The implication hangs between us like a loaded weapon.
Someone like you, Lila.
Just as Kent had implied last night.
"That's certainly possible," I agree, keeping my voice carefully neutral despite the way my pulse is beginning to spike. "Though it would require someone with remarkable dedication to detail and significant resources for conducting that level of research."
"Indeed." Shaw closes the file and leans back in her chair, her gray eyes sharp with something that might be amusement. "Tell me, Dr. North—in your professional opinion, what would motivate someone to kill innocent people using methods associated with targeting corrupt officials?"
The question feels like a trap.
"It could represent several different motivations," I say, deflecting with professional generalities. "Someone seeking attention from law enforcement, someone trying to implicate the original killer in new crimes, or someone who understands the techniques but not the philosophy behind them."
"Or," Shaw says quietly, "someone conducting an experiment. Testing whether violence can be separated from meaning, whether methodology can be divorced from purpose. Academic research into the relationship between technique and intention in criminal behavior."
The suggestion sends ice water through my veins, because it's exactly the kind of sophisticated psychological manipulation that would appeal to someone with Shaw's academic background. Not killing for justice or revenge or personal gratification, but killing as research. Using innocent people as test subjects to understand the relationship between violence and meaning.
"That would be remarkably unethical," I say flatly.
"Ethics are often obstacles to genuine understanding," Shaw replies, and there's something cold in her voice that makes my chest tight. "Sometimes the pursuit of knowledge requires pushing beyond conventional moral boundaries."
The statement hits like a confession, though she's careful to frame it as a theoretical observation rather than a personal philosophy. But the way she says it, the casual dismissal of ethical concerns in favor of academic inquiry—it suggests someone who could rationalize using violence as a research tool.
Someone who could kill innocent people in the name of scholarly advancement.
"I'm sure the victims' families would disagree," I say, letting a note of steel enter my voice.
"Of course they would." Shaw's smile is thin, predatory. "But grief is subjective. Knowledge is eternal. Sometimes the greater good requires accepting short-term suffering in service of long-term understanding."
The conversation has moved beyond professional consultation into something far more dangerous. I need to end this conversation before it goes any further into territory that could expose more.
"I think we've covered the essential points about the behavioral analysis," I say, beginning to gather my files with movements that suggest this meeting is over. "Unless you have specific questions about the psychological profile I've developed?"
"Just one more question," Shaw says, and her voice carries the kind of casual authority that makes it clear this isn't really optional. "Have you given any thought to what or who the letters on that card could be? What were the letters, again?”
The question hits like a physical blow.
"D.J.," I force out, keeping my voice level despite the way my hands want to shake. "And no. I can’t find any connections to Chen or Martin."
"Ah, I see,” Shaw says, nodding. “You’ll let me know if that changes?”
"I need to get back to my other consultations," I say, standing with movements that are just controlled enough to maintain dignity while making it clear this conversation is over. "Thank you for sharing your insights about the case."
"Thank you for yours," Shaw replies, but she doesn't move to leave. Just sits there with her files and her inquisitive smile. "I'm sure we'll have occasion to continue this discussion soon."
The words sound like a threat disguised as professional courtesy. As I walk toward the door, I can feel her eyes tracking my movement, cataloging details that will help her understand exactly what she's dealing with.
***
The drive home is a blur of city lights and suppressed panic, Shaw’s voice echoing in my head like a warning siren.Have you given any thought to what or who the letters on that card could be?Her words were too precise, too knowing. I feel sick.
By the time I pull into my parking garage, my hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough to ache, my jaw clenched against the urge to scream.
I take the elevator up to my apartment, forcing myself to breathe, to reassemble the professional mask that’s been slipping all day. The moment I step through the door, the scent of seared steak and roasted potatoes hits me, and I freeze.
Kent’s in my kitchen, leaning against the counter with a knife in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other, looking like he’s been here his whole damn life. The table’s set for two, plates arranged with a precision that mocks my need for control—steak sliced thin, potatoes golden and crisp, a bottle of Cabernet breathing beside a single lit candle.
It’s so fucking domestic it makes my skin crawl, like he’s trying to rewrite our history into something normal, something safe.
