"There isn't another way," I insist, moving closer to him across the debris of Janine's living room. "We both know the mathematics, Kent. Two locations, limited time, and Shaw counting on us to fail. The only advantage we have is that she's not expecting us to split up and coordinate."
Kent's jaw tightens, and I can see the war between tactical logic and protective instinct playing out across his features. He understands that I'm right, that dividing our efforts is the only way to save both women, but everything in him rebels against sending me into danger alone.
"Shaw has been planning this for nine years," he says, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. "She knows you, Lila. She's documented your responses, your psychological triggers, your breaking points. Walking into her trap alone—"
"Is exactly what she won't expect," I interrupt. "Shaw thinks she's forcing me to choose between Janine and Aliyah. She has no contingency plan for me refusing to play her game, for us working together instead of breaking down under pressure."
I reach for him, my hands finding the solid warmth of his chest through his shirt. Beneath my palms, I can feel his heart beating with controlled intensity, the rhythm of someone who's preparing for violence.
"This is what we do," I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. "This is who we are when we stop pretending to be normal. Shaw wanted to study killers? She's about to learn that some predators hunt in pairs."
Kent's hands cover mine, his calloused fingers warm and strong. "If something happens to you—"
"It won't," I say with absolute certainty. "Because I'm not the traumatized victim Shaw thinks she's been studying. I'm the girl who helped position her father's corpse, who thanked a killer for murder, who's spent nine years learning exactly how much violence I can live with."
"And if the warehouse is empty? If Shaw moved Aliyah somewhere else entirely?"
"Then I find Shaw's real location, and I end this." The words emerge without hesitation, carrying a certainty that surprises even me. "No more games, no more psychological manipulation. She wants to document the moment I become a killer? I'll give her exactly what she's been waiting for."
Kent's eyes search my face, and I let him see everything—the fear, the rage, the cold determination that's been building since we found Shaw's note. I let him see the girl who wrote letters to a serial killer and meant every word, who's been hiding behind professional credentials and careful distance for too long.
"You're sure about this?" he asks, though I can see in his expression that he already knows my answer.
Instead of responding with words, I close the distance between us, rising on my toes to press my mouth against his with desperate intensity. The kiss is fierce and claiming, born from the possibility that one of us might not survive the next few hours. Kent responds immediately, his arms coming around me to pull me closer, his mouth moving against mine with the kind of hunger that speaks to shared darkness and mutual understanding.
This isn't the careful exploration we shared in my apartment, or even the angry passion that followed our confrontation about his abandonment. This is recognition—the moment when two predators acknowledge each other completely, without pretense or reservation.
Kent's teeth catch my lower lip, not gentle, and I bite him back with equal intensity. The taste of copper blooms between us, sharp and metallic and real. His hands tangle in my hair, holding me against him like he's trying to memorize the feel of me before we separate.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, and I can see my own desperate determination reflected in his dark eyes.
"Come back to me," he says against my mouth, his voice rough with emotion and suppressed violence.
"Both of us," I promise, my hands fisted in his shirt. "We both come back, with Janine and Aliyah, and then we finish what Shaw started."
Kent's smile is sharp and predatory, the expression of someone who's just been given permission to be exactly what he was born to be.
"Six hours," he says, checking his watch with movements that are already shifting into operational mode. "Shaw's timeline assumes we'll spend time agonizing over the choice, that emotional distress will slow us down. She's not expecting us to move this quickly."
"Then we use that against her," I reply, stepping back and forcing myself to shift into the clinical mindset that will keep me alive. "Shaw thinks she's the scientist and we're the lab rats. Time to show her what happens when the specimens bite back."
We move toward the door together, and I catch Kent's hand in mine for one final moment of connection. His fingers squeeze mine, warm and strong and certain.
"I love you," I say, the words emerging without conscious decision. "Not despite what you are, but because of it. Because you're the only person who understands what I'm capable of becoming."
"I know," he replies, and his voice carries absolute certainty. "And I love you for the same reason."
We separate at Janine's front door, Kent heading toward his truck while I move toward my BMW. The next time we see each other, this will all be over—one way or another.
Shaw wanted to document the creation of a killer.
She's about to learn that some monsters are made in pairs.
Chapter 30 - Kent
The drive to Riverside Rehabilitation Center passes in a blur of late afternoon traffic and suppressed violence. My hands grip the steering wheel with controlled precision, muscle memory guiding me through familiar streets while my mind processes the tactical nightmare Shaw has constructed. Thirty-seven minutes, the GPS informed us, but I'm making it in twenty-eight by taking calculated risks that would get a normal person killed.
Shaw's psychological manipulation is elegant in its brutality, I have to admit. She's spent years studying us, documenting our responses to trauma and pressure, building detailed profiles of how we think and react under stress. But there's something fundamentally academic about her approach that reveals she's never actually been in the field, never felt the essence of another person's life in her hands.
