Page 45 of Carved

My blood goes cold.

No confession recording.

The chest cavity—opened and closed with the same surgical precision I once used, but empty of the most crucial element of my signature. No tape recorder hidden inside the body, no documented evidence of the victim's crimes preserved for posterity. Just the physical positioning without the psychological component that gave my work meaning.

Someone has copied my methodology perfectly and missed the entire point of it.

This isn't a random coincidence or copycat behavior. This is deliberate mimicry by someone who understands my methodsintimately enough to recreate them, but chose to omit the one element that justified the violence.

Someone who knows exactly what the Carver did, but doesn't understand why he did it.

This isn't about Marcus Chen at all. Chen was just raw material, a convenient victim whose death could be shaped into a message. Someone killed an innocent man using my signature specifically because they wanted that signature to be noticed, investigated, and connected to my old cases.

Someone is trying to bring the Carver back from the dead.

But who would be called in to consult on a case involving ritualistic murder that matches historical patterns?

I search for the Metro Police Department's forensic psychology consultant program.

Three names. Three specialists approved for consultation on complex criminal cases involving psychological profiling.

Dr. Evelyn Shaw—senior forensic psychologist, extensive background in organized crime patterns.

Dr. Marcus Webb—criminal psychology professor, with twenty years of academic research.

Dr. Lila North—violent offender specialist, domestic abuse patterns, graduated from Yale with highest honors.

The third name hits me like a physical blow, though I can't immediately say why. I click through to her professional website.

The photo loads slowly—professional headshot, expensive clothing, carefully controlled lighting. Dark hair, sharp features, the kind of composed expression that comes from years of practice in hiding authentic reactions.

But the eyes are familiar. Pale green, intelligent, with a particular depth that speaks to someone who's seen too much too young.

Lila North. The name doesn't mean anything to me, but something about her face….

Born in 1999, which would make her almost twenty-six now. Graduated from Yale in 2019, completed her doctorate in record time, and specializes in violent offender psychology with a particular focus on domestic abuse patterns.

Then I find it: a brief mention in a local newspaper article from 2019, celebrating Dr. North's academic achievements. "…the young psychologist overcame a difficult childhood marked by family tragedy to achieve academic excellence. 'I want to be the voice for people who can't speak for themselves,' North said."

Family tragedy. Difficult childhood. The phrases are generic, but combined with everything else—the timeline, the specialization, the way something about her face triggers recognition I can't quite place—they suggest possibilities I'm not ready to consider.

I close the laptop before I can follow that thought to its logical conclusion, because some possibilities are too dangerous to confirm until I'm prepared for the consequences.

If I'm wrong, I'm paranoid, seeing connections that don't exist because I want them to exist.

If I'm right, then everything I thought I knew about my carefully constructed exile just became irrelevant.

***

The sound of gravel crunching outside interrupts my thoughts. Through the window, I see Nate's black Mercedes pulling up beside my workshop, the expensive car looking out of place against the trailer park's shabby backdrop.

I step outside as he emerges from the car, noting the way his eyes automatically scan the area before focusing on me. Old habits from when survival meant staying alert to every potential threat.

"You look like shit, bro," he says by way of greeting, though his tone carries genuine concern. "What's eating at you?"

Nate's always been able to read me better than anyone else. We survived the same system, learned the same lessons about trust and loyalty. He knows my tells, understands the particular way I carry tension when something's seriously wrong.

"Work stress," I deflect, but he's already shaking his head.