Chapter 9 - Delilah #2
"Wait," I call out, my voice steadier than it has any right to be.
He pauses at the door, hand on the knob, looking back at me with those dark, calculating eyes.
"Thank you." The words tumble out, raw and honest. "For—" But I can't finish the sentence. How do you thank someone for murder? For justice? For seeing the monster everyone else refused to acknowledge?
So I repeat it, simpler: "Thank you."
He stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. His jaw works silently for a moment, and I can see him struggling to process my reaction. This isn't what he expected. Whatever scenario he'd planned for if someone discovered him, it didn't include gratitude.
"You shouldn't be thanking me," he says finally, his voice rough with something I can't identify. "I just killed your father."
"You put down a monster." The correction comes out sharp, definitive. "There's a difference."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. Like he's seeing me clearly for the first time, understanding that this wasn't rescue in his mind, but it became partnership in mine.
"The police," I continue, my brain shifting into practical mode. "How long before they expect to hear from you? Before someone comes looking?"
"They don't expect anything from me." The Carver’s response is automatic, professional. "But they'll investigate when the body's discovered."
"Then you need to leave. Now." I move past him to the kitchen sink, turning on the tap and the hot water run. "But first we clean up properly."
He watches me with growing bewilderment as I pull rubber gloves from the cabinet under the sink—the same gloves my father used when he wanted to avoid leaving fingerprints on the belt he'd use on me.
"You touched the counter here," I say, pointing to where his surgical kit had rested. "The chair arms when you positioned him. The door handle coming in."
"I was wearing gloves—"
"Fabric leaves fibers. The sink handle, the towel rack—anywhere you might have steadied yourself." I'm already moving, methodically wiping down surfaces with the efficiency of someone who's spent years cleaning up after violence. "What about outside? The back fence, the gate latch?"
He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "How do you know all this?"
"Television. Books. And sixteen years of living with a cop who explained exactly how investigations work when he wanted to scare me into silence." I hand him a cloth. "The porch light switch, the door frame. Anywhere your clothing might have brushed."
He takes the cloth but doesn't move immediately. His dark eyes are fixed on my face with uncomfortable intensity, like he's trying to solve an equation that doesn't balance.
"This isn't normal," he says quietly.
"Says the serial killer," I snort. I continue wiping down surfaces, my movements quick and efficient. "But we can't change what happened. We can only make sure it doesn't come back to hurt either of us."
"Either of us?"
The question stops me mid-motion. Because there it is, laid bare—the assumption I made without conscious thought. That we're a team now. That his safety matters to me as much as my own.
"You saved me," I say simply. "That makes us connected, whether we planned it or not."
The Carver moves finally, following my lead and cleaning potential evidence with the same methodical precision he used to arrange my father's body. But I can feel him watching me as we work, noting my calm efficiency, my lack of hysteria or shock.
"You should be falling apart right now," he observes, wiping down the door frame. "Trauma response, delayed shock, something."
"Should I be?" I pause in my cleaning to look at him directly. "Should I be mourning the man who broke my ribs when I was nine? Who told me my mother's death was my fault? Who—" I stop, unable to voice the worst of it, even now.
His jaw tightens, and something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "What else did he do to you?"
The question hangs in the blood-scented air between us, loaded with implications that make my chest tight. Because the Carver isn't just asking out of curiosity. There's something protective in his voice, something that suggests my answer matters to him in ways that go beyond simple concern.
"It doesn't matter now," I say, turning back to my cleaning. "He's dead. It's over."
But I can feel his gaze on my back, heavy with unasked questions and growing understanding. The pieces are clicking together in his mind—my composure, my practical response, my complete lack of grief for a murdered parent.
"The tape," he says suddenly. "His confession. Do you want to hear it?"
I consider this, cloth still in my hands. Sixty-three minutes of my father admitting to things I've never spoken aloud, acknowledging crimes I've carried alone for years.
"Not now," I decide. "Maybe someday. But not now."
The Carver nods, as if this makes sense to him. "It's the only proof of what he really was. It is yours to do with what you must."
"I will." The promise feels like a vow, binding and absolute.
We finish cleaning in silence, two people moving through the choreography of evidence disposal with surprising synchronization. He checks areas I miss; I catch details he overlooks. It's like we've done this before, though we both know we haven't.
When we're finished, he repacks his surgical kit with the same careful attention he used to arrange the body. Each tool has its place, its purpose, its role in whatever comes next for him.
"What's your name?" I ask as he prepares to leave again.
He hesitates, and I can see him weighing the wisdom of answering. Names have power. Names create connections. Names leave trails that can be followed.
"Kent," he says finally.
It feels preposterous for his name to be something so simple. Then again, Bundy was called ‘Ted.’
"Thank you, Kent." The words carry the weight of sixteen years of fear, finally lifted. "For all of it."
