My kills were never about psychological games or extended torture. They were surgical—identify the predator, gather evidence of their crimes, extract confession, eliminate the threat. Clean, methodical, justified by the knowledge that some people forfeit their right to exist the moment they choose to destroy innocence.
Shaw kills for intellectual curiosity. She's turned murder into a research project, treating human suffering like data points in whatever academic paper she's planning to publish. The thought makes my jaw clench with barely contained rage.
Radio silence from Lila creates an additional layer of tension that sits heavy in my chest. We should have coordinated better, established check-in times, created backup plans forwhen everything goes wrong. But there wasn't time for proper tactical planning, and Shaw's timeline forces us to operate on instinct and shared understanding rather than careful preparation.
I trust Lila's abilities, trust her intelligence and survival instincts and the darkness that Shaw has been trying to awaken for nine years. But trust doesn't eliminate the cold knowledge that I'm sending the woman I love into potential mortal danger while racing toward my own confrontation with a sadistic academic who's made studying killers her life's work.
The abandoned rehabilitation center appears around a bend in Millfield Road like something from a post-apocalyptic nightmare. What was once a sprawling campus dedicated to helping people recover from addiction and trauma now stands empty and decaying, windows boarded over and parking lots cracked with weeds that push through asphalt like skeletal fingers.
I park behind the main building, out of sight from the road, and take a moment to study the layout. Multiple structures connected by covered walkways, administrative buildings flanking the central therapy complex, the whole thing surrounded by chain-link fencing that's been cut in several places by urban explorers and vandals.
Shaw chose this place deliberately, I realize. Not just because it represents Janine's professional history, but because it's a symbol of institutional failure. A place where good intentions and genuine care were destroyed by politics and budget cuts, leaving behind only empty rooms and broken promises.
The symbolism is too perfect to be accidental. Shaw wants me to see what happens when people try to heal trauma instead of accepting its permanent mark on the soul.
I approach the main entrance with practiced stealth, noting fresh tire tracks in the overgrown parking lot and recently disturbed vegetation near the building's foundation. Shaw has been here recently, probably within the last few hours, preparing whatever theatrical performance she has planned for my arrival.
The front doors are chained shut, but someone has cut through the metal links with bolt cutters. The chains hang loose, creating the appearance of security while providing easy access for anyone who knows to look. Shaw wants me to find my way inside, wants me to follow the path she's laid out.
Every instinct screams that I'm walking into an elaborate trap, but Janine's life depends on me playing Shaw's game long enough to get her to safety. After that, Dr. Evelyn Shaw is going to learn the difference between studying killers and facing one directly.
The interior of the building smells like mold and decay, years of abandonment creating an atmosphere that speaks to death and neglect. Emergency lighting flickers inconsistently, casting shadows that dance and shift with each step I take down corridors lined with empty offices and abandoned therapy rooms.
But underneath the decay, I detect something else—fresh air circulation that suggests recent human presence, the faint scent of expensive perfume cutting through the mustiness like a calling card.
Shaw is here, and she's been here for hours.
I follow the subtle signs deeper into the building, past administrative offices with their doors hanging open like dead mouths, past group meeting rooms where folding chairs sit arranged in circles as if waiting for patients who will neverreturn. The deliberate staging becomes more obvious the further I penetrate into Shaw's chosen hunting ground.
And then I hear it—a soft sound that could be sobbing or could be someone trying to speak around a gag.
The group therapy room sits at the heart of the main building, a circular space with floor-to-ceiling windows that once provided natural light for healing conversations. Now those windows are boarded over, and battery-powered work lights create harsh shadows that turn the room into something resembling an interrogation chamber.
Janine sits bound to a chair in the center of the space, duct tape across her mouth and zip ties securing her wrists and ankles. Blood has dried around a cut on her forehead, and her clothes are torn and dirty, but her eyes remain alert and filled with warning rather than fear.
She's trying to tell me something, her gaze darting around the empty room with desperate intensity. But as I scan the shadows behind the abandoned therapy equipment, I realize what she's trying to communicate.
We're alone. Shaw isn't here.
I move quickly to free Janine, the multitool making quick work of the zip ties. Her gag comes free with gentle efficiency, and she draws in gasping breaths.
"Kent—it's a trap," she whispers hoarsely. "Shaw was here, but she left hours ago. She said you'd come here first, that you'd figure out the pattern. She wanted you to find me but not her."
Cold understanding floods through me. Shaw has been playing an even deeper game than I calculated. She knew I'd analyze the locations, knew I'd deduce she was most likely atthe rehab center. Finding Janine here wasn't rescuing her from Shaw's trap—it was walking deeper into it.
"Where did she go?" I ask, helping Janine to her feet.
"She kept talking about completing circles, about final experiments. Something about the house where Lila lived after her father died." Janine's voice grows stronger as circulation returns to her limbs. "1247 Oakmont Drive. She made sure I heard the address."
My phone rings before I can fully process the implications. Shaw's voice fills the therapy room when I answer, cultured and satisfied.
"Mr. Shepherd. I trust you've found Ms. North safe and sound?"
"What's your game, Shaw?"
"My game is exactly what I told you it was—documenting the psychology of dormant killers. But you misunderstood the parameters. I was never interested in observing you work alone. My research requires seeing how you function as a team."
The revelation hits me like ice water. Shaw never intended to confront me at the rehab center. She wanted me to find Janine and realize I'd been outmaneuvered. The real experiment was always going to happen elsewhere.
