Delilah Jenkins. Not a random signature or meaningless initials, but a direct reference to the girl who once helped me kill her father. Someone knows about our connection, understands our history well enough to use it as a calling card.
"How did you manage to keep this from the investigation without arousing any suspicion?" I ask, brows raised.
"I told them I'd never seen handwriting like that before, that the initials didn't match any suspects in our database." She meets my eyes directly. "Which is technically true. I've never seen your handwriting look quite like that."
Because it's not my handwriting. The letters are formed with deliberate precision that mimics my style but lacks the subtle variations that come from years of practice. Someone has studied samples of my writing—probably from the letters I sent her—and learned to approximate my script without truly replicating it.
"Rebecca Martin?" I ask, setting the card aside to look at the second set of photographs.
"Same positioning, same surgical precision, same empty chest cavity." Lila spreads the crime scene photos across the table, creating a visual comparison between the two murders. "Nurse at Metro General, no connection to Chen that we can find. Another innocent victim chosen seemingly at random."
But they weren't chosen at random. I can see the pattern now, the deliberate escalation designed to get our attention. Chen was the opening move, establishing the signature clearly enough that Lila would recognize it. Martin was the confirmation, proving that this wasn't an isolated incident but the beginning of something larger.
"No card with Martin?" I ask, studying the positioning in the second set of photographs.
"Not that was reported to me. But I wasn't first on scene for Martin—different detective, different crime scene team. If there was a card, it might not have made it into the files I was given access to."
The implication sits heavy between us. Because if someone is leaving calling cards that reference our sharedhistory, they're specifically targeting the parts of the investigation that Lila can access. They want her to see the connection, want her to recognize the signature and understand that this is personal.
"A personal connection sent you these?" I ask, noting the breadth of crime scene documentation. These aren't the sanitized photos that would normally be shared with a consulting psychologist—these are comprehensive scene documentation that would only be available to primary investigators.
"Casey Holbrook, crime scene tech. She's…." Lila hesitates, and I catch something in her expression that wasn't there before. Not professional caution, but something more personal. "She's a friend. She thought I might find the crime scenes interesting from a behavioral analysis perspective."
A friend. The word hangs in the air between us, carrying implications about the life Lila has built, the relationships she's formed, the connections she's made while I was hiding in anonymity six hours away. She has people who care about her, who trust her enough to bend rules and share information that could get them fired or arrested.
She has the kind of normal human connections I convinced myself she needed when I walked away.
"Tell me about her," I say, trying to keep my voice casual despite the unexpected stab of something that might be jealousy.
"No." The word comes out flat, definitive. "We're not doing that."
"I'm just trying to understand who has access to—"
"I said no." Lila's voice carries the same edge I heard when she made me beg, the controlled authority of someone who's learned to establish boundaries and enforce them withoutnegotiation. "My personal life is off-limits. We're here to figure out who's killing people using your signature, not to catch up on the past nine years."
The shutdown hits harder than it should, because it's so different from how she used to be with me. The Delilah I knew was open, curious, eager to share details about her thoughts and experiences and the people who mattered to her. This version of her has learned to compartmentalize, to protect information that might make her vulnerable to someone who already walked away once.
I feel a pang of something that might be loss or might be regret. Because she was never this guarded with me before, never this careful about what she revealed and what she kept private. Nine years ago, she would have told me everything about her friends, her work, the small details that make up a life. Now she's treating me like someone who can't be trusted with anything beyond professional necessity.
And she's not wrong. I forfeited the right to know about her personal life when I decided she was better off without me. I lost the privilege of her trust when I walked away without giving her a choice in the matter.
Still, it stings. It makes me realize exactly how much damage I did when I convinced myself I was protecting her.
"What about your aunt?" I try, testing whether the boundary extends to all personal relationships or just newer ones. "How is Janine?"
The question hits something raw in her expression, just for a moment, before the professional mask slides back into place. "Off limits," she repeats, but her voice is tighter now, carrying undertones that suggest this particular topic is more complicated than simple privacy.
"Lila—"
"Don't." She stands abruptly, moving away from the couch with movements that are just controlled enough to maintain dignity while clearly ending this line of conversation. "I meant what I said. Personal life is not up for discussion. Not Casey, not Janine, not anyone else who matters to me."
The way she says "matters to me" hits like a physical blow, because it's clear I'm no longer in that category. Whatever access I once had to her inner world, whatever trust she once placed in me to know the people and relationships that shaped her life, it's gone. Forfeited when I walked away, lost when I chose to protect her from choices I thought she wasn't ready to make.
She's treating me exactly like what I am: someone who gave up the right to know her when I decided my judgment mattered more than her autonomy.
"You're really not afraid," I observe.
"I’m possibly a sociopath," she says flatly. "And I've spent a handful of years learning to handle dangerous situations. I've built expertise in understanding and predicting violent behavior. And I've got professional resources at my disposal that most people can't access."
