But I'm good at lying. I've had seventeen years of practice.
Janine's waiting in the kitchen when I walk through the front door, still wearing her bathrobe and holding a cup of coffee. Her face lights up when she sees me, genuine happiness at what she thinks was a milestone night.
"How was it?" she asks immediately. "Tell me everything. Did you have fun? Were you glad you went?"
"It was perfect," I say, and the lie slides out smooth as silk. "Thank you for letting me go."
She beams, setting down her coffee to pull me into a hug that smells like lavender and home. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart. I know how hard it was to put yourself out there after everything you've been through."
If only she knew what I actually put out there. What I offered someone and had thrown back in my face like a gift that wasn't worth keeping.
"I think I'm ready to start fresh," I continue, testing the words as I speak them. "New experiences, new perspectives. Maybe even a new name."
Janine pulls back to study my face, concern flickering in her green eyes. "A new name? What do you mean?"
The question hangs between us, and I realize I've just made a decision without consciously planning it. But now that the words are out, they feel right. Necessary.
"I've been thinking about it for a while," I lie. "Delilah Jenkins carries so much history. So much pain. What if I could start over completely? Take your name, build an identity that isn't defined by what happened to me?"
"Sweetheart…." Janine's voice is gentle but cautious. "That's a big decision. Are you sure you're not just running from processing your trauma?"
Running. The word stings because it's not entirely wrong. Iamrunning—from the girl who was naive enough to think understanding could overcome age differences, from the fantasy that someone could see my darkness and not be afraid of it, from the devastating realization that even the most honest relationship can be destroyed by someone else's fear.
But running isn't always cowardice. Sometimes it's strategy.
"I'm not running from anything," I say, meeting her eyes steadily. "I'm running toward something. Toward the person I want to become."
And that person isn't Delilah Jenkins, the traumatized daughter of a corrupt cop. She isn't someone who inspires protective instincts in dangerous men or gets abandoned for her own good. She's someone who holds power instead of needing it, who understands manipulation instead of falling victim to it.
She's someone who would never find herself crying alone in a hotel room while the only person who mattered walked away.
***
The legal name change process takes three months and costs more money than I've ever spent on anything that wasn't college-related. Forms and court appearances and background checks that make me grateful my father's colleagues never suspected what really happened the night he died.
I sit in sterile government offices with fluorescent lighting and explain to bored clerks that I want to honor my guardian by taking her family name. That Delilah Jenkins represents apainful past I'm ready to leave behind. That eighteen is old enough to make this kind of decision about my identity.
They stamp the papers with bureaucratic efficiency, transforming seventeen years of history into something that can be filed away and forgotten. Delilah Jenkins becomes a ghost, legally nonexistent, while Lila North springs to life with a clean slate and limitless possibilities.
The symbolism isn't lost on me. I'm not just changing my name—I'm performing resurrection, killing off the girl who was foolish enough to fall in love with her father's killer and replacing her with someone who understands that love is just another form of weakness.
Janine watches the transformation with growing concern, noting the way I've started speaking about emotions like clinical case studies rather than personal experiences. She suggests therapy, gentle conversations about healthy coping mechanisms, worried observations about my increasing detachment from normal teenage concerns.
I listen with perfect patience and ignore every word of advice. Because Janine's concern comes from a place of love, but love makes people vulnerable. It makes them think they can save others, protect them from making hard choices, shield them from the consequences of their own decisions.
I won't make that mistake again.
Instead, I throw myself into research with the single-minded focus I once brought to understanding Kent's methodology. But now I'm studying different predators—psychologists who manipulate patients, professors who abuse their authority, therapists who exploit vulnerability. I'm learning how emotional manipulation works, how trust getsweaponized, how someone can make you feel understood while engineering your dependence on their approval.
I'm learning how not to be a victim.
The college applications I submit under my new name reflect this shift in perspective. Psychology programs with an emphasis on criminal behavior. Course catalogs that promise education in forensic analysis, behavioral profiling, the systematic study of violence and its perpetrators.
If Kent taught me anything through our correspondence, it's that understanding predators is the key to protecting yourself from them. He just never considered that he might be one of the predators I'd need protection from.
By September, the transformation is complete. Lila North receives her acceptance letter to Yale University with a full scholarship and a recommendation from her high school guidance counselor, who describes her as "remarkably mature for her age" and "someone who has overcome significant personal challenges to emerge stronger."
If only they knew that strength isn't about overcoming challenges—it's about learning not to care when people you love decide you're not worth the risk of staying.
