Chapter 10 - Kent
Morning light filters through the cheap blinds of my trailer, casting geometric shadows across Mara's bare shoulder as she lies beside me.
Her auburn hair spills across the pillow like liquid copper, and I can see the small scar on her shoulder blade where she fell off her bike at nine.
She told me that story three months ago, along with a dozen others that create the comfortable intimacy between us.
Not love. Neither of us has illusions about what this is. But something warmer than simple physical release.
"Coffee's ready," she mumbles into the pillow, though neither of us moves to get it.
She rolls over to face me, blue-green eyes still heavy with sleep. At forty-two, she's got laugh lines and silver threads in her hair that catch the light when she moves. Beautiful in the way of women who've stopped worrying about being perfect.
"You're thinking too loud," she observes, tracing circles on my chest. "What's going on in that complicated head of yours?"
"Work," I say, which isn't entirely a lie. My furniture restoration business has been growing faster than I expected. Good for my bank account, complicated for my need to maintain a low profile.
Mara studies my face with the attention of someone who makes art from raw materials, who understands that details matter. But she doesn't push. That's part of what makes this work between us.
"Coffee and newspaper," she declares, padding naked to my tiny kitchen. "Perfect Sunday morning ritual."
This is our routine. Mara reads me headlines while I drink coffee and pretend to be more asleep than I am. It's domestic in ways that should make me uncomfortable, but somehow doesn't.
She settles beside me, paper spread across her lap. "Let's see…. City council's still fighting about the waterfront development. High school football team made state championships. Some poor investment banker got murdered on Maple Street."
The last item hits me like ice water, though I keep my expression neutral.
"Read that one," I say, trying to keep my voice casual.
"Marcus Chen, thirty-four, found dead in his home Friday morning. Police are treating it as a homicide pending further investigation. They're tying it to some serial killer, damn."
The coffee mug slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp crack that sends ceramic shards and hot liquid across the trailer's narrow space.
"Motherfucker!" The curse tears out of me as scalding coffee soaks into my leg. But the physical burn is nothing compared to the cold shock spreading through my chest.
"Kent!" Mara drops the paper and reaches for me. "Jesus, are you okay? What happened?"
"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically. My hands are shaking as I grab a towel, dabbing at the spreading stain. "Just clumsy."
Mara's too observant to buy that explanation. Her eyes dart from my face to the spilled coffee to the newspaper. "What just happened? You went completely white."
"Police sources describe the crime scene as bearing similarities to the work of the serial killer known as 'the Carver,' who was active several years ago."
The Carver. A name I haven't heard spoken aloud in around nine years.
"You know that guy or somethin'? The one who was murdered?" She's studying my face like she's looking for cracks in a sculpture.
"No." Another automatic lie, though technically accurate. "Just…violent crime makes me uncomfortable."
"This is more than discomfort," she says quietly. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost."
The phrase hits closer to the truth than she realizes. Someone is using my methods, my signature, my carefully developed methodology. Someone has resurrected the Carver without my knowledge or permission.
"It's nothing," I say, meeting her eyes. "Really. Just caught me off guard."
Mara searches my face for a long moment. "Okay," she says finally. "But if you want to talk about whatever's bothering you, I'm here."
She means it. Over the past three months, I've watched Mara invest more emotional energy in this relationship than either of us originally intended. What started as casual companionship has evolved into something that looks dangerously close to caring.
It should make me end things between us. Because men like me don't get happy endings with women who make art from clay and read newspapers in bed on Sunday mornings.
Mara leaves after lunch, kissing me goodbye with casual affection. The moment her taillights vanish, I'm at my laptop.
The Metro Times website loads slowly. I navigate to the crime section until I find what I'm looking for: "Investment Banker Found Dead in Upscale Home."
The initial report is frustratingly vague. "Marcus Chen, 34, was discovered deceased in his Maple Street residence Friday morning by a concerned neighbor. Police are treating the death as a homicide. Detective Emmett Finch is leading the investigation."
I begin digging deeper. Social media profiles, professional listings, property records. Marcus Chen wasn't particularly careful about his online presence, which makes building a profile relatively simple.
Investment banker at Morrison & Associates, lived alone, no wife or children. His social media shows someone who traveled frequently, ate at expensive restaurants, drove an expensive BMW.
Privileged, certainly. Probably arrogant.
But nothing that screams predator. No patterns that suggest violence toward women or children, no positions of authority that could be abused.
Marcus Chen appears to have been exactly what he seemed: a wealthy asshole who never hurt anyone more dangerous than his own liver.
So why did someone kill him using my methods?
I search for more detailed coverage. The Channel 7 website has a video report, a blonde reporter standing outside Chen's house with crime scene tape fluttering in the background.
"…police sources describe the scene as unusually staged, with the victim's body positioned in what appears to be a ritualistic manner. While officials won't confirm details, Channel 7 has learned that investigators are exploring possible connections to other cases involving similar methodology…."
Similar methodology. To her, it's just dramatic phrasing. To me, it's confirmation that someone has studied my work closely enough to recreate it.
I dig deeper into police scanner reports, unofficial crime blogs. It takes an hour before I find what I'm looking for: a forum dedicated to true crime enthusiasts, where someone with apparent inside knowledge has posted a detailed breakdown of the Chen murder.
"Victim found positioned exactly like the old Carver cases—same angles, same precision.
But here's what doesn't fit: chest cavity was surgically opened then sutured closed, but completely empty.
No foreign objects, no personal items, nothing hidden inside.
Major deviation from the established pattern. "
My blood goes cold.
No confession recording.
The chest cavity—opened and closed with the same surgical precision I once used, but empty of the most crucial element of my signature.
No tape recorder hidden inside the body, no documented evidence of the victim's crimes preserved for posterity.
