"We'll figure that out. Transfer your records, get you enrolled somewhere new. Fresh start, new environment." She pauses, studying my face. "Unless you want to finish out the year at your old school? I know you just started senior year. Whatever feels right to you."
Whatever feels right to me. The phrase makes me dizzy with possibility. Because nothing has ever been about what feels right to me before. Everything has been about managing his feelings, anticipating his needs, making myself small enough to avoid his attention.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I've never really thought about what I want before."
The admission hangs in the air between us, more revealing than I intended it to be. Janine's eyes fill with something that might be tears, but she blinks them back before they can fall.
"Well," she says, voice steady despite the emotion underneath, "we have time to figure it out. No pressure, no deadlines. We'll take it one day at a time."
I nod and take another bite of eggs, surprised to discover I'm actually hungry. When's the last time I ate without having to calculate whether the sound of chewing might irritate him? When's the last time breakfast was about nourishment instead of just getting something in my stomach before the daily crisis began?
"Delilah?" Janine's voice is gentle, tentative. "Can I ask you something?"
My body goes tense automatically, muscle memory from years of loaded questions and verbal landmines. But her tone doesn't carry threat, just curiosity.
"Okay."
"What's your favorite color?"
I blink at her. "What?"
"Your favorite color. I realized last night, when I was getting your room ready, that I don't actually know. I picked out some things based on what I thought you might like, but I'd rather know what you actually prefer."
The question is so simple, so innocent, that for a moment, I can't process it. My favorite color. Not what color he thinkslooks good on me, or what color hides stains best, or what color doesn't draw unwanted attention.
My favorite color.
"I…" I start, then stop. Because I genuinely don't know. I've spent so long thinking about what other people want, what's safest, what causes the least conflict, that I've never considered what I actually like.
"It's okay," Janine says quickly, seeing my confusion. "There's no rush. We can figure it out together. Maybe we can go shopping this week, look at some things, see what speaks to you."
Shopping. For things I want instead of things I need. The concept is almost overwhelming.
"I think I might like blue," I say tentatively, testing how the preference feels in my mouth. "Dark blue, maybe. Or green. I've always liked looking at trees."
"Blue and green," Janine repeats, like she's committing it to memory. "We can work with that. What about music? Books? Movies?"
Each question feels like a small revelation. That I have opinions about these things, that my opinions matter, that someone wants to know them, not to manipulate or control, but just to understand who I am underneath all the survival mechanisms.
"I like reading," I say, gaining confidence. "Psychology books, mostly. True crime. I want to understand how people think, why they do the things they do."
Something flickers across Janine's face—concern, maybe, or understanding that goes deeper than I expected. "That makes sense," she says carefully. "Given everything you've been through."
Everything I've been through. The careful euphemism for sixteen years of systematic abuse, as if naming it directly might make it too real to bear.
And she doesn't know the half of it. Doesn't know about last night, about Kent, about the confession tape currently hidden in my backpack upstairs like some kind of twisted talisman. She thinks she's dealing with a traumatized teenager who needs healing and stability.
She has no idea she's harboring someone who watched her father get murdered and felt nothing but gratitude.
"Yeah," I say simply, because it's easier than explaining that my interest in criminal psychology comes from firsthand experience with monsters. "I want to help people someday. Maybe work with the FBI, or be a therapist. Help other kids who are going through what I went through."
It's not entirely a lie. I do want to help people. I want to understand the darkness that lives inside people like my father, want to learn how to identify it and stop it before it can hurt anyone else.
I just don't mention that my definition of "stopping it" might be broader than what most people would consider appropriate.
"That's a beautiful goal," Janine says, and I can hear the genuine pride in her voice. "You're going to do amazing things with your life, Delilah. I can already tell."
The confidence in her tone startles me. Because she's looking at me like she sees potential instead of damage, like she believes I can become something other than just a survivor of my father's violence.
