No names mentioned, but the timing is too convenient to be coincidental. Someone kills Marcus Chen using my signature, brings Dr. Lila North into the investigation, then immediately kills again to ensure the pattern can't be dismissed as isolated incident.
Someone knows about our connection. Someone understands that she was there that night, that she helped position her father's body, that our correspondence afterward created a bond that transcends normal professional relationships.
Someone is using innocent people's deaths to force a reunion they think we both want or need.
The calculation is sophisticated and completely fucking ruthless. Whoever's orchestrating this understands psychological manipulation on a level that suggests professional training. They've identified the one approach that would guarantee my attention while making it impossible for her to ignore the similarities to my historical work.
But they've miscalculated the most important element: I don't want to be forced into anything, especially not through the deaths of people who never deserved to become pawns in someone else's game.
I close the phone and lean against the balcony railing, feeling the cold metal bite into my palms. Nine years. Nine yearsof careful distance, of building a quiet life that kept me separate from the violence that once defined my existence. Nine years of telling myself that Kent Shepherd the furniture restorer had nothing to do with the Carver who once carved confessions from monsters in their own homes.
But someone has decided that distance was temporary rather than permanent. Someone has chosen to resurrect my work without my permission, corrupting its meaning while using innocent blood to send messages I never authorized.
They've made this personal.
And they've made it about her.
The decision crystallizes in my mind with the same cold clarity I once brought to planning more permanent solutions. I can't let this continue. Can't allow my signature to be used for random violence, can't permit someone to manipulate both of us through the deaths of people who never deserved to become part of this game.
Which means the careful isolation I've maintained for nine years has to end. The distance I've kept from my old work, from the methods and mindset that once made me effective—all of it has to be set aside in favor of stopping something that threatens everything I've tried to protect.
I'm going to find whoever's doing this. I'm going to understand their motivation, their methodology, their ultimate goal. And then I'm going to end them with the same precision they've been trying to copy.
But first, I need to reestablish contact with the one person who might understand what we're actually dealing with. The forensic psychologist who's probably analyzing crime scenes right now, looking for patterns that match memories she's carried for nine years.
Dr. Lila North doesn't know I'm in the city yet. Doesn't know I've been watching her, studying her routines, preparing for a reunion neither of us may be ready to handle.
But ready or not, the game has escalated beyond passive observation. Someone has forced our hands by killing innocent people and using my signature to ensure we can't ignore each other's existence.
Time to find out if the woman she's become can handle the truth about what's happening. And time to discover whether the connection we shared nine years ago is strong enough to survive what we might have to do to stop it.
I step back inside and begin packing my surveillance equipment with the methodical precision of someone preparing for war. Because that's what this has become—not a simple copycat investigation, but a war for control of my legacy and protection of the one person who understood what it originally meant.
The Carver has been dormant for nine years.
But Kent Shepherd is about to remember exactly why that name once made monsters afraid to sleep peacefully in their beds.
***
The email arrives at 11:47 a.m., while I'm reviewing floor plans of Dr. Lila North's office building and calculating optimal approach routes. The notification chime from my laptop seems unremarkable at first—probably spam, maybe a response to one of the furniture inquiries I've had to maintain as part of my cover identity.
But the sender's name makes my blood stop moving entirely.
Dr. Lila North.
I stare at the screen for thirty seconds before my fingers remember how to move. The subject line reads "Commission Inquiry - Writing Desk," professional and mundane, the kind of message that arrives in business inboxes every day without raising suspicion.
Except Dr. Lila North has no reason to contact Kent Shepherd about furniture.
I click open the email with hands that aren't quite steady, already knowing this isn't a coincidence. The timing is too perfect, arriving less than nine hours after news broke about Rebecca Martin's murder. After I've spent two days conducting surveillance on her routines, building profiles of her security measures, preparing for contact I haven't been ready to initiate.
Mr. Shepherd,
I hope this message finds you well. I'm writing to inquire about commissioning a custom writing desk for my home office. I have very specific requirements that I believe would benefit from your particular expertise.
I'm looking for something with clean lines and precise craftsmanship, but with hidden compartments for storing sensitive documents. The piece should appear conventional from external examination, but contain spaces accessible only to someone who understands the proper methodology.
I've seen examples of your restoration work that demonstrate remarkable attention to detail and understanding of underlying structure. The way you position elements within a piece shows sophisticated knowledge of both form and function.
