But this isn't Dr. Lila North, forensic psychologist and carefully constructed professional success story. The woman who turns to meet my eyes moves with the fluid precision of someone who's shed every pretense of civilization, her green eyes carrying focused intensity that I recognize from my own reflection during hunting years. Whatever transformation Shaw has been engineering through years of manipulation is complete, and the result is both beautiful and terrifying.
Dr. Evelyn Shaw stands on the opposite side of the kitchen island, wearing surgical gloves and the kind of confident expression that comes from believing you're the smartest person in any room. She's dressed professionally despite the circumstances—tailored slacks, expensive blouse, hair styledwith the precision that speaks to someone who sees this moment as the crowning achievement of her career.
On the table beside her sit tools that I recognize with visceral familiarity—not the originals, which were disposed of years ago, but perfect replicas created from crime scene analysis and forensic photography. A filleting knife with the same handle texture, zip ties identical to the ones I once used to secure victims, even a digital tape recorder that matches the model I employed for extracting confessions.
"Welcome to the culmination of the most comprehensive longitudinal study of dormant serial killers ever conducted," Shaw says, gesturing to the recreated crime scene with obvious pride. "Nine years of investigation, thousands of hours of observation, and findings that will revolutionize our understanding of violent recidivism."
Shaw has studied my work so thoroughly that she can reproduce not just the methodology but the specific implements I once considered essential to the process.
"Impressive attention to detail," I observe, though every word tastes like ash in my mouth.
Lila's eyes find mine across the kitchen, and I see recognition there mixed with something that looks like anticipation. She's been waiting for me to arrive, waiting for us to be reunited so Shaw's real experiment can begin.
"Ah, perfect," Shaw says, noting the moment when Lila and I make eye contact. "Now we can begin the documentation I've been working toward for nearly a decade. You see, all my research has led to one fundamental question: What happens when two killers who love each other are finally free to work as a team?"
She gestures to the recreated crime scene around us, the cameras recording everything, the tools arranged with academic precision.
"I've documented your individual psychological profiles extensively," Shaw continues, her voice taking on the tone of someone presenting groundbreaking research. "But the truly revolutionary discovery will be observing how your combined dynamics function under extreme pressure. Do you enhance each other's capacity for violence? Do you create new methodologies together? Or does love actually serve as a restraining influence on your authentic natures?"
Janine and Aliyah stand slightly behind me, and I can feel their tension as they process the full scope of what Shaw has constructed. This isn't just a recreation of a crime scene—it's a laboratory designed to document whatever violent collaboration Shaw believes we're capable of.
"Let them go," Lila says, her voice carrying quiet authority that makes Shaw actually take a step backward. "This is between us and you."
"I'm afraid that's not possible," Shaw replies, though she sounds less confident than she did moments ago. "They're essential elements of the experimental design. You see, I need you to understand what's at stake, what you're willing to do to protect the people you love most."
Shaw positions herself strategically in the center of the kitchen, close enough to the table of tools that she could reach them if needed, but far enough from us to maintain some tactical advantage. Her excitement at witnessing the transformation she's engineered makes her less cautious than she should be.
"The situation is quite elegant," Shaw continues, regaining some of her professorial tone. "You have attempted tosave Ms. North and Ms. Morgan through conventional means, slotting yourself in the role of a heroine. Yet now, you must demonstrate what nine years of my research has revealed about your true nature. What allowed a girl to romanticize and grow besotted with a cold-blooded killer. And they, your loved ones, these normal, simple andpurewomen, will bear witness to that nature. Can they stomach it? Can you?"
She activates the tape recorder with a soft click that echoes through the kitchen like a gunshot.
"Show me how depraved you can be, Dr. North. Document for posterity the moment when love becomes a catalyst for violence rather than a restraint against it. Prove that rehabilitation is impossible and that predators simply learn to hide their nature until the right stimulus reactivates their authentic selves."
The trap is elegant and reveals Shaw's fundamental misunderstanding of what she's been studying. She sees pathology where there's actually love, manipulation where there's genuine connection, theory where there's something far more dangerous and beautiful.
"You want me to perform for your study," Lila says, taking a step closer to Shaw with movements that are controlled and predatory.
"I want you to be honest about what you are," Shaw replies. "Stop hiding behind professional credentials and reformed personas. Show the world that killers never truly change, they just find better reasons to embrace what they've always been."
"You're right about one thing," Lila says, and Shaw's expression brightens with scholarly triumph.
But I can see what Shaw cannot—the way Lila's hands remain steady, the way her breathing stays controlled, the way her eyes never leave Shaw's face despite the weapons and recording equipment arranged around the kitchen.
Shaw thinks she's broken us down into component parts that can be predicted and controlled. She doesn't understand that some people become more dangerous when they embrace their authentic selves rather than less.
"I am exactly what you think I am," Lila continues, moving closer to Shaw with each word. "The girl who helped position her father's corpse. The teenager who wrote love letters to a serial killer. The woman who's spent nine years learning to hide her capacity for beautiful violence."
Shaw nods eagerly, trying to maintain her position while documenting every word for her research.
"But you made one critical error in your methodology," Lila adds, and her voice takes on the kind of cold precision that makes my pulse spike with recognition.
"What error?"
Lila's smile is sharp and predatory, the expression of someone who's finally stopped pretending to be something she's not.
"You studied killers who work alone. You have no data on what happens when two predators decide to hunt together."
That's when I understand exactly what Lila is planning, and I move in perfect coordination with her unspoken signal.
