I watch her walk toward the porch, each step measured and deliberate, and something cold settles in my chest. This isn't justice I'm planning anymore. This isn't about removing a corrupt cop or protecting potential victims I'll never meet.
This is personal.
And for the first time in years, I don't give a damn about being smart or methodical or careful.
I just want Harry Jenkins to stop existing.
Delilah approaches the porch with the careful movements of prey that's learned to read predators. Each step is measured, deliberate, like she's walking through a minefield. She holds the spare key visible in her right hand—an offering, a peace treaty that we both know won't be honored.
"There's my girl," Jenkins calls out again, pushing himself off the porch railing with exaggerated casualness. "Took you long enough."
"Daddy, I came as soon as I could." Her voice carries across the night air, steady and controlled despite what must be racing through her mind. "I brought the spare key like you asked."
But Jenkins isn't interested in solutions. He's interested in having someone to blame, someone smaller than him to absorb the rage that's been building all evening. I can see it in the way he positions himself between her and the front door, blocking her escape route without seeming to.
"Where the fuck have you been?" The false warmth drops from his voice like a discarded mask. "You think you can just ignore me when I call? Make me wait out here like some kind of beggar?"
"I was at work, Dad. You know that. I told you I had to close tonight—"
"Don't lie to me." Jenkins steps closer, and I watch Delilah's body language shift subtly—shoulders raising slightly, weight shifting to the balls of her feet. Fight or flight reflexes that probably saved her life more than once. "You took my keys toembarrass me. Trying to make me look like a fool in front of my friends."
The accusation is completely fucking insane, but Jenkins delivers it with the conviction of someone who's convinced himself it's true. Drunk logic, the kind that takes a random event and twists it into a personal attack.
"Dad, I didn't take your keys. I've been at the café since six—you can call and ask—"
"Just like your mother used to pull this shit." Jenkins's voice drops to something more dangerous, the kind of quiet that means violence is coming. "Always playing innocent, always making me out to be the bad guy. Look where it got her."
The threat hangs in the air between them, loaded with implications that make my hands clench into fists. Delilah goes very still, and I can see her calculating, trying to find the words that will de-escalate instead of inflame.
"I'm sorry you're upset," she says carefully. "Let me just unlock the door and—"
"Don't fucking patronize me." Jenkins moves faster than his drunk state should allow, closing the distance between them in two quick steps. "You think you're so smart, don't you? With your books and your motherfucking college plans and your attitude."
They're at the front door now, close enough that I can see their body language clearly through the porch light. Delilah has the key raised toward the lock, but Jenkins grabs her wrist before she can use it.
His fingers wrap around her forearm like a shackle, and I watch her face change—the careful control cracking just enough to show the pain underneath. He's squeezing hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to make her gasp.
"You think you're better than me?" Jenkins's voice is rising again, the alcohol making him sloppy and loud. "You think your fancy education makes you special? You're fucking nothing without me. Nothing."
I'm moving before I realize it.
My body surges toward the house like it's spring-loaded, every muscle coiled for violence. The rational part of my mind screams warnings—too many variables, too public, too fucking stupid—but my body doesn't care about rational anymore.
I make it three steps before I catch myself, grabbing the fence post hard enough to make the wood creak under my grip. Splinters dig into my palm, sharp points of pain that help anchor me to reality.
Not yet. Not like this.
But watching Jenkins hurt her is like watching myself at nine years old, small and helpless, while someone bigger used me as a target for their own rage. The same fucking powerlessness, the same desperate need to make it stop, the same crushing knowledge that no one is coming to help.
Through the front door's glass panel, I can see them moving deeper into the house. Jenkins still has hold of her wrist, dragging her along like a disobedient child. The door swings shut behind them, cutting off most of the sound, but I can still hear his voice rising and falling in waves of accusation and threat.
I shift position, moving along the fence line until I find a gap between the slats that gives me a better view of their living room. The space is small and cluttered, dominated by an old television and a couch that's seen better decades. Jenkins forces Delilah to stand in the center of the room while he paces aroundher, still talking, still building his case for why she deserves whatever's coming next.
She stands perfectly still, hands at her sides, head slightly bowed. I've seen this posture before—in mirrors, in other people who learned early that the best way to survive a storm is to make yourself small and wait for it to pass.
But this storm isn't passing. It's just getting started.
Jenkins stops pacing and turns to face her directly, swaying slightly on his feet. Even from outside, I can see the ugly expression on his face, the particular look that means someone has decided to hurt you and is just choosing how.
