Page 100 of Carved

"Same positioning as the others?" I ask when Finch provides basic scene information.

"Identical. Arms at ninety degrees, head tilted fifteen right, legs positioned with measuring-tape precision. Chest cavity opened and sutured closed." Finch pauses, and I hear thesound of papers rustling. "But there's something new this time. Something that changes everything."

New. The word hangs in the air like a threat, carrying implications that make my hands clench into fists.

"What kind of something?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to hear the answer.

"There was a recording device. Hidden inside the chest cavity where the historical Carver cases had confession tapes." Finch's voice drops to something approaching a whisper. "Except this time, the recording was of a conversation between Casey and Dr. North. A recent one from the sound of it."

The implications hit me like a physical blow. Someone heard them talking. Someone recorded their conversation and used it as evidence of…what? Lila's involvement in the investigation? Her access to classified information? The way she's been protecting me by misdirecting analysis away from connections that could destroy us both?

Someone has been listening. Watching. Waiting for the perfect moment to demonstrate exactly how exposed we both are.

I look at Lila, noting how her breathing has become even more shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. She's starting to understand what this means—not just that Casey is dead, but that her death was specifically orchestrated to send a message.

A message that says:I know who you are. I know what you've been hiding. And I can destroy you whenever I choose.

"She'll need to review the scene. Send her the address. She’ll be there," I tell Finch, ending the call before he can ask more questions about who I am or why I'm speaking for Dr. North.

When I turn back to Lila, of course, she's not moving toward her clothes or her shoes or any of the practical preparations required for viewing a crime scene. She's just sitting on the edge of the table where I left her, staring at nothing while tears start tracking down her cheeks.

Silent tears.

The kind that come from places too deep for sound.

So this is what breaks her.

Not her father's death, not my abandonment, not the last lonely decade of her existence—all this time of analyzing violent crime that would give most people nightmares. It’s the death of one young woman who brought her coffee and treated her like a friend instead of a case study.

The death of someone innocent who got caught in our crossfire.

"This is your fault," she whispers, her voice barely audible but carrying enough venom to make my chest tight. "You started this. With your methods, your signature, your fucking careful positioning. Now, whoever the hell is obsessed with you is taking it out on me. On—"

The accusation hits exactly where she means it to, because she's not entirely wrong.

My work created the template someone is now using to terrorize her.

My techniques gave them the tools to kill Casey Holbrook and leave her arranged like a museum exhibit.

She can blame me. I can take it. Only, there's something else in her voice beyond blame—there's breaking. The kind of fundamental fracture that happens when someone who’s builttheir entire identity around emotional control discovers that some pain is too large to contain.

"Lila—"

"Don't." She holds up a hand, stopping me before I can offer comfort or explanations or anything that might minimize what she's processing. "Don't tell me it's not my fault. Don't tell me Casey knew the risks. Don't you dare try to make this better with logic. I can’tbearit."

Her voice cracks on the word, and I watch years of careful professional composure crumble like a dam giving way to flood waters. The tears come faster now, no longer silent but accompanied by the kind of harsh breathing that suggests she's fighting for control and losing.

"She was twenty-six years old," Lila continues, her voice rising toward hysteria. "She had student loans and a cat and a mom who calls her every Sunday. She brought me coffee and shared crime scene photos because she thought I was her friend, and now she's dead because someone wanted to sendmea goddamn message."

The specific details hit harder than general grief; they reveal how well she knew Casey, how much she cared about someone she tried to keep at a professional distance. This isn't just the death of a colleague; it's the loss of something approaching genuine human connection in a life otherwise built around careful isolation.

"She's dead because of me," Lila whispers, and the self-recrimination in her voice makes something twist in my chest. "Because I protected you instead of helping catch you. Because I obstructed justice to save a killer, and innocent people are paying the price."

The words carry years of buried guilt, the cost of choices she made when she was seventeen and thought she understood the implications. Choices that seemed justified when applied to corrupt cops and systematic injustice, but feel different when applied to young women who die for the crime of bringing coffee to their friends.

I move toward her despite her earlier prohibition, because watching her fracture without attempting comfort feels like another kind of violence.

Lila recoils like a wounded animal.