Chapter 11 - Delilah
Sunlight streams through gauze curtains, painting everything in soft gold. I blink awake in a bed that isn't mine, in a room that smells like lavender instead of fear, and for a moment I can't remember where I am.
Then it comes flooding back. The kitchen. The blood. Kent's careful hands positioning my father's body like a work of art. The sirens. Detective Rivas's gentle questions and my perfect performance of grief.
Janine's house. I'm at Janine's house now, in what used to be my mother's childhood bedroom, sleeping in sheets that smell like fabric softener instead of old violence.
The contrast hits me like a physical shock.
Where my father's house was all sharp corners and closed blinds, this place breathes.
High ceilings, windows that actually open, walls painted in colors other than institutional beige.
Even the morning light feels different here—warm and welcoming instead of harsh and accusing.
I sit up in bed, testing the silence. No heavy footsteps on creaking floorboards. No muttered curses or slamming cabinet doors. No carefully modulated breathing that means someone's calculating whether today's a hitting day or just a shouting day.
Just quiet. Real quiet, the kind that comes from safety instead of hiding.
"Delilah?" Janine's voice drifts up from downstairs, soft and questioning. "You awake, honey?"
The endearment makes my chest tight. When's the last time someone called me honey without sarcasm or threat underneath it? When's the last time someone asked if I was awake instead of demanding I get up?
"Coming," I call back, my voice rusty with sleep.
I swing my legs out of bed and catch sight of myself in the antique mirror across the room. Sixteen years old, wearing borrowed pajamas that are too big for me, hair tangled from the first real sleep I've had in months. I look younger than I feel, more fragile than I want to admit.
But alive. Definitely alive.
The smell of coffee and bacon draws me downstairs, following hardwood floors that gleam with care instead of neglect.
Everything about this house speaks to attention and love—family photos clustered on side tables, plants that are actually thriving, furniture that's been chosen for comfort rather than intimidation.
I find Janine in the kitchen, standing at the stove in a soft blue robe, her blonde hair caught up in a messy bun. She looks like my mother might have, if she'd lived long enough to age gracefully instead of desperately.
"Good morning, sweetheart." She turns to smile at me, and there's no assessment in her eyes. No checking to see what mood I'm in, what I might need to be protected from. Just genuine warmth. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I have in years," I say, and it's the truth.
"I'm so glad." She gestures toward the kitchen table, set for two with actual place mats and matching dishes. "Sit, sit. I wasn't sure what you liked for breakfast, so I made a little of everything. We'll figure out your preferences as we go."
Preferences. The word hits me strange. When's the last time someone asked what I preferred? When's the last time my opinion mattered about something as simple as food?
I sit at the table, noting how the chair doesn't wobble, how the surface isn't sticky with old spills or scarred with knife marks.
Janine sets a plate in front of me—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toast cut into triangles like she thinks I'm still nine years old.
It should feel condescending, but instead it feels like tenderness.
"Orange juice? Coffee? I've got tea if you prefer that." She's hovering slightly, nervous energy radiating from her in waves. "Or milk? I can make hot chocolate if you want something sweet."
"Coffee's fine," I say. "Black."
She pauses in the act of reaching for the orange juice. "Black? You sure? You're only sixteen."
"I've been drinking coffee since I was twelve.
" The words come out harsher than I intend them to, carrying implications I don't want to explain.
Because coffee was fuel for staying awake when he came home drunk.
Coffee was armor for early mornings when I had to clean up whatever he'd destroyed the night before.
Janine's face softens with understanding she doesn't voice. "Black coffee it is, then. But maybe we can work some cream into your life eventually. Little bit of sweetness never hurt anyone."
She pours from a carafe that matches the dishes, setting the mug down gently instead of slamming it. Even her movements are different from what I'm used to—deliberate without being aggressive, efficient without being sharp.
I take a sip and nearly sigh with relief. Good coffee, strong and bitter, without the metallic taste that came from my father's ancient percolator. Another small luxury I didn't know I was missing.
"So," Janine says, settling across from me with her own mug. "I know yesterday was…overwhelming. But now that you're here, we should talk about what comes next."
Next. The concept feels foreign. For sixteen years, "next" was whatever my father decided it would be. His schedule, his rules, his moods dictating the shape of every day. The idea that I might have input into my own future is dizzying.
"The police said I could stay here," I say carefully. "Until the investigation is finished."
"You can stay here as long as you need to, investigation or no investigation." Janine's voice carries absolute conviction. "This is your home now, Delilah. For as long as you want it to be."
Home. Another word that tastes strange in my mouth. I've lived in houses, but I'm not sure I've ever had a home. Places where you're safe to be yourself, where you don't have to perform survival every waking moment.
"What about school?" I ask, because that seems like the kind of practical concern I should have.
"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 thinks looks 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.