Chapter 14 - Kent #2
Time to find out if the woman she's become can handle the truth about what's happening. And time to discover whether the connection we shared nine years ago is strong enough to survive what we might have to do to stop it.
I step back inside and begin packing my surveillance equipment with the methodical precision of someone preparing for war.
Because that's what this has become—not a simple copycat investigation, but a war for control of my legacy and protection of the one person who understood what it originally meant.
The Carver has been dormant for nine years.
But Kent Shepherd is about to remember exactly why that name once made monsters afraid to sleep peacefully in their beds.
***
The email arrives at 11:47 a.m., while I'm reviewing floor plans of Dr. Lila North's office building and calculating optimal approach routes.
The notification chime from my laptop seems unremarkable at first—probably spam, maybe a response to one of the furniture inquiries I've had to maintain as part of my cover identity.
But the sender's name makes my blood stop moving entirely.
Dr. Lila North.
I stare at the screen for thirty seconds before my fingers remember how to move. The subject line reads "Commission Inquiry - Writing Desk," professional and mundane, the kind of message that arrives in business inboxes every day without raising suspicion.
Except Dr. Lila North has no reason to contact Kent Shepherd about furniture.
I click open the email with hands that aren't quite steady, already knowing this isn't a coincidence.
The timing is too perfect, arriving less than nine hours after news broke about Rebecca Martin's murder.
After I've spent two days conducting surveillance on her routines, building profiles of her security measures, preparing for contact I haven't been ready to initiate.
Mr. Shepherd,
I hope this message finds you well. I'm writing to inquire about commissioning a custom writing desk for my home office. I have very specific requirements that I believe would benefit from your particular expertise.
I'm looking for something with clean lines and precise craftsmanship, but with hidden compartments for storing sensitive documents. The piece should appear conventional from external examination, but contain spaces accessible only to someone who understands the proper methodology.
I've seen examples of your restoration work that demonstrate remarkable attention to detail and understanding of underlying structure. The way you position elements within a piece shows sophisticated knowledge of both form and function.
If you're accepting commissions, I'd very much like to discuss this project further. I'm available to meet at your convenience, though I understand the need for discretion given the specialized nature of the work.
Please let me know if this type of commission interests you.
Best regards,
Dr. Lila North
Forensic Psychology Consultant
I read the email three times before the full implications settle into my mind like ice water in my veins.
Every word has been chosen with surgical precision, each phrase carrying multiple layers of meaning that would be invisible to casual observers but scream significance to anyone who understands the context.
"Particular expertise." "Hidden compartments." "Proper methodology." "Understanding of underlying structure." "The way you position elements."
This isn't a furniture inquiry. This is coded communication from someone who knows exactly who I am and what I've done.
I run a quick background search on Dr. Lila North's financial history, looking for any evidence that she's previously commissioned custom furniture or shown interest in antique restoration.
Nothing. Her credit history shows purchases consistent with someone who shops at conventional retail outlets—department stores, online retailers, chain furniture stores.
No previous contact with craftsmen or artisans, no pattern of investing in custom pieces.
The forensic psychology consultant has no legitimate reason to contact a furniture restorer about hidden compartments and precise methodology.
But the sixteen-year-old who helped me position her father's body nine years ago might have very good reasons to make contact now, when someone is using my signature to kill innocent people.
I analyze each sentence again, looking for additional layers of meaning.
"Sensitive documents" could refer to our correspondence, the letters we exchanged for months after her father's death.
"External examination" versus "spaces accessible only to someone who understands the proper methodology" speaks directly to crime scene analysis—the difference between what investigators see and what someone with intimate knowledge of my work would recognize.
"I've seen examples of your restoration work" could mean she's studied my historical cases, knows the positioning patterns that define my signature.
"The way you position elements within a piece" is almost certainly reference to how I arranged the bodies, the careful attention to angles and spacing that made my work distinctive.
The offer to meet "at your convenience" with "understanding the need for discretion" suggests she knows I'm operating under assumed identity, that direct contact carries risks for both of us.
But it's the phrase "specialized nature of the work" that confirms what I've suspected since the email arrived.
This isn't really about furniture at all.
It's about work that's specialized in ways most people can't comprehend, work that requires understanding of psychology and anatomy and the careful application of violence toward specific ends.
