"Okay." But I'm already moving, positioning myself where the first officers will find me—collapsed beside my father's chair, the grieving daughter too overcome to think clearly.
Car doors slam outside. Heavy footsteps on the front porch. Voices calling out in the authoritative tones of people who've done this before.
"POLICE! Anyone inside?"
"In here!" I call out, letting my voice crack with relief and terror. "In the kitchen! Please help him, please—"
The first officer through the door is young, maybe mid-twenties, with the hyperalert posture of someone still proving himself. His hand rests on his weapon as he takes in the scene—the blood, the body, the teenage girl sobbing beside her murdered father.
"Ma'am, I need you to step back from the body." His voice is gentle but firm, trained to de-escalate traumatic situations. "Let us work, okay?"
I let him guide me away from the chair, my legs shaking with what looks like shock but feels more like adrenaline. The kitchen fills with professionals—paramedics who confirm what we already know, officers who secure the scene, a crime scene photographer who begins documenting Kent's work with clinical precision.
Through it all, I maintain my performance. The traumatized daughter, too overwhelmed to be coherent, too grief-stricken to answer complex questions. They wrap a blanket around my shoulders and hand me tissues and speak in the soft tones reserved for victims.
Detective Rivas arrives twenty minutes later, older than the patrol officers, with the tired eyes of someone who's seen too much violence. He studies the scene with professional attention, noting details I helped create, taking in positioning I helped perfect.
"Delilah?" His voice is kind, paternal. "I'm Detective Rivas. I worked with your father. I know this is difficult, but I need to ask you some questions."
I nod through my tears, playing the part of a cooperative witness. "Anything to help catch whoever did this to him."
The irony tastes bitter in my mouth, but my performance never wavers. Because across the room, crime scene technicians are photographing Kent's signature, documenting his message, adding this scene to their growing file of unsolved cases.
They're looking for a monster who's already disappeared into the night. A killer who left behind evidence and positioning and surgical precision.
What they'll never find is the sixteen-year-old girl who helped him finish his work. Who thanked him for committing murder. Who carries his victim's confession in her pocket like a talisman against the lies that are about to be told about Harry Jenkins.
The performance continues, and I play my part perfectly.
Yet in the space between heartbeats, when no one is watching my face, I allow myself one moment of pure, cold satisfaction.
Justice was served tonight.
And I was there to see it.
Chapter 10 - Kent
OCTOBER 2025
Morning light filters through the cheap blinds of my trailer, casting geometric shadows across Mara's bare shoulder as she lies beside me. Her auburn hair spills across the pillow like liquid copper, and I can see the small scar on her shoulder blade where she fell off her bike at nine. She told me that story three months ago, along with a dozen others that create the comfortable intimacy between us.
Not love. Neither of us has illusions about what this is. But something warmer than simple physical release.
"Coffee's ready," she mumbles into the pillow, though neither of us moves to get it.
She rolls over to face me, blue-green eyes still heavy with sleep. At forty-two, she's got laugh lines and silver threads in her hair that catch the light when she moves. Beautiful in the way of women who've stopped worrying about being perfect.
"You're thinking too loud," she observes, tracing circles on my chest. "What's going on in that complicated head of yours?"
"Work," I say, which isn't entirely a lie. My furniture restoration business has been growing faster than I expected. Good for my bank account, complicated for my need to maintain a low profile.
Mara studies my face with the attention of someone who makes art from raw materials, who understands that details matter. But she doesn't push. That's part of what makes this work between us.
"Coffee and newspaper," she declares, padding naked to my tiny kitchen. "Perfect Sunday morning ritual."
This is our routine. Mara reads me headlines while I drink coffee and pretend to be more asleep than I am. It's domestic in ways that should make me uncomfortable, but somehow doesn't.
She settles beside me, paper spread across her lap. "Let's see…. City council's still fighting about the waterfront development. High school football team made state championships. Some poor investment banker got murdered on Maple Street."
