planning her next move, documenting our responses, probably getting ready to escalate again."
Kent's hand stills against my scalp. "She is. But right now, in this moment, she doesn't get to control our choices. Right now, we get to just exist."
The sentiment is beautiful, protective, exactly what I need to hear. But it also crystallizes something that's been building in my subconscious since we left Janine's house—the understanding that we can't just react to Shaw's manipulation anymore. We need to take control of the narrative.
I lift my head to look at him, studying the relaxed lines of his face in the golden afternoon light. "What if we didn't just exist? What if we acted?"
His eyebrows rise slightly. "What kind of action are you thinking about?"
"Shaw has been positioning me as a suspect, building a case that connects me to the copycat murders through my knowledge of your methodology." I push myself up, sitting cross-legged beside him on the couch. "But what if I became a victim instead?"
Kent's expression sharpens with interest. "Explain."
"Nine years ago, I was Delilah Jenkins—a traumatized teenager who'd lost her father to violence. I played that role perfectly, convinced everyone that I was exactly what they expected: broken, vulnerable, grateful for any protection the system could provide." The memory should taste bitter, but instead it feels like power remembered. "What if Delilah Jenkins came forward now, scared that the Carver has returned?"
I can see Kent processing the implications, understanding dawning across his features. "You'd be repositioning yourself from potential accomplice to potential victim."
"Exactly. And more than that—I'd be providing information that helps the investigation while protecting bothof us." My mind is racing now, the pieces falling into place with satisfying precision. "Detective Rivas was the lead investigator on my father's case. He knows Delilah Jenkins, has a professional relationship with that identity. If she reached out to him, scared and seeking protection…."
"He'd listen," Kent finishes. "And he'd want to help."
"More than that. He'd want to prove that he can solve this case, that he can catch the Carver this time when he failed nine years ago." I reach for my phone, the decision crystallizing with absolute clarity. "I'm going to call him."
Kent's hand catches my wrist gently. "Are you sure about this? Once you make that call, once you activate the Delilah Jenkins identity again, there's no taking it back. You'll have to maintain that performance until this is over."
The concern in his voice makes my chest warm, because he understands the psychological cost of what I'm proposing. Delilah Jenkins was built from trauma and vulnerability, designed to elicit protection from authority figures who needed to see victims rather than survivors. Stepping back into that identity means suppressing everything strong and dangerous about who I've become.
But it also means taking control of Shaw's chess game.
"I'm sure," I say, reaching for his free hand. "Shaw thinks she's been manipulating me, studying my responses, controlling the variables in her psychological experiment. But she's been studying Dr. Lila North. She has no idea what Delilah Jenkins is capable of."
Kent brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against my knuckles. "Then make the call. And Lila? Make her believe every word."
I find Detective Rivas's number in my contacts—he's been calling periodically for years, checking in on "that poor Jenkins girl" with the kind of paternal concern that made him easy to manage when I was actually seventeen. The phone rings twice before his familiar voice answers.
"Delilah? Jesus, I haven't heard from you in months. How are you doing, sweetheart?"
The endearment slides over me like oil, triggering muscle memory from years of performed vulnerability. I let my voice shake slightly when I respond, just enough to suggest barely controlled fear.
"Detective Rivas, I…I need to talk to someone. Something's happening, and I don't know who else to trust."
"What's wrong? Are you safe? Do you need me to come over?"
The immediate concern in his voice confirms what I remembered about him—Detective Mark Rivas is a good cop who's spent nine years feeling guilty that he never caught his mentor's killer. He's been carrying that failure like a weight, and now I'm about to give him the chance for redemption.
"I'm safe for now, but…." I take a shaky breath, the sound perfectly calculated to suggest someone fighting panic. "Detective, have you been following these new murders? The ones that look like…like what happened to my dad?"
Silence on the other end, followed by the sound of papers rustling. "Delilah, what makes you think they're connected to your father's case?"
"The positioning. The way the bodies are arranged. The surgical precision." I let genuine emotion creep into my voice—not fear, but the satisfaction I felt watching Kent deliver justice.Rivas will interpret it as traumatic recognition. "It's him, isn't it? The person who killed my father. He's back."
"Sweetheart, I need you to stay calm. Can you tell me exactly what you've observed that makes you think these cases are connected?"
Kent squeezes my thigh and smiles at me when I mention the Carver, mouthing silently: "Forever, baby." The words make heat pool in my chest despite the performance I'm maintaining.
"I've been following the news coverage, and some of the details…they match what I remember from that night. The way my father was positioned, the methodical approach." I pause, letting my voice drop to a whisper. "Detective, there's something else. My aunt recognized someone from the old investigation. A psychologist who was involved back then—Dr. Shaw? Dr. Evelyn Shaw?"
