"And if we refuse?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Then I might find myself compelled to share some interesting historical information with Detective Rivas. About where the Carver's killing spree actually began, for instance. The first victims, the ones that were never officially connected to the Jenkins murder. I imagine that kind of expanded timeline would be quite valuable to a detective who's been carrying guilt about his failures for so many years."
The threat is crystal clear. Shaw knows about my early work, the kills that preceded Harry Jenkins, the murders that would extend the statute of limitations and open up investigative avenues that could destroy both our lives.
"Tick-tock goes the clock, Ms. Jenkins," Shaw says, and her voice carries the sing-song quality of a nursery rhyme twisted into something sinister. "Time is such a precious commodity, don't you think? I do hope you'll use yours wisely."
The line goes dead, leaving us in silence that feels suffocating. Lila stares at her phone like it might explode, her face pale with a combination of rage and terror I've never seen before.
"She's going to kill Janine," she whispers.
"Not if we stop her first," I say, but the words feel hollow because we both know the truth: Shaw has just demonstrated that she's been controlling this game from the beginning, and we've been playing by her rules without even realizing it.
The confident satisfaction we felt twenty minutes ago has evaporated completely, replaced by the understanding that we're not the predators in this situation.
We're the prey.
PART IV
Chapter 29 - Lila
The silence hits me first.
Janine's house is never this quiet. Even when she and Aliyah aren't actively talking, there's always something—the soft murmur of NPR from the kitchen radio, Aliyah's pottery wheel humming in the back room, the gentle clink of Janine's coffee cup against the table as she grades papers or reviews case files. The absence of these familiar sounds creates a vacuum that makes my chest tight with dread.
Kent's hand finds the small of my back as we approach the front porch, his touch warm and steadying through my jacket. I lean into the contact without thinking, drawing strength from his presence beside me. After everything we've been through in the past week, after Shaw's phone call and the terrible understanding of what she's capable of, I need that anchor more than I want to admit.
"The door," Kent says quietly, and I follow his gaze to see what I missed in my anxiety.
It's ajar. Just slightly, maybe two inches of shadow visible between the frame and the cheerful yellow door that Aliyah painted last spring. Janine never leaves doors unlocked, much less open. Growing up in social work, dealing with the aftermath of domestic violence cases and addiction relapses, she's hyperaware of home security in ways that most people never have to consider.
"Maybe they're just—" I start, but Kent's already moving, stepping protectively in front of me as he approaches the entrance.
"No," he says, and something in his voice makes my blood turn cold. "Look at the frame."
I peer around his shoulder and see what he's seeing: tiny splinters of wood scattered on the welcome mat, fresh gouges in the doorframe near the lock. Someone forced their way in, but did it carefully. Precisely. This wasn't a desperate junkie looking for something to steal or a domestic dispute that escalated beyond control.
This was professional.
Kent pushes the door open with his elbow, careful to avoid any potential fingerprints, and steps inside with measured movements that speak to someone who's learned to read dangerous spaces. I follow close behind, my hand instinctively reaching for his arm as we cross the threshold into what should be a safe haven.
The living room looks like a tornado hit it, but not the random destruction of rage or panic. Furniture is overturned, but in specific ways—the coffee table flipped to block the hallway, the couch pushed against the front window, creating barriers and obstacles. Aliyah's pottery collection, normally displayed on floating shelves throughout the room, is scattered across the hardwood floor in deliberate patterns. Not smashed in anger, but placed to create maximum psychological impact.
"They fought," I whisper, seeing the story written in the destruction. Janine's reading glasses lie broken near the overturned coffee table, one lens cracked but not shattered. There's a smear of something dark on the edge of the bookshelf—blood, but not much. Enough to suggest injury, not enough to indicate serious harm.
Yet.
Kent's hand settles on my shoulder, squeezing gently as he continues his systematic survey of the room. "Two people were taken," he says, his voice clinical in that way that means he's processing information rather than feeling. "The disruption pattern suggests they were separated initially, then brought together near the front door."
"How can you—" I start to ask, then stop myself. Of course, he can read this scene. He's spent years learning to understand violence in all its forms, to see the story that victims and perpetrators leave behind in overturned furniture and scattered belongings.
"Aliyah was in the back room when it started," he continues, pointing toward the hallway that leads to her studio space. "The pottery isn't just broken—it's been deliberately arranged. Whoever did this wanted maximum emotional impact, not just physical destruction."
I follow his gaze and see what he means. Aliyah's pieces—months of work, fired and glazed with careful attention to color and form—have been positioned throughout the living room like grotesque art installations. A bowl she made for Janine's birthday sits upright on the mantel, filled with the shards of what used to be a matching vase. The message is clear: Beauty can be destroyed at will, and love can be turned into a weapon.
My hands are shaking now, and Kent notices immediately. He turns from his analysis of the scene to face me fully, cupping my face in his large, calloused palms. The touch is gentle despite the violence those hands are capable of, and I lean into it desperately.
"We're going to find them," he says with absolute certainty. "Both of them. Alive."