I lean back in the hotel room's uncomfortable chair, processing the implications. Dr. Lila North knows who Kent Shepherd really is. And she's reached out using carefully coded language that acknowledges our shared history without explicitly incriminating either of us.
The question is how long she's known.
Her professional website lists three years at her current practice, but that doesn't tell me when she started putting the pieces together.
Did she recognize my methods immediately when the Marcus Chen case crossed her desk?
Has she been tracking my activities for months or years, building a profile while maintaining her professional obligations?
Or did the similarities to my work trigger memories she's carried for nine years, forcing her to confront the possibility that the Carver has returned to active operation?
Either way, she's taken the initiative to make contact. She's gambling that our connection transcends the intervening years, that whatever understanding we shared in her father's kitchen remains strong enough to bridge the gap between who we were then and who we've become now.
It's a calculated risk that could destroy both our carefully constructed lives if anyone intercepts this communication or if I've changed in ways that make me a threat rather than an ally.
But she's taken the risk anyway. Which suggests either desperation or trust, possibly both.
I draft seventeen different responses before settling on something that matches her tone and careful ambiguity:
Dr. North,
Thank you for your inquiry. I appreciate your interest in my work, and I believe I understand the type of piece you're describing.
Custom projects requiring specialized compartments and attention to underlying structure are indeed within my area of expertise. I have experience with pieces that need to appear conventional while serving more complex purposes.
I'd be happy to discuss the specifications in person. Given the sensitive nature of such work, I prefer to meet in neutral locations where we can speak freely about methodology and design requirements.
I'm currently working in the city and could meet as early as tomorrow evening. Please let me know if this timeline works for your schedule.
Best regards, K. Shepherd
I reread my response, checking for anything that might incriminate us if the wrong person sees it.
Like her original message, it maintains the furniture restoration cover while acknowledging deeper layers of meaning.
"Sensitive nature of such work" and "speak freely about methodology" should confirm that I understand we're not really discussing cabinetry.
I send the email before I can second-guess the wisdom of responding at all.
Because regardless of how this contact came to happen, the situation has moved beyond passive surveillance.
Someone is using my signature to kill innocent people, and the only person who might understand the deeper implications has reached out to me directly.
Whether this is reunion or confrontation, it's inevitable now.
The next twenty-four hours will determine whether Dr. Lila North is still the remarkable girl who once thanked me for committing murder, or whether she's become someone whose professional obligations make her a threat to everything I've built since that night.
Either way, I'm about to find out if some connections can survive nine years of careful distance and radical transformation.
***
I don't sleep that night. Instead, I lie in the hotel bed staring at the ceiling while my mind works through possibilities and contingencies, each scenario more complex than the last.
I just run it through my mind, over and over: Why now? What's changed that made her break so many years of silence to make contact just as someone is corrupting my signature to kill innocent people? Is it a coincidence, or is she somehow connected to what's happening?
I stare at the email on my laptop screen, at the carefully crafted sentences that manage to be both completely innocent and deeply incriminating depending on who's reading them.
Every word chosen with surgical precision, each phrase carrying layers of meaning that would be invisible to anyone who doesn't know our history.
The forensic psychologist consulting on copycat murders that match my historical work is Delilah Jenkins.
The girl who helped me position her father's body has become Dr. Lila North, someone whose professional expertise makes her uniquely qualified to recognize my signature and understand its significance.
Someone whose official position gives her access to crime scene details, investigative files, and evidence that could destroy me if she chose to use it.
Someone who instead chose to reach out with an invitation disguised as a business inquiry.
The implications make my hands shake as I close the laptop.
Everything I thought I knew about this situation has just shifted fundamentally.
This isn't just about stopping a copycat anymore—it's about confronting the most important person from my past, someone who carries secrets that could save or damn us both.
I don't know if I'm ready for that conversation. Don't know if either of us is prepared for what it might reveal about who we've become and whether the connection we once shared can survive nine years of careful transformation.
But ready or not, the choice has been made for us. She's reached out, and ignoring that communication isn't an option when innocent people are dying and my signature is being used to send messages I never authorized.
Tomorrow, I'll have to decide how to respond to the most dangerous email I've ever received. Tonight, I'll sit in this anonymous hotel room and try to process the reality that Delilah Jenkins has found me.
And that she apparently wants to talk.