"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "I mean, what if Detective Rivas needs to reach me? What if there's news about the investigation?"
What I don't say is that I need to monitor the situation, need to understand how the official investigation is progressing, and whether there are any details that might threaten my carefully constructed narrative. Kent was thorough, but investigations have a way of uncovering unexpected evidence.
"I'll keep it on for official calls," Janine compromises. "But I'm screening everything else."
She reaches over and squeezes my hand again, her touch warm and reassuring in ways that make my chest tight with unfamiliar emotions. "This will pass, sweetheart. The media circus will move on, the investigation will conclude, and you'll be able to start building the life you deserve."
The life I deserve. The phrase echoes in my mind as I finish my coffee and help Janine clean up the breakfast dishes. Because what do I deserve, really? Safety and love and the chance to heal from sixteen years of systematic abuse? Or the burden of carrying secrets that could destroy lives if they ever came to light?
Maybe both. Maybe the girl who survived Harry Jenkins and the girl who's grateful for his death can both deserve peace.
But first, I have to make sure the truth stays buried exactly where Kent left it—in a confession tape that proves my father was a monster, hidden away until the day I might need to use it to protect the life I'm finally free to build.
***
The letter arrives three days later, mixed in with sympathy cards and casserole offerings from neighbors who want to help the poor orphaned girl. Janine sorts through the mail at the kitchen table, setting aside the obvious condolences and checking return addresses on everything else.
"Miss Jenkins," she reads from a cream-colored envelope, her voice curious. "From Kent Shepherd. Do you know someone by that name, Del?"
My heart stops. Actually stops, then kicks back into a rhythm so violent I'm sure Janine can hear it across the table. Kent Shepherd. His real name, written in careful block letters on an envelope addressed to me.
"Yeah," I say, fighting to keep my voice casual. "He's, uh—a friend."
The lie comes easier than it should. Because what else can I call him? The man who killed my father? The person who gave me justice when no one else would? The stranger who saw me clearly in a way no one ever has?
Friend seems both inadequate and strangely accurate.
Janine studies my face with the attention of someone who's learned to read between lines. "A friend from school?"
"Not exactly." I reach for the letter, trying not to appear too eager. "He's just someone I know. Can I…?"
"Of course, sweetheart. Your mail is your mail." She doesn't stop watching me as I take the envelope, noting the way my fingers tremble slightly as they close around the paper. "Everything okay?"
"Fine. Just surprised to hear from him." I stand from the table, letter clutched against my chest. "I'm going to go upstairs for a bit. Maybe lie down."
"Good idea. You've been through so much these past few days."
I climb the stairs to my temporary sanctuary, closing the bedroom door behind me with deliberate care. The envelope feels impossibly heavy in my hands, weighted with implications and possibilities I'm not sure I'm ready to face.
Kent wrote to me. After everything that happened, after disappearing into the night like a ghost, he took the time to findout where I'm staying and send a letter. Which means he's been thinking about me, about what we shared in that blood-soaked kitchen.
Which means I wasn't imagining the connection I felt.
I sit on the bed, turning the envelope over in my hands. My name is written in the same careful block letters I saw him use on the confession tape's label. Precise, controlled, deliberate. Everything about the handwriting suggests someone who thinks before he acts, who chooses every detail with purpose.
The return address is a P.O. Box downtown. No home address, no personal information that could be traced back to him if this letter fell into the wrong hands. Just enough contact information to establish a line of communication while maintaining operational security. It’s smart of him, I think.
Unlike the butterflies in my belly when I slide my finger under the envelope flap, breaking the seal with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. Inside is a single sheet of cream-colored paper, folded in precise thirds. The same handwriting, the same careful control. Somehow, it’s more personal when it's formed into sentences meant specifically for me.
Delilah,
I hope this finds you safe and healing. I've been following the news coverage of the investigation, and I wanted you to know that you're handling an impossible situation with remarkable strength.
What happened between us that night was unprecedented. I've never had a witness to my work before, never shared that level of truth with another person. Your reaction—your understanding—meant more to me than I think you realize.
I know the official story requires you to maintain certain fictions about who your father was and what kind of man the world lost. I understand the performance you have to give, the grief you have to perform. But I want you to know that someone else knows the truth. Someone else sees clearly who he really was and what justice actually looks like.
You thanked me for what I did. No one has ever thanked me before. Most people would have been horrified, traumatized, broken by witnessing what you witnessed. Instead, you helped me complete the work. You understood the necessity of it in a way that most people never could.
