"Those letters," Lila confirms, her thumb tracing across my knuckles. "Kent was the one writing them."
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it's loaded with implications. Janine's gaze shifts between us, processing this revelation and all the questions it raises. I can practically see her mind working, connecting dots between a traumatized teenager who received mysterious correspondence and the man now sitting in her living room holding her niece's hand.
"Your…friend," Janine says finally, the word carefully chosen to avoid assumptions while acknowledging that she understands there's more to this story than she's been told.
I feel the need to explain, to offer context that might make this introduction less concerning for someone who's spent years protecting Lila from potential threats.
"Our age difference isn't the most appropriate," I admit, ignoring Lila's sharp elbow to my ribs when I use her real name. "And I'm just a blue-collar worker who doesn't measure up to Delilah's fancy career. But she's probably the best friend I've ever had, too."
It's an understatement that borders on offensive, given the complexity of what we share, but it's also the most honestthing I can say while sitting in her aunt's living room, drinking coffee like a normal person, introducing his girlfriend to her family.
Because that's what this is, isn't it? Despite everything else—the violence in our past, the copycat killer manipulating our present, the investigations threatening our future—this is two people who care about each other navigating the ordinary ritual of family introduction.
There's sweetness in that normalcy, in pretending for an hour that we're just Kent and Lila instead of the Carver and his erstwhile accomplice. But when our eyes meet across the coffee table, we communicate silently about why we're really here.
The small talk is pleasant, but it's not why we drove across the city this morning.
Lila seems to realize it too, because she sets down her mug and takes a breath that signals a shift in conversation.
"Janine," she says, her voice carrying the kind of careful control that suggests we're approaching dangerous territory, "do you remember Harry's funeral?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke, transforming the comfortable family breakfast into something more complicated. Whatever direction Janine thought this visit was heading, it's clear she's surprised by this particular destination.
I watch her face carefully, noting the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her fingers pause against her coffee mug. She's not uncomfortable with the topic, exactly, but she's wondering why it's being raised now, nine years later, in front of a man she's just met.
"Of course I remember," she says slowly. "It was…a difficult day. For both of us."
I find myself wondering if Lila ever talked about her father with Janine, if she shared any of the truth about what Harry Jenkins was really like, or whether she maintained the fiction of a grieving daughter even in private. The fact that I might actually be able to ask her later—that we're building the kind of relationship where such questions are possible—makes something warm unfurl in my chest despite the gravity of what we're discussing.
"What do you remember about the other people there?" Lila asks, her voice carefully neutral. "The mourners, the colleagues who came to pay their respects?"
Janine sets down her coffee, giving the question the consideration it seems to require. "There were hundreds of people, sweetheart. Police officers from three precincts, community members, politicians. Your father was…." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "He was well-regarded professionally."
The diplomatic phrasing suggests Janine understood more about Harry Jenkins than she ever let on, understood that his public reputation didn't necessarily reflect his private character. Another piece of evidence that the woman who raised Lila is far more perceptive than I initially assumed.
"Anyone who stood out to you?" Lila presses gently. "Someone who seemed…different from the others?"
The specificity of the question makes Janine's expression sharpen with concern. "Delilah, what's this about? Why are you asking about your father's funeral now?"
And that's the question, isn't it? How do we explain that someone might have been using that funeral to begin a psychological experiment that's culminating now, nine years later, in copycat murders designed to force us back together?
How do we tell her that the past is reaching into the present in ways that threaten everyone we care about?
Lila takes a careful breath, her fingers tightening around mine. "I'm consulting on a case that might be connected to some of the people who were there. I'm trying to verify whether someone I think I remember was actually present."
It's a masterful deflection—technically true while revealing nothing that could compromise operational security. But Janine's expression suggests she's not entirely satisfied with the explanation.
"What kind of case requires you to investigate your father's funeral nine years after the fact?"
"The kind I can't discuss in detail," Lila replies, falling back on professional boundaries. "But if you could help me identify whether certain people were there, it might be significant."
Janine studies her niece's face with the kind of careful attention that suggests years of practice reading Lila's emotional states. Whatever she sees there must convince her that this isn't casual curiosity, because she nods slowly.
"All right. What do you need to know?"
"Do you remember anyone who seemed out of place? Someone who was watching the other mourners instead of grieving themselves?"
The question is pointed enough that Janine's eyebrows rise slightly. "You mean like investigators? There were several detectives there, people from Internal Affairs. That's normal for when an officer dies under suspicious circumstances."
