Chapter 21 - Lila #3
"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 suggests familiarity 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. "
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.
He looks up, catching my eye with that predatory smirk that always brings the Carver into focus. “You’re late,” he says, teasing. “Dinner’s getting cold. Figured I’d show you I’m good at carving all kinds of meat.”
The knife in his hand glints under the kitchen lights, and the double entendre lands like a punch.
He’s not just talking about the steak. My pulse spikes, a mix of fury and something darker, something that remembers the way he used to wield blades with surgical precision.
I drop my bag by the door, kick off my heels, and force myself to move toward the table, my body thrumming with the tension from Shaw’s interrogation and the surreal normalcy of this scene.
“How was your day, Dr. North?” Kent asks, sliding into the chair across from me, his tone deceptively casual as he pours wine into my glass. “Catch any monsters?”
I glare at him, sitting down because standing feels like admitting he’s already won. “It was fine,” I say, my voice clipped, reaching for the wine to avoid his gaze. “Consultations, case reviews, the usual.”
“Usual,” he repeats, leaning back, his eyes never leaving my face. “You don’t look like a woman who’s had a usual day. You look like someone who’s been dodging landmines.”
I take a sip of the wine, the rich bitterness grounding me for a moment.