Until now.
I'm reaching for the letters—cream-colored envelopes that represent the most honest relationship of my life—when my laptop chimes with an incoming email.
Casey's name appears in my notifications, and I click it open with fingers that suddenly feel unsteady.
Subject:Chen crime scene photos - comprehensive collection
Hey Lila! Here are all the digital files from this morning. I included multiple angles and some close-ups of details that might be relevant for your analysis. Dr. Martinez wants the preliminary report by Monday, so let me know if you need any clarification on what you're seeing.
Hope this helps with your profile!
-Casey
I download the attachment and open the first image, Marcus Chen's body arranged with that terrible, familiar precision. The positioning hits me like a physical blow—not because I've seen it in crime scene photos, because those don't exist in my collection, but because I remember.
I remember walking into our kitchen nine years ago, expecting to find him drunk and angry as usual, and instead finding him laid out like an offering. Arms extended at perfect right angles. Head tilted exactly fifteen degrees to the right. Legs straight, feet precisely twelve inches apart.
I'd stood there for a full minute, not understanding what I was seeing. He looked peaceful for the first time in my memory, his face smoothed of the perpetual rage that had defined my childhood. The blood was still wet, the surgical incision gaping open like a mouth trying to speak.
But it was the positioning that had told me this wasn't random violence. Someone had taken time with him. Someone had cared enough to arrange him with the same attention he'd given to destroying my mother's spirit and mine.
Someone had made art from his ending.
Now, staring at Marcus Chen's body, I see that same artistic sensibility. That same careful attention to angles andpresentation. Kent's signature, written in flesh and death across nearly a decade.
But something's wrong.
I flip through more of Casey's photos, studying the chest cavity, the suture patterns, the way Chen's hands are positioned. The arrangement is perfect, identical to my memory of finding my father. But there's something missing, something that should be there according to the old news coverage of the Carver killings.
The tape recorder.
Kent's methodology, his true signature, wasn't just the positioning or even the surgical precision. It was forcing his victims to confess their crimes on tape, then sealing the recording inside their chest cavity like a black box waiting to be discovered. The ultimate evidence of their guilt, preserved in the very body that had housed their cruelty.
But Casey said the chest cavity was clean.
I need to know for certain.
My phone is in my hand before I fully decide to make the call. Casey answers on the second ring, her voice bright with the kind of energy that comes from successfully completing a complex crime scene.
"Lila! Did you get the photos okay? I wasn't sure about the file size—"
"They're perfect," I interrupt, forcing casualness into my tone. "Actually, I'm just reviewing them now and wanted to clarify something for my report. During the preliminary examination, was anything found inside the chest cavity? Foreign objects, personal items, anything like that?"
"Oh! Actually, that's interesting that you ask." I can hear Casey shuffling papers in the background. "Dr. Martinez specifically checked for that because of similar cases he'd read about. The Carver killings from a few years back—apparently that was part of the signature. But no, Chen's cavity was completely clean. Just tissue damage and blood loss."
My stomach drops, but I keep my voice level. "The similar cases—were those recent?"
"I don't think so. Martinez mentioned them as historical reference, not active investigations. Why? Do you think there's a connection?"
"Just being thorough," I say, the lie sliding out smooth as silk. "The positioning suggested ritualistic behavior, so I wanted to rule out any…totemic elements."
"That makes sense. You always think of the details the rest of us miss." There's genuine admiration in Casey's voice, which makes the deception taste even more bitter. "Anything else you need for the profile?"
"No, this is helpful. Thanks, Casey."
I end the call and set the phone down with hands that want to shake. The clean chest cavity shouldn't matter—Chen is dead, Kent made contact, the game has begun again. But the deviation from his established pattern gnaws at me like a splinter under the skin.
Kent doesn't make mistakes. Every move is calculated, every detail serves a purpose. If he didn't leave a confession tape in Marcus Chen's body, it's because something stopped him. Something interrupted the ritual before he could complete it.
