I don't follow. Not yet. Instead, I observe the building's patterns for another hour—who comes and goes, how security operates, what the daily rhythms look like. Knowledge that might be useful later, depending on how this situation develops.
Her workplace is next. The medical complex houses a dozen different practices, from general medicine to specialized therapy. The directory in the lobby lists "Dr. L. North, Forensic Psychology" in small, understated lettering. Professional but not attention-seeking.
I position myself in the parking garage, using the concrete pillars and parked cars as cover while watching the entrance she's most likely to use. The wait stretches to nearly two hours before her BMW appears, navigating the garage's tight turns with practiced ease.
Watching her park and walk toward the building, I'm struck by how completely she's transformed herself. The teenager who thanked me for killing her father has become someone who could testify in courtrooms, consult with police departments, analyze crime scenes with academic detachment. She's built exactly the kind of professional authority that makes people listen when she speaks.
Which means she's dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with physical violence.
The rest of the day is spent mapping her routines, identifying patterns that might be exploited if direct contact becomes necessary. Lunch at a restaurant near the university, probably meeting with colleagues or clients. A brief stop at what appears to be a medical supply store—possibly picking upmaterials for her practice. Return to the office for afternoon appointments.
Everything about her behavior suggests someone who's learned to function at the highest levels of professional society while maintaining awareness of potential threats. She checks surroundings without appearing paranoid, varies her routes without seeming deliberately evasive, maintains security protocols that protect her without interfering with her ability to do her job.
She's formidable. That's the word that keeps returning as I observe her movements throughout the day. Not just intelligent or successful, but formidable in the way of someone who's learned to navigate dangerous territory without losing themselves in the process.
It makes me proud and terrified in equal measure.
By evening, I've gathered enough basic intelligence to understand her current situation. Dr. Lila North has built a life that's both successful and secure, professionally respected and personally protected. She's exactly what Delilah Jenkins needed to become in order to survive and thrive in a world that would destroy her if it knew the truth about her past.
But the question that's been nagging at me all day remains unanswered: Does she know I'm here?
Because everything about her behavior could be interpreted as normal professional caution, or as the heightened awareness of someone who suspects they're being watched. Her route variations could be routine security, or deliberate counter-surveillance. Her meeting patterns could be standard business, or communications with people who know more about this situation than they should.
I won't know until I make contact. And that decision—when, where, and how to approach her—could determine whether this ends with reunion or mutual destruction.
Sitting in my hotel room as darkness falls over the city, I weigh the options with the same methodical analysis I once used to plan more permanent solutions to persistent problems.
Option one: Continue surveillance until I understand the copycat's game, then eliminate the threat without involving her directly. Clean, safe, preserves both our secrets. But it means never knowing if our connection might have been worth preserving.
Option two: Approach her directly, gambling that whatever remains of our old understanding might override the professional obligations that could destroy us both. Dangerous, but potentially rewarding if she's still the person who once helped me deliver justice.
Option three: Investigate her as a potential threat, assume she's been hunting me and plan accordingly. Safest from a tactical perspective, but it means accepting that the most important person from my past has become my enemy.
None of the options are good. All of them carry risks that could end with one or both of us dead or imprisoned.
But as I sit here in this anonymous hotel room, watching the city lights twinkle through windows that thousands of other travelers have looked through with their own concerns and destinations, I realize I've already made my choice.
I didn't drive hours and risk everything I've built just to eliminate another copycat killer.
I came here for her.
For the connection we shared, for the possibility that some bonds transcend time and circumstances and the careful lies we tell ourselves about who we've become.
Chapter 13 - Delilah
DECEMBER 2016
The hallways of Jefferson High stretch before me like a gauntlet of whispered conversations and carefully averted eyes. Three weeks. That's how long I've been back, how long I've been performing the role of the traumatized daughter returning to normal life after unspeakable tragedy. Three weeks of sympathetic looks and hushed voices and people who think they understand what I've been through.
They don't understand anything.
"Delilah?" Mrs. Patterson's voice cuts through the fog that seems to follow me everywhere these days. "How are you holding up, sweetheart?"
The guidance counselor's office smells like vanilla air freshener and false comfort. Everything here is designed to be soothing—pastel colors, soft lighting, motivational posters about resilience and growth. It's the kind of space where traumatized teenagers are supposed to process their feelings and begin the journey toward healing.
I sit in the chair across from her desk and perform appropriate responses. Shoulders slightly hunched. Eyes that don't quite meet hers. The careful fragility of someone who's been broken but is trying very hard to hold herself together.
"I'm managing," I say, letting my voice catch slightly on the words. "Some days are harder than others."
