Nate is waiting for us in the lobby, and seeing him in this context makes me realize how far he's climbed since our trailer park days. He's wearing a charcoal gray suit that probably costs more than I make in three months, his dark hair perfectly styled, everything about him projecting success and authority. The kind of man police departments want to cooperate with rather than antagonize.
"Kent," he says, standing to greet us with the kind of firm handshake that suggests old friendship rather than a business relationship. "Good to see you."
"Thanks for doing this, Nate." I turn toward Lila, noting how she's studying the interaction with sharp interest. "Delilah, this is my foster brother, Nate Rourke. Nate, Delilah Jenkins."
"Ms. Jenkins," Nate says, extending his hand with the kind of respectful formality appropriate for someone seeking police protection. "I'm sorry you're going through this. Kent explained the situation."
Lila accepts his handshake, but I catch the way her eyes narrow slightly as she processes Nate's appearance and manner. She's cataloguing details, building a psychological profile, trying to understand what kind of man earns Kent's trust.
"Thank you for coming," she says, letting just enough nervousness creep into her voice to suggest someone who's grateful for any ally. "I wasn't sure Detective Rivas would take me seriously without some kind of…professional support."
"He'll take you seriously," Nate assures her. "Mark Rivas is a good cop who's been carrying guilt about your father's case for years. When someone he failed to protect reaches out for help, he's going to move heaven and earth to make up for that failure."
The assessment is clinical, accurate, exactly the kind of psychological manipulation that Nate specializes in. But it also reveals that he's done his homework, understands exactly what kind of emotional leverage will be most effective with Detective Rivas.
"How do you know Detective Rivas?" Lila asks, and there's something in her tone that suggests the question isn't casual curiosity.
"Business overlap," Nate replies smoothly. "My development projects require regular interaction with cityofficials. You get to know the people who matter in law enforcement."
It's a careful non-answer that could mean anything from a legitimate professional relationship to the kind of mutually beneficial arrangements that keep certain questions unasked. Knowing Nate, it's probably both.
Detective Rivas appears before the conversation can develop further, emerging from the elevator with the kind of focused urgency that suggests he's been anticipating this meeting. He's aged since I saw him nine years ago—more gray in his hair, deeper lines around his eyes, the weight of unsolved cases visible in his posture.
"Delilah," he says, his voice carrying genuine warmth and concern. "Come here, sweetheart."
He opens his arms for a hug that Lila accepts with perfect hesitation, allowing herself to be embraced while projecting the kind of grateful vulnerability that makes older men want to protect her. When she pulls back, there are actual tears in her eyes.
"Detective Rivas, thank you for seeing me. I know you're busy, and I wasn't sure—"
"You were right to call," he interrupts, his paternal instincts fully engaged. "After what you went through, after what your father meant to this department, you'll always have my support. Always."
Rivas turns his attention to me and Nate, his expression shifting to something more professionally neutral. "Mr. Shepherd, Mr. Rourke. I understand you're here to provide support for Ms. Jenkins?"
"That's right," Nate says, stepping slightly forward in a way that establishes his role as spokesperson. "Ms. Jenkinsasked us to accompany her because she's understandably nervous about discussing these matters. We're here purely as moral support."
"Of course. Why don't we head up to my office, where we can talk privately?"
The elevator ride passes in tense silence, Lila maintaining her performance of barely controlled anxiety while Nate and I provide steady, reassuring presence. Rivas keeps glancing at her with protective concern, already invested in her well-being before she's said anything substantive.
His office is exactly what I expected—functional, cluttered with case files, photos of his family on the desk alongside department commendations. The kind of space that belongs to someone who's dedicated his career to pursuing justice, even when that pursuit comes at personal cost.
"Please, sit," Rivas says, gesturing toward chairs arranged in front of his desk. "Can I get anyone coffee? Water?"
"Water would be nice," Lila says, letting her voice shake slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm just…this is harder than I thought it would be."
"Take your time," Rivas reassures her, retrieving a bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the corner. "There's no pressure here. We're just talking."
But as he hands her the water, I catch him studying my face with the kind of careful attention that suggests he's trying to place me. The witness description from nine years ago was vague, but not so vague that a good detective might not recognize certain features if he saw them again.
"Mr. Shepherd," he says slowly, settling behind his desk. "Have we met before? You look familiar."
This is the moment we prepared for, the question that could derail everything if not handled correctly. I meet his eyes directly, projecting the kind of calm honesty that comes from telling a partial truth.
"You questioned me about the Carver killings," I say simply. "Nine years ago, when you were investigating Delilah's father's murder. I fit the general witness description, so you brought me in for an interview."
Recognition flickers across Rivas's features. "Right, of course. The construction worker. You had an alibi for the night in question."
"That's right." I pause, letting concern creep into my expression. "I have to admit, when Delilah told me about these new murders, about the similarities to what happened to her father…it brought back some difficult memories. I hope you don't mind that I wanted to be here to support her."
