"Bullshit. I've seen you stressed about work. This is something else." He leans against his car, arms crossed. "Talk to me, man."
"Someone's using my old methods," I say finally, testing how much I can reveal.
Nate's expression doesn't change, but something sharpens in his eyes. "Methods for what?"
"Problem solving." The euphemism hangs between us. "Someone killed a guy across town using techniques I developed years ago. Techniques I abandoned."
"Copycat?"
"More than that. They understand the methodology intimately, but they're missing crucial elements." I run a handthrough my hair. "It's deliberate. Someone's trying to get my attention."
Nate processes this with the same analytical skill he brings to business negotiations. "Someone from before?"
"Maybe. The point is, someone's using my signature to send a message. And they killed an innocent person to do it."
That hits Nate harder than I expected. His jaw tightens. "Innocent how?"
"Completely. Investment banker, no record of violence or abuse, no connections to anything that would justify that kind of attention. Just wrong place, wrong time."
"Fuck." Nate straightens up. "So what do you need?"
No judgment about my past, no demands for explanations I can't give, just immediate acceptance that if someone's threatening me, they're threatening him by extension.
"Information. Resources. Maybe an exit strategy if things go sideways." I meet his eyes directly. "I have to find out who's doing this and why. Can't let someone else use those methods."
"Because they already fucked it up and killed someone who didn't deserve it," I continue. "My methods were never random. They had purpose, structure, meaning. This is just murder with window dressing."
Nate nods, like this makes perfect sense. "How can I help?"
"Might need to disappear for a while. Travel, research, dig into things that are better left alone."
"Can you handle the rental payments for a few months? Keep things looking occupied?"
"Don't insult me." His tone carries just enough edge to remind me that our relationship transcends simple financial calculations. "How long?"
"Don't know. Could be weeks, could be longer."
Nate pulls out his phone and starts typing. "I'll set up a credit line under the renovation business name. Clean money, legitimate paper trail if anyone comes looking."
"Thank you."
"Just be smart about this. Whatever you used to do, whoever you used to be, you've built something good here. Something clean. Don't throw it away unless you have to."
"I'll be careful," I promise, though we both know that careful and necessary don't always align.
Inside the trailer, I start making lists. Equipment I'll need. Resources to liquidate. Contacts to reestablish with people I hoped never to see again. The methodology of planning that once made the Carver so effective begins reasserting itself, muscle memory taking over despite nine years of careful dormancy.
Someone has made a move. Used an innocent man's death to announce their presence and demonstrate their capabilities. Now it's my turn to respond.
The game is starting whether I want it or not.
The only question is whether I'm playing to win, or just playing to survive.
Chapter 11 - Delilah
NOVEMBER 2016
Sunlight streams through gauze curtains, painting everything in soft gold. I blink awake in a bed that isn't mine, in a room that smells like lavender instead of fear, and for a moment I can't remember where I am.
