—Did you figure it out? —he says, pouring himself a drink like he owns the place.

—What did you do? Who are you?

—Someone who believes in roots. In blood. In legacies. —No. No... —Nora backs away, feeling like she’s suffocating.

—Your father was an artist. I... am his most faithful admirer. And you, Nora, are his masterpiece.

The confrontation is brutal. He confesses everything: how he accessed her files, how he chose the victims, how he planted the evidence. All so she would understand. All so she would take his place.

—You’re special, Nora. It’s inside you. You just have to accept it.

—I’m not like him. —Not yet. But you will be. The instinct is there. I just... helped awaken it.

Nora takes advantage of a moment of distraction. She strikes. Runs. Calls the police.

When they arrive, Henry is gone. But this time, he leaves something behind: a hidden camera in her room. Recordings. Every time he was in her house. Every move. Every whisper.

The police confirm: Henry Callahan doesn’t exist. His identity is fake. His real name is Peter Lance, an obsessive imitator of serial killers. He’s been wanted for years.