I unlock the door and step into controlled chaos.
My normally pristine living space has been transformed into something that actually looks lived-in. Janine and Aliyah have made themselves at home with the casual confidence of people who've been doing this for too long. Grocery bags sit on my kitchen island, evidence of a shopping trip I should have participated in. The scent of slow-cooked lamb and warm spices fills the air, mixing with the softer notes of whatever decadent candle Aliyah has lit.
"There she is," Janine calls from the kitchen, not bothering to look up from the stove. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about us entirely, hon."
The casual accuracy of her observation makes my chest tighten. Janine has always been able to read me in ways that feel invasive, a skill honed through years of working with addicts and broken people who've learned to lie as naturally as breathing. It's what made her so good at pulling an irreparably broken sixteen-year-old out of the wreckage of her father's death, once upon a time.
"Traffic was awful," I lie smoothly, setting my purse on the entry table and trying to shift mental gears. "Sorry I'm late."
Aliyah emerges from my living room holding one of my wine glasses, her movement fluid and unhurried in the way of someone who's never had to be afraid of taking up space. She's changed since I saw her last month—her dreadlocks now dip-dyed in gradients of deep purple and midnight blue that catch the light when she moves. She's wearing a flowing maxi dress in burnt orange that would look ridiculous on anyone else but somehow makes her look like a piece of living art.
"No worries, babe," she says, reaching to pull me into one of her signature hugs—the kind that lasts just long enough to be meaningful without crossing into suffocating. "Janine's been stress-cooking for the past hour anyway. I think she's made enough food to feed a small army."
I let myself be hugged, breathing in Aliyah's familiar scent of shea butter and whatever essential oil blend she's been experimenting with lately. Patchouli and bergamot, maybe, with something sharper underneath. Her arms are strong from years of wrestling clay and stone into submission, and for a moment, I allow myself to sink into the comfort she offers.
But only for a moment.
"Wine?" Aliyah asks, releasing me and gesturing toward the bottle of Bordeaux open on my counter. "Janine picked out something fancy from your collection. I told her you'd probably have an aneurysm watching us drink a hundred-dollar bottle with dinner, but she said that's what it's for."
I glance at the bottle—a 2015 Château Margaux that cost significantly more than a hundred dollars and was supposed to be saved for a special occasion. The fact that Janine opened it without asking is either a sign of how comfortable she's become in my space, or a deliberate provocation designed to get a reaction.
Probably both.
"It's fine," I say, accepting the glass Aliyah pours for me. "What's the point of having good wine if you never drink it?"
I bought that bottle because owning beautiful, costly things helps maintain the illusion that Dr. Lila North has her life together. I never planned to drink it.
My apartment reflects the same careful curation. Everything is deliberately chosen, precisely placed, designed to project success and stability to the rare visitors I allow inside. The furniture is modern but warm—a cream-colored sectional sofa, a glass coffee table with art books I actually read, a dining table for six, despite the fact that I rarely entertain. The walls display a carefully curated collection of photography: black and white cityscapes, a few abstract pieces that cost enough to impress but not so much as to seem ostentatious.
It's beautiful. It's expensive. It's completely soulless.
The only personal touches are subtle ones—a shelf of psychology textbooks mixed with true crime studies, a small collection of succulents on the windowsill that somehow manage to stay alive despite my neglect, and a single framed photo on the side table. It shows me with Janine and Aliyah at last year's holiday party, all of us laughing at something I can't remember. We look like a family.
The illusion is almost convincing.
"How was your day?" Janine asks, finally turning from the stove to look at me directly. At fifty-nine, she still moves with the energy of someone twenty years younger, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow looks effortlessly chic. She's wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater that brings out her eyes.
People always said we looked alike, back when I was Delilah. Same bone structure, same coloring, same stubborn setto our jaw when we're determined to get our way. Looking at her now is like seeing an alternate version of myself—one who never learned to be afraid, who never had to rebuild her identity from scratch, who never fell in love with a killer.
"Long," I say, which is true enough. "Consulting on a new case. Nothing too exciting."
But Janine's eyes narrow slightly, and I know she's caught something in my tone. Maybe the slight breathlessness I haven't quite managed to control, or the way my fingers drum against my wine glass—a nervous habit I thought I'd broken years ago.
"What kind of case?" she asks, wiping her hands on a dish towel with movements that are just a little too casual.
"The usual. Violent crime, psychological profiling. You know I can't discuss details."
It's a deflection I've used countless times before, but tonight it feels flimsy. Tonight, with Kent's signature fresh in my mind and dangerous possibilities crackling under my skin, everything feels transparent.
Aliyah settles onto my sofa with her wine, tucking her legs under her in a way that makes the dress pool around her like liquid copper. "You seem different tonight," she observes, her voice carrying the kind of gentle directness that makes people trust her with their secrets. "More…I don't know. Energized?"
The word hits closer to the truth than I'd like. Iamenergized. I'm more alive than I've felt in years, buzzing with the possibility that my carefully ordered world is about to be turned upside down.
And that terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
"Just tired," I say, taking a sip of wine that costs more than most people make in a day. "It's been a long week."
But even as I say it, I can feel Janine watching me with the intensity of someone who's spent her career learning to spot lies. She knows something is different. She just doesn't know what.
