Chapter 4 - Kent #3
My vision goes red at the edges, and for a moment I can't see anything but the past—my own childhood blending with hers until I can't tell the difference between nine-year-old me cowering in a corner and sixteen-year-old her trapped in that room with a man who's supposed to protect her.
The fence post cracks under my grip.
CRASH.
The sound explodes through the night—something heavy and breakable hitting the floor upstairs. Glass and ceramic and wood all shattering at once, the kind of destruction that comes from fury finding a target.
Then Delilah's cry, sharp and pained and terrified: "Ahh—"
Followed immediately by: "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Dad, please, I'm sorry!"
My body moves before my brain catches up.
I'm halfway across the yard, feet pounding against grass, blood roaring in my ears, before the rational part of my mind screams at me to stop. I slam into the side of the house, palms flat against the siding, breathing hard enough to hyperventilate.
What the fuck are you doing?
I grab for the fence post I'd abandoned, fingers finding splintered wood that creaks ominously under my weight. The sound grounds me just enough to keep from charging through the front door like some kind of avenging angel.
But inside my head, everything is fracturing.
She said sorry. She said sorry. Why is she saying sorry?
The words loop through my mind like a broken record, each repetition driving deeper into places I thought I'd sealed off years ago. I'm nine years old again, small and helpless, watching through a crack in the bedroom door while—
No. Stop. Count something. Three screws, never two, never four. Three. Three. Three.
But the pattern isn't working. The careful structure I've built inside my head is crumbling, and all I can hear is the sound of a child apologizing for being hurt. For existing. For breathing while someone bigger decided to use them as a punching bag.
My hands won't stop moving—fingers drumming against the fence, counting and recounting, trying to find some rhythm that will make sense of the chaos in my skull. But every number dissolves the moment I reach it, scattered by the sound of Jenkins's boots on the stairs.
He's coming down. Heavy footsteps, uneven with alcohol and adrenaline, moving through the house like a storm front. From upstairs comes the soft sound of crying—quiet, careful, the kind that tries not to draw attention.
Jenkins appears in the living room window, swaying slightly, his uniform disheveled and his face flushed with exertion and rage. He's breathing hard, like he's been doing manual labor instead of terrorizing a sixteen-year-old girl.
My body starts shaking then. Not fear—pure, undiluted fury that has nowhere to go. My vision narrows to a tunnel focused on Jenkins's face, on the satisfied expression of someone who's gotten exactly what he wanted.
She said sorry.
The thought hits again, and this time it brings everything with it.
Every memory I've buried, every moment of helplessness, every fucking time I had to watch violence happen and couldn't stop it.
My childhood bleeding into the present until I can't tell the difference between then and now, between me and her.
Three screws, never two, never—fuck, what comes after three? What comes after three?
My hands are flapping now, a stimming behavior I haven't done since I was a kid, since before I learned to mask everything that made me different.
But the control is gone, shattered like whatever Jenkins threw upstairs, and I can't stop the repetitive movements any more than I can stop the thoughts spiraling through my head.
Through the upstairs window, I can see Delilah's silhouette moving carefully around her room. She's holding something to her face—cloth, maybe, or an ice pack. Her shoulders are hunched inward, protective, like someone trying to make themselves smaller.
That's when something snaps inside me.
Not breaks—snaps. Like a wire under too much tension, like a bone bent past its limit. The methodical killer who plans everything disappears, replaced by something raw and primal and completely fucking unhinged.
This isn't about justice anymore. This isn't about removing a corrupt cop or protecting potential victims or any of the rational justifications I've used to explain my work.
This is about fury. This is about the nine-year-old boy I used to be, who never got rescued, who learned to apologize for his own bruises.
This is about making Harry Jenkins cease to exist, consequences be damned.
Time loses meaning. I might stand there for minutes or hours, watching Jenkins move around downstairs while Delilah tends to whatever damage he's done upstairs.
My breathing evens out eventually, but not because I'm calming down—because I'm moving past emotion into something colder.
Something that doesn't care about smart plans or careful timing or any of the rules that have kept me alive this long.
Jenkins disappears from view, heading toward what looks like the kitchen.
Probably getting another drink, celebrating a successful bout of child abuse.
The house goes quiet except for the soft sounds of Delilah moving around upstairs, cleaning up the mess, putting her life back together one broken piece at a time.
She'll sleep tonight with whatever injuries he gave her. She'll wake up tomorrow and pretend everything is normal. She'll make him breakfast and watch him put on his uniform and badge and go out into the world where people trust him to protect them.
And she'll do it all while carrying the knowledge that no one will ever believe her if she tries to report what happens behind closed doors. Because who do you call when the monster wears a badge?
The answer sits in my chest like a weight: You don't call anyone. You handle it yourself.
My hands finally stop shaking, not because the rage has passed, but because it's crystallized into something useful. Something with direction and purpose and absolutely no room for doubt.
Harry Jenkins is going to die. Not because he's corrupt, not because he's a threat to society, but because he broke something pure and good and made her apologize for the breaking.
And I'm going to make sure he understands exactly why.