Page 15 of Carved

"Of course," Martinez nods. "Standard procedure for this type of case."

"Casey," I say, turning to my friend before Shaw can ask more probing questions. "Could you send me copies of the crime scene photos when you're finished processing? For my files."

"Absolutely," Casey responds immediately, always eager to help. "I'll have the digital files to you by tonight. Full series, multiple angles."

Shaw's eyebrows rise slightly at this exchange. "Building a personal file on this case, Dr. North?"

Her distrust is nothing new to me. I could deem her paranoid and get away with it.

"I like to be thorough," I reply, meeting her gaze steadily. "Pattern recognition works both ways. If there are similar cases out there, I want to be prepared."

"Of course. Thoroughness is so important in this work." Shaw closes her notebook with a sharp snap. "Detective Finch, I assume you'll be sharing all case files with our department? We'll want to run our own analysis."

"Already planned," Finch confirms. "Anything else you need from the scene?"

Shaw takes one last look around the kitchen, her gaze lingering on details only she seems to find significant. "Not at the moment. Dr. North, I'm sure we'll be working together closely as this investigation develops. I look forward to comparing notes."

The words sound collegial enough, but they carry an unmistakable challenge.

"I'm sure we'll find common ground," I reply smoothly, though my lungs constrict within me.

As Martinez directs the removal of Marcus Chen's body, I realize I need to leave before I say something that reveals too much. Before Shaw asks the right question or notices the wrong detail. Before the careful mask I've worn for nine years finally cracks under pressure.

"I should get back to the office," I announce to no one in particular. "Let me know if you need anything else from me, Detective Finch."

"Will do," he responds, but there's something thoughtful in his expression. "Dr. North? Walk with me for a second."

My heart hammers as I follow him toward the front door, away from Shaw's watchful eyes and Casey's innocent observations. Finch moves with the casual authority of someone who's spent twenty years reading people, and right now, I'm terrified of what he might be reading in me.

We step onto the front porch, where crime scene tape flutters in the October wind and neighbors peer from behind curtains, hungry for details they'll never fully understand.

"Something about this feels familiar," Finch says quietly, his eyes searching my face. "Not the specific details, but the…I don't know. The feeling of it. Like we've danced this dance before."

The word familiar hits me like a physical blow, reverberating through my chest with the force of recognition. Because he's right—this does feel familiar. It feels like coming home to a house you thought had burned down years ago.

"Déjà vu can be common in cases with strong ritual elements," I manage to say, though my voice sounds strange tomy own ears. "The human mind looks for patterns, even when they don't exist."

Finch nods slowly, but his eyes never leave my face. "Maybe. Or maybe some patterns are older than we think."

I force a professional smile and shake his hand, noting how his grip lingers just a moment too long. "I'll review the photos tonight, see if anything jumps out. Thank you for including me in the consultation."

"Thank you for coming out. Your insight is always valuable."

I walk to my BMW with measured steps, each footfall deliberate and controlled. Behind me, I can hear Shaw's voice drifting from the house, asking Martinez detailed questions about the autopsy schedule. Ahead of me stretches the familiar safety of my carefully constructed life, the refuge of Dr. Lila North's professional reputation and emotional distance.

But as I slide behind the wheel and close the door, my hands begin to shake with violent tremors that have nothing to do with fear.

It's excitement. Pure, electric anticipation coursing through my veins like the best kind of drug.

Because after nine years of silence, after nine years of wondering and waiting and pretending not to hope, someone has finally found me.

Someone remembers Delilah Jenkins.

And God help me, I can't wait to find out what they want.

Chapter 4 - Kent

OCTOBER 2016