The woman she's become has been analyzing violence as an abstract concept, studying methodology and psychology and behavioral patterns without the personal investment that shaped our original connection. She's spent nearly a decade learning to think like killers, to understand their motivations and predict their actions.
What if that kind of prolonged exposure has changed her in ways that make her dangerous?
What if whatever copycat this is, who killed Marcus Chen, isn't trying to get my attention at all? What if they're working with Dr. Lila North, using her official position to investigatecases that might be connected to my old work? What if she's been hunting me for years, using her professional credentials to access police files and crime scene data that would normally be off-limits?
The paranoia feels justified even as it makes my chest tight with something that might be disappointment or betrayal. Because I spent nine years carrying the memory of someone who understood justice in its purest form, someone who saw through social conventions to the brutal necessities underneath.
If that person has become just another hunter wearing official credentials, then I've been mourning someone who died long ago.
Even as I think it, I know I'm probably wrong. The Delilah Jenkins I knew was too smart, too principled, too fundamentally honest to play those kinds of games. If she wanted to find me, she would find a more direct way to make contact. She wouldn't sacrifice an innocent man just to send a message.
Would she?
The question sits heavy in the growing twilight as traffic patterns shift from commuter urgency to evening leisure. Outside my window, the city continues its endless cycle of human activity, millions of people pursuing millions of different agendas without any awareness that two very dangerous individuals are about to reconnect in ways that could have far-reaching consequences.
I pull out my laptop and connect to the hotel's Wi-Fi, beginning the basic research that will tell me where Dr. Lila North lives, where she works, what her daily routines look like. Not because I want to invade her privacy, but because approaching her safely requires understanding her current situation.
Her apartment building is fifteen minutes from downtown, in a neighborhood that suggests financial success without ostentation. Professional photos show a modern high-rise with controlled access and underground parking—the kind of place where residents value privacy and security. Smart choice for someone whose work brings her into contact with violent criminals and their obsessive followers.
Her office is located in a medical complex near the university, shared space with other psychology professionals. Public record shows she's been there for three years, long enough to establish a practice but not so long that leaving would be difficult if circumstances required it.
Everything about Dr. Lila North's life suggests careful planning, calculated choices designed to maintain professional success while minimizing personal risk. She's built exactly the kind of controlled, secure existence that someone with our shared history would need to function in normal society.
And I'm about to walk into it like a bomb with a lit fuse.
Because that's what I am to her now, whether she remembers our connection fondly or considers it a liability. I represent everything she's spent nine years trying to distance herself from—violence, illegal activity, the kind of moral ambiguity that makes normal relationships impossible.
My presence in her life could destroy everything she's worked to build. Her professional reputation, her carefully constructed identity, her ability to help people through legitimate channels rather than vigilante justice.
The weight of that potential destruction sits heavier than any weapon I've ever carried. Because Delilah Jenkins deserved to escape the darkness that shaped her childhood. Dr. Lila North deserves to keep the life she's built from that escape.
Tomorrow, I'll begin surveillance. I'll observe from a distance, assess her security situation, look for signs that she's aware of the copycat's true purpose. I'll gather information before making any direct contact, because rushed decisions in situations like this tend to get people killed.
But tonight, I sit in a generic hotel room and prepare myself for the possibility that the most important person from my past has become someone I don't recognize.
Someone who might need to be treated as a threat rather than a connection.
The thought makes me sick, but I've learned to function despite moral discomfort. Some necessities transcend personal feelings.
Even when those feelings run deeper than they probably should.
***
I'm awake before six, showered and dressed in clothing designed to blend into urban environments—dark jeans, plain jacket, baseball cap that shadows my face without looking deliberately concealing. The kind of outfit worn by maintenance workers, delivery drivers, anyone whose job requires being present but unremarkable.
The Grandview's continental breakfast consists of stale pastries and weak coffee, but I force down enough to maintain energy levels. Surveillance work requires patience, and patience requires fuel.
Dr. Lila North's apartment building is exactly what the photos suggested: fifteen stories of steel and glass rising from a neighborhood that speaks to professional success. The kindof place where doctors and lawyers and consultants live when they want security without ostentation. I park three blocks away and approach on foot, noting the controlled access entrance, the security cameras positioned to cover all approaches, the underground garage that requires key card access.
The building's positioning offers several vantage points for observation—a coffee shop across the street with window seating, a small park with benches that provide clear sightlines, a construction site where someone in work clothes could loiter without drawing attention. I choose the coffee shop first, ordering something expensive and bitter while positioning myself where I can watch the building's main entrance.
At 7:23 a.m., she emerges.
The recognition hits me like a physical blow, even though I was expecting it. Dr. Lila North walks with the confident stride of someone who owns her space, dressed in a charcoal wool coat that probably costs more than most people make in a month. Her dark hair is shorter than in the professional photos, styled in a way that suggests both competence and careful attention to detail.
She stops me cold with the way she moves. The sixteen-year-old who helped me position her father's body moved with the careful precision of someone avoiding unwanted attention. This woman moves like she expects attention and isn't afraid of it. Like she's learned to use presence as a weapon rather than trying to disappear.
She slides into a BMW that's been waiting in the circular drive, the kind of car that suggests financial success without flashiness. As she pulls into traffic, I note the way she checks mirrors, the deliberate route she takes through residential streets rather than main arteries. Professional paranoia, orjust the caution that comes from understanding how predators think.
