"Okay," she says finally, though I can see her filing away details for future consideration. "But if you want to talk about whatever's going on with you personally, you know I'm here, right? As a friend, not as a colleague."
The offer hits deeper than it should, because it reminds me that Casey represents something I've been missing without realizing it—genuine human connection that isn't built on shared secrets or dangerous liaisons. Normal friendship, uncomplicated by the weight of carrying deadly truths or protecting killers from justice.
The kind of relationship Dr. Lila North was supposed to make possible, before Kent Shepherd walked back into my life and reminded me that some connections transcend normal social boundaries.
"I know," I say, and mean it despite the impossibility of ever taking her up on the offer. "Thank you."
She studies my face for another moment, then nods and stands to leave. At the door, she pauses, looking back with the kind of expression that suggests this conversation isn't really over.
"Just be careful, okay? Whatever's going on, whatever's changed—be careful. You're important to a lot of people."
The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with case files and the growing certainty that my carefully constructed professional life is beginning to unravel at the seams. Casey's too smart, too observant, too skilled at recognizing patterns that others miss. If she keeps pushing, keeps analyzing, keeps connecting dots that should remain separate, she'll eventually discover truths that could destroy everything.
But the real problem isn't Casey's investigative skills—it's the fact that I no longer want to maintain the careful distance that's kept my secrets safe. Having Kent back in my life has reminded me what it feels like to be seen completely, to have someone who understands the darkness without trying to cure it.
It's reminded me that Dr. Lila North was always meant to be temporary armor, not a permanent identity.
My computer dings with an email from Casey:Shaw wants to meet about the case. 2 p.m. in Conference Room B. Thought you should know.
With a sigh, I check my calendar, noting that I have forty-five minutes before my next consultation. Enough time to prepare for whatever Shaw has planned, to armor myself with the kind of professional competence that's kept me functional in high-stakes situations.
After that, the morning passes in a blur of routine consultations—analyzing behavioral patterns, building psychological profiles, applying academic frameworks to understand the minds of people who've chosen violence as a solution to problems that others solve through legal channels. Normal work that feels increasingly surreal given that the most dangerous person I analyze regularly is currently drinking coffee in my kitchen, probably cataloging security vulnerabilities in my apartment while planning whatever move comes next in our complicated dance.
By lunch time, I'm wound tight with the kind of tension that comes from maintaining careful composure while internal systems scream warnings about approaching threats. The professional mask is holding, but barely. One wrong question, one perceptive observation, one moment of letting guard down could unravel everything.
Eventually, it’s time.
Conference Room B is located on the fourth floor of the medical complex, designed for high-level consultations between professionals who need privacy to discuss sensitive cases. When I arrive at exactly two o'clock, Shaw is already seated at the polished conference table, reviewing files with the kind of methodical attention that suggests she's been preparing for this meeting carefully.
Dr. Evelyn Shaw represents everything I might become in twenty years, if I continue down the path Dr. Lila North represents.
The thought should be comforting. Instead, it feels like a warning.
"Dr. North," she says, rising to shake hands with the kind of professional courtesy that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Thank you for making time to discuss these fascinating cases."
Fascinating. The word choice feels deliberate, designed to gauge my reaction to her obvious interest in murders that most people would find disturbing rather than intellectually stimulating.
"Of course," I reply, settling into the chair across from her while noting the way she's positioned herself to control the space—back to the wall, clear view of both entrance and windows, files arranged with military precision. "I understand you have questions about the behavioral analysis?"
"Several questions, actually." Shaw opens the top file, revealing crime scene photos that I recognize as enhanced versions of the Chen murder documentation. "I've been reviewing your preliminary assessment, and I'm struck by the sophistication of your insights. The level of detail suggestsfamiliarity with similar cases that goes beyond what's typically available in academic literature."
The comment hits like a probe, designed to test whether I'll reveal sources of knowledge that can't be explained through normal professional channels. I keep my expression neutrally interested, applying techniques I've learned for maintaining composure under interrogation.
"I've made extensive study of ritualistic violence patterns," I say, which is technically true even if it doesn't address the source of that study. "The positioning in both murders matches known signatures from historical cases involving organized offenders with compulsive attention to detail."
"Which historical cases, specifically?"
The question is sharp, direct, designed to force me into either specificity that could expose dangerous knowledge or vagueness that might suggest I'm hiding something. Shaw is watching my face with the kind of clinical attention I recognize from my own work—looking for micro-expressions, verbal tells, any sign that my professional composure is cracking under pressure.
"The Carver killings from several years ago show similar methodological precision," I reply, choosing my words with care. "Though the victim selection criteria appear to be different in the current cases."
"Ah, yes. The Carver." Shaw's voice carries a note of professional fascination that makes my skin crawl. "I've been studying those cases extensively. The level of anatomical knowledge, the psychological sophistication of the methodology, the way violence was used as a tool of justice rather than simple brutality. Quite remarkable work, really."
Remarkable work. She's describing Kent's murders like they were academic achievements rather than crimes that destroyed lives and families. The clinical detachment in her voice suggests someone who views violence through theoretical frameworks rather than human impact.
"The psychological profile suggests someone with extensive knowledge of both surgical techniques and criminal justice systems," I say, testing whether she'll reveal more about her research. "Possibly someone with professional training in both areas."
"Or someone with access to detailed case files and crime scene documentation." Shaw's eyes never leave my face as she speaks, cataloging every micro-reaction. "Someone who could study the methodology extensively enough to understand not just the physical techniques, but the psychological frameworks that made them meaningful."
