I want to believe him, need to believe him, but the evidence suggests something darker. This level of planning, this careful orchestration of psychological warfare—it speaks to someone who's been watching, waiting, preparing for exactly this moment.
Someone who understands that the best way to destroy me isn't through physical harm, but through taking away the people I love most.
I move deeper into the room, stepping carefully around the scattered pottery, and that's when I see it. On Janine's antique writing desk, positioned precisely in the center where it can't be missed, sits a cream-colored note card.
My blood turns to ice.
The paper is expensive, heavy stock with a subtle texture that catches the afternoon light streaming through the front window. The same paper that held the "D.J." message at Marcus Chen's crime scene. The same paper that started this whole nightmare by drawing me back into Kent's orbit.
With hands that feel disconnected from my body, I pick up the card and turn it over.
"Choose" is written across the front in careful block letters, each stroke precise and deliberate. I recognize the handwriting immediately—the same controlled script that labeled me with my old initials at Marcus Chen's crime scene.
How did I not recognize it immediately? The penmanship is distinctive, methodical, almost architectural in its precision. I've seen this writing before, not just on the crime scene note but somewhere else. Somewhere that should have triggered recognition the moment I saw "D.J." written in those exact letterforms.
"Fuck," I breathe, the word escaping before I can stop it. "I'm so fucking stupid."
Kent is beside me instantly, reading over my shoulder. His body goes rigid as he sees the note, understanding the implications immediately.
"You know this writing," he says. It's not a question.
"I should have known it from the beginning." My voice sounds hollow, disconnected, like it's coming from someone else entirely. "Shaw. She was involved in the original investigation into my father's death. She interviewed me, took notes during my psychological evaluation. I sat across from her for hours while she wrote in that same precise script, documenting my responses, my 'unusual adjustment' to trauma."
The memory hits me like a physical blow. Dr. Evelyn Shaw, sitting in the victim services conference room with her expensive clothes and clinical smile, asking careful questions about how I was processing my father's death. Taking notes in that distinctive handwriting while I performed grief for her benefit, never knowing that she was studying me like a specimen.
"She's been planning this for nine years," I realize aloud. "Since the day she first interviewed me. She's been watching, waiting, documenting everything."
Kent's jaw tightens, and I can see the predator rising beneath his carefully controlled surface. "What does the inside say?"
I flip the card open with numb fingers, already knowing that whatever Shaw has written will be designed to cause maximum psychological damage.
The message is brief, written in the same block letters:
You have six hours to choose which one you love more. Instructions will follow. Don't disappoint me, Delilah.
The use of my old name hits like a slap. Not Lila, the identity I built to protect myself, but Delilah—the broken sixteen-year-old girl who thanked a killer for murdering her father. Shaw wants to strip away all the armor I've built, reduce me back to that vulnerable child who needed someone else to save her.
Kent's arms come around me from behind, solid and warm and real. I lean back against his chest, drawing strength from his presence while my mind races through implications and possibilities.
Six hours. Not enough time to involve Detective Rivas or any other official channels, even if we could trust them with the truth. Shaw has engineered this perfectly—forcing us to operate outside the law, outside any safety net or support system.
She's isolated us completely, turned this into a private war between predators.
And somewhere out there, Janine and Aliyah are waiting for me to save them, having no idea that I'm about to become exactly the kind of person they've spent years trying to help me avoid becoming.
My phone rings before I can fully process the implications of Shaw's message, the sharp trill cutting through the oppressive silence of the destroyed living room. The caller ID shows "Unknown," but I already know who it is. Shaw has timed this perfectly—giving me just enough time to find the note and understand the stakes before making contact.
Kent's hand covers mine as I reach for the phone, his touch warm and steadying. "Put it on speaker," he says quietly. "I need to hear everything."
I accept the call and immediately activate speaker mode, holding the device between us like a weapon we're both prepared to wield.
"Good afternoon, Delilah." Shaw's voice fills the room, cultured and calm as if she's calling to discuss a routine consultation rather than the kidnapping of two innocent women. "I trust you found my message?"
"Where are they?" I demand, skipping past any pretense of civilized conversation. My voice sounds stronger than I feel, carrying an edge that surprises even me.
"Safe, for now. Though I must say, both women showed remarkable spirit during their collection. Janine in particular has quite the vocabulary when she's motivated." Shaw's laugh is light, almost musical, and it makes my skin crawl. "I can see why you're so fond of them both."
Kent's jaw tightens beside me, and I can feel the controlled violence radiating off him like heat. His hands are steady, but I know he's calculating distances, angles, possibilities for violence. The predator in him is fully awake now, recognizing a genuine threat to something he's claimed as his own.