He pauses at the back door, looking at me with an expression I can't read. There's something in his dark eyes that might be protectiveness, or possessiveness, or simple human connection. Something that suggests this moment has changed him as much as it's changed me.
"Will you be all right?" he asks. "When they find him, when the investigation starts?"
"I'll be the grieving daughter who came home to find her hero father murdered." The role feels like putting on a costume I've worn before. "I'm good at playing parts."
Kent nods slowly, but something in his posture suggests he doesn't want to leave. Doesn't want to step back into the shadows and disappear like the ghost the police believe him to be.
"If you need anything," he says, then stops. Because what could he offer? A killer's protection? A murderer's assistance?
"I know," I say anyway, understanding what he can't voice.
He slips out into the night then, leaving me alone with my father's carefully arranged corpse and the strange, wild certainty that this isn't the end of our story.
It's just the beginning.
But first, I have a performance to give.
I stand in the kitchen doorway, studying the scene with new eyes. Not the eyes of someone who helped arrange the body, who understood the methodology, who felt grateful for the violence. The eyes of Delilah Jenkins, sixteen-year-old daughter, coming home from work to find her father murdered.
What would she see first? The blood, probably. The unnatural positioning. The terrible stillness of a man who was alive when she left for work this morning.
What would she do?
I close my eyes and let myself slip into that other girl—the one who never watched Kent work, who never helped position the arms, who never thanked a killer for setting her free. The traumatized daughter who loved her father despite everything, who can't comprehend what she's seeing.
When I open my eyes again, I'm her.
"Dad?" The word comes out small, uncertain. My voice cracks on the single syllable. "Dad, what—oh God. Oh God, no."
I stumble forward, playing the part of someone whose legs have gone weak with shock. My hands shake as I reach toward him, then pull back, too afraid to touch. Too horrified to get closer.
The transformation is seamless, years of practice in reading his moods and anticipating his violence translating into perfect mimicry of grief. My breathing becomes shallow, panicked. Tears—real ones, pulled from some deep well of old pain—start flowing down my cheeks.
"Dad, please wake up. Please, Dad, please—"
My voice breaks completely, dissolving into the kind of keening wail that comes from the gut. The sound of a child who's lost the only parent she had left, no matter how terrible he was.
I sink to my knees beside the chair, careful not to disturb Kent's careful positioning, and let the sobs take over.
They're not entirely fake—there's grief there, though not for the man who terrorized my childhood.
Grief for the father I never had, for the safety that was stolen from me, for sixteen years of walking on eggshells around a monster.
The performance has to be perfect. Convincing. Because Detective Rivas will interview me, will study my reactions, will look for any sign that I'm hiding something. The entire investigation will pivot on whether they believe I'm a traumatized victim or a potential suspect.
I pull out my phone with trembling fingers, muscle memory guiding me through the motions of someone in crisis. The screen blurs through my tears as I dial 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"My father—" The words come out in a rush, high and breathless. "Someone killed my father. He's—there's so much blood—"
"Ma'am, I need you to stay calm. What's your address?"
I give it through hitching sobs, playing the part of someone barely holding together. The operator's voice is steady, professional, designed to cut through panic and gather essential information.
"Are you injured? Are you safe?"
"I don't know. I just got home from work and found him like this. I don't know if—what if they're still here? What if—"
"Ma'am, I need you to get to a safe location. Can you leave the house?"
"I can't leave him. I can't—he's all I have left." The desperation in my voice is real, even if the reasoning is performative. "Please, just send someone. Send everyone."
"Units are already dispatched to your location. Can you tell me what happened?"
"I don't know. I was at work until—I got off early, my manager let me leave around ten-thirty.
When I got home, the front door was unlocked, which was weird because Dad always locks it.
I called out, but he didn't answer, so I went to the kitchen and—" My voice dissolves into fresh sobs. "There's so much blood."
"Is your father conscious? Is he breathing?"
The question hangs in the air, and I have to make a choice. Do I check? Do I pretend to check? How would a real daughter respond?
"I—I'm scared to touch him. His eyes are open, but he's not moving. There are—there are cuts all over him, and the way he's positioned—" I let my voice rise to the edge of hysteria. "They—They were wearing a mask! They ran out! Who would do this to him? Why would someone—"
"Help is almost there, ma'am. I can hear the sirens—can you hear them?"
I can. Faint but growing closer, the wail of emergency vehicles cutting through the night air. In minutes, my house will be flooded with paramedics, police officers, crime scene technicians. People who will look at my father's body and see not justice, but evidence.
The confession tape feels impossibly heavy in my pocket, a weight that seems to grow with each passing second. Sixty-three minutes of recorded truth that could destroy half the police department—or save my life if things go wrong.
"They're here," I whisper into the phone, watching red and blue lights paint the kitchen walls through the window. "The police are here."
"Stay on the line until they can speak with you, okay?"
"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.