"I know." Kent's response is immediate, certain in ways that make my chest tight. "You wouldn't kill innocent people any more than I would. But someone is, using methods we both understand intimately."
The "we" hits exactly the way he intended it. Because despite his abandonment, despite the careful lives we've built apart from each other, we're still tethered.
We both know what justice looks like when it's delivered with surgical precision. We both understand the weight of carrying secrets that could destroy lives if spoken aloud. And we both recognize that someone is corrupting our shared truth for reasons we don't yet understand.
"Fine. Come inside," I say, stepping back from the doorway. "If we're going to figure this out, we need to do it properly."
Kent hesitates at the threshold, and for a moment, I see uncertainty in his expression that I've never witnessed before. The man who once killed my father without flinching is afraid of entering my apartment, afraid of crossing whatever line my invitation represents.
"This is your territory," he observes. "Your rules."
The acknowledgment sends something warm through my chest, because it means he understands the power dynamics have shifted. Nine years ago, he walked away because he had all the control, all the experience, all the authority to make decisions for both of us.
Now I'm Dr. Lila North, forensic psychologist, professional consultant, someone with institutional power and the credentials to back it up.
Now I'm the one who gets to decide what happens next.
"Yes," I agree, stepping aside to let him pass. "My territory. My rules. And the first rule is that you don't get to walk away this time without explanation."
Kent crosses the threshold into my apartment, and I close the door behind him with deliberate finality. Three locks, security chain, multiple layers of protection that won't keep out the real danger but might slow it down long enough to matter.
The real danger isn't whoever's using his signature to kill innocent people. The real danger is standing in my living room, looking around at the life I've built without him, noting every detail with the same analytical precision he once brought to crime scenes.
The real danger is that having him here feels like coming home to a house I thought had burned down years ago.
But I'm not seventeen anymore. I'm not the girl who needed saving or the victim who required protection. I'm someone who's spent nine years learning to be dangerous in her own right, someone who could look at a killer and see an equal rather than a threat.
Someone who might finally be ready to show Kent Shepherd exactly what Delilah Jenkins became when she stopped believing in other people's definitions of what she deserved.
"Nice place," Kent says, his voice carefully neutral as he takes in the expensive furniture, the view of the city that speaks to financial success, the security measures that reveal someone who understands the value of careful preparation. "You've done well for yourself."
"I've done exactly what I set out to do," I correct coldly, watching him catalog details with the same methodical attention he once brought to studying my father's corruption. "Built a life that gives me power instead of requiring protection."
The observation lands exactly where I intended it. Kent's eyes find mine, and for a moment I see recognition of what I've become—not the grateful teenager who needed his approval, but someone who's learned to take what she wants without asking permission.
Someone who sent him a coded email about furniture and hidden compartments because she wanted to see if he'd respond. Someone who's been obstructing a murder investigation to protect him while simultaneously preparing for the possibility that he might be the one who needs stopping.
Someone dangerous enough to hold her own ground with a serial killer and make him respect the boundaries she's established.
"You're not the same person," he says, and there's something in his voice that might be pride or might be wariness.
"Neither are you." I move to the kitchen island, putting space between us while maintaining visual control of the room. "The question is whether the people we've become can work together to figure out who's trying to destroy us both."
"You said someone knows about us," Kent says, moving to the windows and noting the sightlines, the potential security vulnerabilities. Still thinking like a predator, even in my carefully constructed sanctuary. "What makes you think this is personal?"
"Whoever it was left a note with Chen’s body I confiscated: my initials. D.J." The admission sits heavy in the air between us, carrying implications I'm not sure either of us is ready to face. "The first murder happened right when I was brought in as a consultant. The second one escalated the pattern just enough to ensure I couldn't dismiss it as coincidence. Someone wantedmeto recognize your work."
"And then?"
"And then I'd have to decide what to do about it. Whether to reveal what I know to help catch you or protect you by misdirecting the investigation." I meet his eyes directly, letting him see the choice I made. "They were counting on me choosing you over my professional obligations."
Kent processes this with the same methodical precision I remember, working through implications and possibilities with the patience of someone who's learned that rushing leads to mistakes.
"Someone who knows our history," he says finally. "Someone who understands that you'd recognize my signature and predict your response to seeing it."
"Which means someone who likely knows about the fact that Delilah Jenkins helped you kill her father." The words taste dangerous on my tongue, carrying secrets I've never spoken aloud to anyone. "Someone who's been studying us both for long enough to understand how we'd react to each other being threatened."
The realization settles between us like a physical weight. Because if someone knows that much about our shared history, they know enough to destroy both our carefully constructed lives with a few well-placed revelations. They know I obstructed justice to protect a killer. They know he's been living under an assumed identity, while law enforcement believes the Carver is still at large.
