Yet.
Dinner unfolds with the careful choreography of a dance we've performed countless times before. Janine serves the tagine with practiced efficiency, ladling the fragrant lamb and vegetables over couscous while maintaining a steady stream of conversation about her work at the rehab center. Aliyah contributes stories about her latest sculpture commission—something involving reclaimed metal and the concept of urban decay—while I make the appropriate sounds of interest and engagement.
But I can feel Janine watching me throughout the meal, cataloging the small tells I can't quite suppress. The way I keep checking my phone. The slight tremor in my hands when I reach for my wine glass. The fact that I'm barely touching the food she spent hours preparing.
"You're picking at your dinner," she observes, setting down her fork with deliberate precision. "Since when do you not eat my tagine? You used to beg me to make this when you were—"
"I'm not very hungry," I say quickly, before she can dive down memory lane. It is the truth, at least. My stomach is too knotted with anticipation to accommodate food, no matter how expertly prepared. "Long day, like I said."
"Bullshit." The word comes out flat and uncompromising, the voice Janine uses with clients who think they can manipulate her. "I've seen you eat this meal after twelve-hour shifts, after court appearances that lasted all day, after cases that would give normal people nightmares. Something else is going on."
Aliyah shifts in her chair, and I catch the quick glance she exchanges with Janine. It's the kind of wordless communication that comes from over two decades of partnership, the ability to read each other's moods and intentions without speaking. They're worried about me. They've probably been worried for a while.
"Maybe I'm just getting older," I deflect. "Appetite changes. Stress affects people differently as they age."
"You're twenty-five, not sixty-five," Janine snorts. "And don't try to psychology your way out of this conversation. I know all your tricks, remember? I helped you perfect half of them."
The comment stings because it's true. Janine didn't just save me from the wreckage of my father's death—she taught me how to rebuild myself from scratch. How to compartmentalize trauma, how to present a composed facade to the world, how to function despite carrying darkness that would break most people.
She made me into someone strong enough to survive. The fact that I've used those skills to hide from her feels like betrayal.
"There's nothing to deflect from," I insist, but even I can hear how hollow it sounds. "I'm fine. Work is fine. Everything is fine."
"Fine," Aliyah repeats, swirling her wine with thoughtful precision. "You know what I've learned about fine? It's what people say when they're anything but."
I look at her properly for the first time all evening, noting the concern in her dark eyes. Aliyah has a gift for reading people's emotional states—something about working with her hands all day seems to have given her an intuitive understanding of how bodies hold tension and secrets. Right now, she's seeing too much.
"When's the last time you went on a date?" Janine asks suddenly, switching tactics with the agility of someone accustomed to verbal combat. "When's the last time you did anything that wasn't work-related?"
"I don't need to date to be fulfilled," I say, which is true but beside the point. "Some people are perfectly content being single."
"Content, maybe. But happy?" Janine leans forward, her green eyes—so much like my original ones—intense with concern. "When's the last time I saw you genuinely happy about anything? Not satisfied with a professional achievement, not pleased with a successful case outcome. Actually happy."
The question hits deeper than I expect. Because the truth is, I can't remember the last time I felt anything approaching happiness. Satisfaction, yes. The dark pleasure of manipulating a courtroom or unraveling someone's psychological defenses. But genuine joy? Simple contentment?
"Happiness is overrated," I say, taking a larger sip of wine than is probably wise. "Stability is more important. Security. Control over your own life."
"Jesus Christ, listen to yourself," Janine breathes. "You sound like a motivational poster written by someone who's never experienced actual emotion."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" She pushes back from the table, frustration finally breaking through her careful concern. "When you were a kid, you had dreams. You wanted to help people, wanted to make a difference, wanted to build something meaningful with your life. Now you spend your days analyzing violent criminals and your nights alone in this beautiful, empty apartment that feels more like a museum than a home."
"I do help people," I protest. "My work—"
"Your work," Janine interrupts, "is you staring into darkness until it stares back. And lately, it feels like you're enjoying the view a little too much."
The observation lands like a physical blow, cutting straight through my defenses to something raw and exposed underneath. Because she's not wrong. I do enjoy my work—maybe more than I should. There's something seductive about understanding the minds of monsters, about being able to predict their patterns and motivations.
Something that feels dangerously close to kinship.
"That's a horrible thing to say," I manage, but my voice lacks conviction.
"It's a horrible thing to watch," Janine replies, her tone gentling slightly. "Do you remember what you told me when you were seventeen? When we were filling out college applications and talking about your future?"
I do remember, though I wish I didn't. We'd been sitting in her kitchen—a smaller, warmer version of the sterile space I inhabit now—surrounded by brochures and application forms. I'd been so certain of my path, so convinced that I could use my experiences to help other people heal.
"You said you wanted to be the person who shows up for people who don't have anyone else," Janine continues. "The voice for victims who can't speak for themselves. You wanted to be the light that helps people find their way out of dark places."
