I should leave.
The thought cycles through my mind on repeat, logical and clear as the methodical work that usually centers me. Mission accomplished. Keys obtained. Intelligence gathered. Three simple facts that should send me walking back to my truck, driving home, planning my next move with the same careful precision I use for everything else.
But my legs won't fucking move.
I'm crouched behind the Hendersons' fence, splinters from the old wood digging into my palm where I grip the post, and I can't make myself stand up. Can't make myself walk away. The stolen house keys feel like they're burning a hole in my pocket, but they're not what's keeping me here.
It's the girl. Delilah. The sound of her crying still echoes in my head, soft and careful, like she's learned that loud grief brings worse punishment.
From my position in the shadows, I have a clear view of Jenkins on his front porch. He's pacing the small space like a caged animal, occasionally pausing to take a pull from what looks like a flask he's produced from somewhere. The man's anger is building, each sip of alcohol feeding the fire instead of dampening it. I've seen this before. I know how this ends.
My rational mind catalogs the situation with clinical detachment. Three exit routes from this position. Jenkins is drunk enough to be unpredictable but not incapacitated. Neighbors' houses are dark—no witnesses if I need to move. Thesmart play is obvious: disappear now, use the keys tomorrow when both Jenkins and his daughter are gone, gather the evidence I need to justify what comes next.
But I can't fucking move.
Jenkins stops pacing and pulls out his phone again. Even from thirty yards away, I can hear his voice carrying across the quiet street, thick with alcohol and rising anger.
"Yeah, Bobby? It's Jenkins. Look, I need a favor…." A pause. "No, I can't drive. Some little shit stole my house keys, and I'm stuck here waiting for my daughter to bail me out." His voice drops to a conspiratorial growl. "Between you and me, I think the kid took them herself. Trying to make me look like a fool."
The accusation is insane, but Jenkins believes it completely. He's built a narrative that makes Delilah the villain of his own incompetence, and alcohol has cemented it into absolute truth in his mind.
"Nah, don't worry about it. She'll be here soon, and then we're going to have a serious fucking conversation about boundaries." Jenkins laughs, the sound ugly and full of promise. "Girl thinks she's so smart, going to college, acting like she's better than her old man. Time for a reality check."
He ends the call and takes another drink, the flask glinting in the porch light.
My hands clench into fists without conscious thought. There's something about the casual cruelty in Jenkins's voice, the way he savors the anticipation of inflicting pain, that cuts through my usual emotional distance like a blade. It reminds me of—
Don't. Don't go there.
But the memories surface anyway, unbidden and sharp. Different house, different man, but the same casual threat of violence hanging in the air like smoke. The same helpless feeling of being small and trapped and knowing that someone you should be able to trust is about to hurt you.
The same fucking powerlessness.
I force my breathing to even out. Count to ten. Focus on concrete details. Jenkins is six-two, probably two-twenty with the extra weight that comes from years of drinking. Moves like an ex-athlete gone soft, still has the muscle memory but not the conditioning. Wears his service weapon on his right hip even off duty—stupid and probably against regulation, but typical for a man who thinks his badge makes him untouchable.
Untouchable.
The word echoes in my mind with bitter recognition. Because that's exactly what Jenkins is, isn't it? He's a cop. Who the fuck do you report a dirty cop to? Internal Affairs? His drinking buddies who cover for him? The system that's spent decades teaching people that police investigate themselves and find no wrongdoing?
A new set of headlights turns onto the street, and my attention snaps back to the present. The car moves slowly, hesitantly, like the driver is dreading their destination. It's an old Honda sedan, maybe fifteen years old, with a dented front fender and one headlight noticeably dimmer than the other. The kind of car that says its owner makes do with what they have.
Delilah.
Jenkins straightens up on the porch, putting away his flask and arranging his features into something that might pass for paternal concern if you didn't know better. Thetransformation is practiced, automatic. How many times has he done this? How many times has she fallen for it?
The Honda pulls into the driveway but doesn't shut off immediately. Through the windshield, I can see Delilah's silhouette sitting motionless behind the wheel. She's gathering herself, I realize. Preparing for whatever's waiting inside that house.
One minute passes. Then another.
She knows. Whatever story Jenkins has told himself about missing keys and teenage rebellion, Delilah knows the truth. She understands that she's about to walk into a trap, to take responsibility for something she didn't do, to absorb whatever rage her father has been building all evening.
And she's going to do it anyway. Because what choice does she have?
The car engine finally shuts off, and the night goes quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the sound of Jenkins's boots on the porch as he positions himself by the front door. Waiting. Like a spider that's felt the web vibrate.
Delilah's car door opens with a soft click, and she steps out with movements that are careful, controlled. Even in the dim street lighting, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she holds herself like someone bracing for impact.
She has something in her hand—her own, obviously. She's come to rescue him from his own drunken helplessness, and they both know he's going to punish her for it.
