Page 151 of Carved

I gesture around our small kitchen, toward the workshop where we spend our days restoring beauty, toward the life we've built together in this quiet corner of the world. "This is authentic. Everything else was just performance."

Kent nods, understanding completely. He's the only person who's ever loved me for my capacity for violence rather than despite it, who sees my willingness to kill as strength rather than damage. And I'm the only person who's ever understood that his careful methodology wasn't about enjoying death—it was about taking responsibility for protecting innocence when no one else would.

Shaw documented the moment we stopped pretending to be reformed. What she never realized is that we were never broken to begin with. We were just people who understood that love sometimes requires getting blood on your hands, and we'd finally found someone who could accept that understanding without trying to change or fix us.

The afternoon sun slants through the workshop windows as I return to Mrs. Henderson's hope chest, running my fingers along wood that's been carefully tended for over sixty years. Somebody loved this piece enough to preserve it, to pass it down, to trust us with its restoration.

That's the real magic—not Shaw's academic theories about violence and pathology, but the simple truth that some things are worth preserving, worth protecting, worth killing for if necessary.

Kent appears in the workshop doorway, leaning against the frame with the satisfied expression of someone who's finally found his place in the world. "Ready for lunch?"

"Almost finished with this section," I say, making one final adjustment to the marquetry inlay. "Give me five more minutes."

He nods and disappears back into the house, trusting that I know my own work, that I'll join him when I'm ready. That kind of trust is rare—the assumption that your partner is competent, that they don't need to be managed or controlled, that love means accepting someone completely rather than trying to improve them.

I set down my tools and step back to admire the hope chest. The damaged wood has been carefully restored, the missing inlay replaced with pieces that match the original pattern perfectly. To someone who didn't know its history, it would look like it had never been broken at all.

But I know better. The restored sections are actually stronger than the original wood, more resistant to future damage because they've been reinforced with modern techniques. Sometimes breaking and healing creates something more resilient than what came before.

That's us, I realize. Shaw thought she was documenting our psychological breakdown, but what she actually captured was the moment we became something stronger than we'd ever been alone. Two people who'd been broken by their pasts, who'd learned to find strength in their scars, who'd finally foundsomeone who could love them not despite their damage but because of what they'd learned from it.

I gather my tools and head toward the house, toward Kent, toward the life we've built together in the aftermath of Shaw's final experiment. Behind me, Mrs. Henderson's hope chest sits gleaming in the afternoon light, ready to hold whatever treasures her granddaughter chooses to preserve.

Some things are worth saving. Some people are worth killing for. And some love is strong enough to survive anything—even the truth about what we're capable of when the people we love are threatened.

Shaw wanted to document the creation of killers. What she actually recorded was the birth of something far more dangerous: a partnership built on absolute acceptance, mutual respect, and the shared understanding that some things matter more than staying clean.

We are Delilah and Kent Shepherd now. We restore beautiful things for people who understand their value. We eliminate problems that the system can't solve. We love each other without reservation or apology.

And we're exactly who we were always meant to be.