"Sorry," I mutter, continuing past him toward the street like I'm just another late-night pedestrian. "Didn't see you there."
Jenkins waves me off with the exaggerated politeness of the very drunk. "No problem, buddy. No problem at all."
I keep walking until I reach the corner, then circle back through the alley that runs behind his house. By the time I'm in position to observe, Jenkins has discovered his problem.
He's standing on his front porch, staring at his key ring like it's personally betrayed him. I can see him cycling through the keys again and again, his alcohol-clouded mind struggling to process what should be obvious. The house keys that were there five minutes ago are simply gone.
From my position in the shadows behind his neighbor's fence, I watch him check his pockets with increasing desperation. Jacket pockets, pants pockets, even the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. Nothing. The keys have vanished as if they never existed.
Jenkins pulls out his cell phone with shaking hands and dials a number he clearly knows by heart. Even from thirty yards away, I can hear the phone ringing through the quiet night air. Once, twice, three times before someone answers.
"Delilah? Yeah, it's me." His voice carries across the yard, thick with alcohol and rising anger. "I need you to get your ass home right now. We got a problem."
I can't hear her side of the conversation, but I can track Jenkins's escalating fury through his responses.
"Don't give me that shit about work. This is more important." A pause. "Someone took my house keys. They were right here on my ring, and now they're gone."
Another pause, longer this time.
"How the hell should I know who took them? But you're the only one with access to my stuff. Always going through my things, always thinking you're smarter than everyone else."
The accusation is completely irrational, but that's what makes it perfect. Jenkins is drunk enough to believe his own paranoid logic, angry enough to blame the most convenient target, and cruel enough to enjoy terrorizing his daughter even when she's done nothing wrong.
"I don't want to hear your fucking excuses," he continues, his voice rising. "Get home now and bring the spare key. And when you get here, we're going to have a long talk about respect and boundaries."
He ends the call and immediately dials another number. Pizza place, probably, or some other late-night delivery service that can keep him occupied while he waits for Delilah to rescue him from his own drunken incompetence.
I should walk away. The keys will give me what I need—access to Jenkins's private space, evidence of whatever darkness he's hiding. That was always the plan. Methodical surveillance, careful documentation, building a case that will justify what comes next.
But I can't leave. Because fifteen minutes from now, Delilah Jenkins is going to walk through that front door and face whatever punishment her father has been constructing in his alcohol-poisoned mind. And it will be my fault. My theft of those keys has given Jenkins exactly the excuse he needs to unleash whatever cruelty he's been holding back.
The girl with the carefully organized books and the "Future FBI" coffee mug is going to pay for my goddamn choices.
I tell myself I'm staying for reconnaissance. To observe Jenkins's patterns, to understand the scope of his cruelty. But the truth sits heavier in my chest than the stolen keys in my pocket: I can't walk away from what I've set in motion.
For the first time in years, I'm going to have to watch someone else's violence instead of planning my own.
What’s the alternative?
Chapter 3 - Lila
OCTOBER 2025
The October morning bites at my skin as I step out of my BMW, the kind of cold that promises winter isn't far behind. Maple Street stretches before me in perfect suburban symmetry—matching mailboxes, manicured lawns, the sort of neighborhood where violent death feels like a cosmic mistake. Crime scene tape flutters in the wind, bright yellow against the muted browns and grays of autumn, marking the boundaries of someone's worst nightmare.
I pull my coat tighter as I walk toward the perimeter, my heels clicking against asphalt with the measured rhythm of someone who owns her space. The coat is charcoal wool, expensive enough to command respect but not flashy enough to distract from my purpose. Underneath, a burgundy blouse that suggests authority without aggression. Red lipstick because it makes me feel armored. Every choice calculated, every detail weaponized.
The patrol officers manning the scene look up as I approach, their postures shifting subtly. Some recognition, some wariness. Dr. Lila North, forensic psychologist, the woman who makes grown men confess to things they've spent years hiding. They step aside without being asked.
"Lila!" Casey's voice cuts through the morning air, and I spot her red-gold curls escaping from what was probably a neat bun about six hours ago. She's standing near the front porch, latex gloves already smudged with God knows what, notebook clutched in one hand like a lifeline. "Thank fuck you're here. This one's…it's something else."
I make my way over, noting how the other crime scene techs give Casey space to work. She's earned their respect through four years of never missing a detail, never cutting corners, never letting personal feelings contaminate evidence. Right now, though, there's something different in her expression. Excitement mixed with unease, like she's discovered something fascinating and disturbing in equal measure.
"Talk to me," I say, pulling on my own gloves with practiced efficiency. The latex snaps against my wrists, a sound that's become as familiar as breathing.
"Marcus Chen, thirty-four, investment banker with Morrison & Associates. Lives alone, no next of kin in the city. Neighbor found him when she came to borrow his hedge trimmer around seven this morning." Casey flips through her notes, her voice taking on the rapid-fire delivery of someone processing information faster than she can organize it. "Door was unlocked, which is weird for this neighborhood. Mrs. Patterson—that's the neighbor—said Chen was paranoid about security. Double locks, alarm system, the works."
"Time of death?" I ask, though I'm already studying the house itself. Two-storey colonial that’s painted a respectable shade of blue-gray, with flower boxes that suggest someone who cared about appearances. The front door stands open now, held that way by a crime scene photographer who's documenting every angle.