Just the physical positioning without the psychological component that gave my work meaning.
Someone has copied my methodology perfectly and missed the entire point of it.
This isn't a random coincidence or copycat behavior. This is deliberate mimicry by someone who understands my methods intimately enough to recreate them, but chose to omit the one element that justified the violence.
Someone who knows exactly what the Carver did, but doesn't understand why he did it.
This isn't about Marcus Chen at all. Chen was just raw material, a convenient victim whose death could be shaped into a message. Someone killed an innocent man using my signature specifically because they wanted that signature to be noticed, investigated, and connected to my old cases.
Someone is trying to bring the Carver back from the dead.
But who would be called in to consult on a case involving ritualistic murder that matches historical patterns?
I search for the Metro Police Department's forensic psychology consultant program.
Three names. Three specialists approved for consultation on complex criminal cases involving psychological profiling.
Dr. Evelyn Shaw—senior forensic psychologist, extensive background in organized crime patterns.
Dr. Marcus Webb—criminal psychology professor, with twenty years of academic research.
Dr. Lila North—violent offender specialist, domestic abuse patterns, graduated from Yale with highest honors.
The third name hits me like a physical blow, though I can't immediately say why. I click through to her professional website.
The photo loads slowly—professional headshot, expensive clothing, carefully controlled lighting. Dark hair, sharp features, the kind of composed expression that comes from years of practice in hiding authentic reactions.
But the eyes are familiar. Pale green, intelligent, with a particular depth that speaks to someone who's seen too much too young.
Lila North. The name doesn't mean anything to me, but something about her face….
Born in 1999, which would make her almost twenty-six now. Graduated from Yale in 2019, completed her doctorate in record time, and specializes in violent offender psychology with a particular focus on domestic abuse patterns.
Then I find it: a brief mention in a local newspaper article from 2019, celebrating Dr. North's academic achievements.
"…the young psychologist overcame a difficult childhood marked by family tragedy to achieve academic excellence.
'I want to be the voice for people who can't speak for themselves,' North said. "
Family tragedy. Difficult childhood. The phrases are generic, but combined with everything else—the timeline, the specialization, the way something about her face triggers recognition I can't quite place—they suggest possibilities I'm not ready to consider.
I close the laptop before I can follow that thought to its logical conclusion, because some possibilities are too dangerous to confirm until I'm prepared for the consequences.
If I'm wrong, I'm paranoid, seeing connections that don't exist because I want them to exist.
If I'm right, then everything I thought I knew about my carefully constructed exile just became irrelevant.
***
The sound of gravel crunching outside interrupts my thoughts. Through the window, I see Nate's black Mercedes pulling up beside my workshop, the expensive car looking out of place against the trailer park's shabby backdrop.
I step outside as he emerges from the car, noting the way his eyes automatically scan the area before focusing on me. Old habits from when survival meant staying alert to every potential threat.
"You look like shit, bro," he says by way of greeting, though his tone carries genuine concern. "What's eating at you?"
Nate's always been able to read me better than anyone else. We survived the same system, learned the same lessons about trust and loyalty. He knows my tells, understands the particular way I carry tension when something's seriously wrong.
"Work stress," I deflect, but he's already shaking his head.
"Bullshit. I've seen you stressed about work. This is something else." He leans against his car, arms crossed. "Talk to me, man."
"Someone's using my old methods," I say finally, testing how much I can reveal.
Nate's expression doesn't change, but something sharpens in his eyes. "Methods for what?"
"Problem solving." The euphemism hangs between us. "Someone killed a guy across town using techniques I developed years ago. Techniques I abandoned."
"Copycat?"
"More than that. They understand the methodology intimately, but they're missing crucial elements." I run a hand through my hair. "It's deliberate. Someone's trying to get my attention."
Nate processes this with the same analytical skill he brings to business negotiations. "Someone from before?"
"Maybe. The point is, someone's using my signature to send a message. And they killed an innocent person to do it."
That hits Nate harder than I expected. His jaw tightens. "Innocent how?"
"Completely. Investment banker, no record of violence or abuse, no connections to anything that would justify that kind of attention. Just wrong place, wrong time."
"Fuck." Nate straightens up. "So what do you need?"
No judgment about my past, no demands for explanations I can't give, just immediate acceptance that if someone's threatening me, they're threatening him by extension.
"Information. Resources. Maybe an exit strategy if things go sideways." I meet his eyes directly. "I have to find out who's doing this and why. Can't let someone else use those methods."
"Because they already fucked it up and killed someone who didn't deserve it," I continue. "My methods were never random. They had purpose, structure, meaning. This is just murder with window dressing."
Nate nods, like this makes perfect sense. "How can I help?"
"Might need to disappear for a while. Travel, research, dig into things that are better left alone."
"Can you handle the rental payments for a few months? Keep things looking occupied?"
"Don't insult me." His tone carries just enough edge to remind me that our relationship transcends simple financial calculations. "How long?"
"Don't know. Could be weeks, could be longer."
Nate pulls out his phone and starts typing. "I'll set up a credit line under the renovation business name. Clean money, legitimate paper trail if anyone comes looking."
"Thank you."
"Just be smart about this. Whatever you used to do, whoever you used to be, you've built something good here. Something clean. Don't throw it away unless you have to."
"I'll be careful," I promise, though we both know that careful and necessary don't always align.
Inside the trailer, I start making lists.
Equipment I'll need. Resources to liquidate.
Contacts to reestablish with people I hoped never to see again.
The methodology of planning that once made the Carver so effective begins reasserting itself, muscle memory taking over despite nine years of careful dormancy.
Someone has made a move. Used an innocent man's death to announce their presence and demonstrate their capabilities. Now it's my turn to respond.
The game is starting whether I want it or not.
The only question is whether I'm playing to win, or just playing to survive.