"They're mimicking technique without understanding philosophy," he says, and there's something almost wounded in his voice. "Turning methodology into meaningless ritual."
"So it's not you."
"No." The word comes out flat, definitive. "It's not me."
I study his face for signs of deception, applying everything I've learned about reading micro-expressions and verbal tells. But Kent has always been difficult to read, someone who controls every detail of his presentation. If he's lying, he's doing it with the same precision he once brought to murder.
But my gut says he's telling the truth. The genuine offense at my suspicion, the way he's analyzing the copycat's methods rather than defending his own actions—it feels authentic in ways that can't be faked.
Which means someone else is using his signature to kill innocent people. Someone who understands his work well enough to replicate it perfectly but lacks the moral framework that made it meaningful.
"Then we have a problem," I say, finally lowering the gun completely.
"We?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with years of silence and the possibility that some connections transcend time and abandonment. Because despite everything—the hotel room, the years apart, the careful distance we've both maintained—we're still connected by what we shared. Still bound by secrets that could destroy us both if the wrong person discovers them.
"Someone is using your methods to kill innocent people," I say, holstering the weapon with practiced efficiency. "Someone who knows enough about your work to replicate it perfectly. That makes it our problem, because whoever's doing this knows about us."
Kent processes this with the same methodical precision I remember, working through implications and possibilities. "How much do you know about the investigation?"
"I'm consulting on it. Have been since Marcus Chen." The admission sits heavy between us, carrying implications neither of us wants to examine too closely. "I've seen all the crime scene photos, all the evidence. It's your signature, Kent. Perfect in every detail except the ones that matter."
"And you haven't told them."
It's not a question. He knows I haven't revealed what I know about his methods, hasn't shared the insights that would help catch him if he were actually committing these crimes. Because despite nine years of careful distance, despite building a life that has nothing to do with the girl who once thanked a killer for murder, I've still been protecting him.
Still choosing him over my professional obligations, just like I would’ve chosen him over everything when I was seventeen and thought connection could overcome age differences and moral complexity.
"No," I say simply. "I haven't told them."
Something shifts in Kent's expression, recognition and gratitude warring with what might be regret. Because my protection has cost me something—professional integrity, ethical boundaries, the careful neutrality that forensic psychologists are supposed to maintain.
"You shouldn't have done that," he says quietly. "You shouldn't have risked your career for me."
"My career. My choice." The words come out sharper than I intended, dripping long-buried resentment that has squirmed its way to the surface over the past few days. "Don't you dare tell me what I should or shouldn't do. You lost that privilege when you walked away."
The accusation hits him like a physical blow, and for a moment, his careful control slips enough to show something raw underneath. Pain, maybe, or regret that he's carried, too.
"Delilah—"
"Stop." I hold up a hand, stopping him before he can explain or apologize or offer the same paternalistic bullshit about protecting me from my own choices. "Just stop. We're not here to relitigate the past. We're here because someone is killing people using your signature, and that threatens both of us."
Kent nods slowly, accepting the boundary I've established.
"You're right," he says finally. "Someone knows enough about my work to replicate it. That suggests either extensive study of crime scene files or direct knowledge of my methods."
"Who else would have that kind of access?"
"You," he says, meeting my eyes directly. "Law enforcement officers who worked the original cases. Anyonewho's studied the Carver files extensively. I got kinda famous for a second there, leaving Jenkins’ kill incomplete."
The implications sit heavy between us. Because I do have that kind of knowledge, that level of intimate familiarity with his methods. I've spent so much time building expertise that makes me uniquely qualified to replicate his work if I chose to. And the favor he had shown me with his purported last kill…it had mattered.
The reminders send something electric racing through my chest. Not revulsion, but recognition. Always recognition with him. Because part of me—the part that's been carefully buried under degrees and credentials and professional respectability—has always known that I understand violence in ways normal people don't. That watching him work didn't traumatize me so much as educate me.
That I could do what he does, if circumstances required it.
"It's not me either," I say, forcing steadiness into my voice despite the way my pulse has started racing.
