Chapter 26 - Kent #2
Recognition flickers across Janine's features, followed by something that might be understanding or concern. "The ones that made you smile for the first time in months? The closest thing to happiness you showed for a very long time?"
"Those letters," Lila confirms, her thumb tracing across my knuckles. "Kent was the one writing them."
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it's loaded with implications.
Janine's gaze shifts between us, processing this revelation and all the questions it raises.
I can practically see her mind working, connecting dots between a traumatized teenager who received mysterious correspondence and the man now sitting in her living room holding her niece's hand.
"Your…friend," Janine says finally, the word carefully chosen to avoid assumptions while acknowledging that she understands there's more to this story than she's been told.
I feel the need to explain, to offer context that might make this introduction less concerning for someone who's spent years protecting Lila from potential threats.
"Our age difference isn't the most appropriate," I admit, ignoring Lila's sharp elbow to my ribs when I use her real name. "And I'm just a blue-collar worker who doesn't measure up to Delilah's fancy career. But she's probably the best friend I've ever had, too."
It's an understatement that borders on offensive, given the complexity of what we share, but it's also the most honest thing I can say while sitting in her aunt's living room, drinking coffee like a normal person, introducing his girlfriend to her family.
Because that's what this is, isn't it? Despite everything else—the violence in our past, the copycat killer manipulating our present, the investigations threatening our future—this is two people who care about each other navigating the ordinary ritual of family introduction.
There's sweetness in that normalcy, in pretending for an hour that we're just Kent and Lila instead of the Carver and his erstwhile accomplice. But when our eyes meet across the coffee table, we communicate silently about why we're really here.
The small talk is pleasant, but it's not why we drove across the city this morning.
Lila seems to realize it too, because she sets down her mug and takes a breath that signals a shift in conversation.
"Janine," she says, her voice carrying the kind of careful control that suggests we're approaching dangerous territory, "do you remember Harry's funeral?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke, transforming the comfortable family breakfast into something more complicated. Whatever direction Janine thought this visit was heading, it's clear she's surprised by this particular destination.
I watch her face carefully, noting the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her fingers pause against her coffee mug. She's not uncomfortable with the topic, exactly, but she's wondering why it's being raised now, nine years later, in front of a man she's just met.
"Of course I remember," she says slowly. "It was…a difficult day. For both of us."
I find myself wondering if Lila ever talked about her father with Janine, if she shared any of the truth about what Harry Jenkins was really like, or whether she maintained the fiction of a grieving daughter even in private.
The fact that I might actually be able to ask her later—that we're building the kind of relationship where such questions are possible—makes something warm unfurl in my chest despite the gravity of what we're discussing.
"What do you remember about the other people there?" Lila asks, her voice carefully neutral. "The mourners, the colleagues who came to pay their respects?"
Janine sets down her coffee, giving the question the consideration it seems to require.
"There were hundreds of people, sweetheart.
Police officers from three precincts, community members, politicians.
Your father was…." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "He was well-regarded professionally."
The diplomatic phrasing suggests Janine understood more about Harry Jenkins than she ever let on, understood that his public reputation didn't necessarily reflect his private character. Another piece of evidence that the woman who raised Lila is far more perceptive than I initially assumed.
"Anyone who stood out to you?" Lila presses gently. "Someone who seemed…different from the others?"
The specificity of the question makes Janine's expression sharpen with concern. "Delilah, what's this about? Why are you asking about your father's funeral now?"
And that's the question, isn't it? How do we explain that someone might have been using that funeral to begin a psychological experiment that's culminating now, nine years later, in copycat murders designed to force us back together?
How do we tell her that the past is reaching into the present in ways that threaten everyone we care about?
Lila takes a careful breath, her fingers tightening around mine. "I'm consulting on a case that might be connected to some of the people who were there. I'm trying to verify whether someone I think I remember was actually present."
It's a masterful deflection—technically true while revealing nothing that could compromise operational security. But Janine's expression suggests she's not entirely satisfied with the explanation.
"What kind of case requires you to investigate your father's funeral nine years after the fact?"
"The kind I can't discuss in detail," Lila replies, falling back on professional boundaries. "But if you could help me identify whether certain people were there, it might be significant."
Janine studies her niece's face with the kind of careful attention that suggests years of practice reading Lila's emotional states. Whatever she sees there must convince her that this isn't casual curiosity, because she nods slowly.
"All right. What do you need to know?"
"Do you remember anyone who seemed out of place? Someone who was watching the other mourners instead of grieving themselves?"
The question is pointed enough that Janine's eyebrows rise slightly. "You mean like investigators? There were several detectives there, people from Internal Affairs. That's normal for when an officer dies under suspicious circumstances."
"No, not investigators. Someone else. Maybe a woman, professional looking, standing apart from the crowd?"
Janine closes her eyes for a moment, and I can practically see her sorting through memories, trying to recall details from what must have been an emotionally overwhelming day.
"There were a lot of people," she says finally.
"Colleagues, community members, people whose names I never knew.
But…." She pauses, something flickering across her features.
"There was someone. A woman in a dark suit who seemed to be taking notes or making observations.
I remember thinking it was odd because she wasn't interacting with anyone, just watching. "
My chest tightens because this confirms Lila's fragmentary memory, suggests that her paranoid recollections might be accurate rather than trauma-induced delusion.
"Do you remember what she looked like?" Lila asks, her voice carefully controlled despite the tension I can feel radiating from her body.
"Tall, well-dressed, professional bearing. Dark hair pulled back very precisely. She had the kind of presence that made you notice her even in a crowd of hundreds."
"Janine," Lila says slowly, "do you know a woman named Evelyn Shaw?"
Recognition doesn't immediately cross Janine's features. She tilts her head, considering the name with the kind of concentration that suggests she's searching her memory for connections.
"Evelyn Shaw," she repeats. "I don't think so. The name isn't familiar."
Lila reaches for her phone, fingers moving across the screen with practiced efficiency. After a moment, she turns it toward her aunt, displaying what must be Shaw's professional photograph.
"Do you know this woman?"
Janine leans forward to study the image, and I watch her expression change from polite interest to surprise to something that looks uncomfortably like concern.
"Oh," she breathes, recognition dawning across her features. "Yes, I know her. But that's not…I mean, I didn't remember her name as Shaw."
"Who is she?" Lila asks, though from the careful control in her voice, I suspect she already knows the answer will be significant.
"She's one of the psychologists who evaluated you after your father's death.
The police department required a psychological assessment for all family members in cases involving officer fatalities.
Standard protocol." Janine's brow furrows as she continues studying the photograph.
"But she looks…older here? More mature than I remember. "
The pieces click into place with horrifying clarity. Shaw wasn't just observing Lila at her father's funeral—she was there in an official capacity, conducting a psychological evaluation of a traumatized teenager who'd just lost her father to violence.
She had access to Lila's most vulnerable moments, to her psychological responses, to her coping mechanisms and emotional patterns. She was able to study Delilah Jenkins up close, to document her reactions and behavioral markers with professional authority and institutional protection.
"What did she evaluate you for?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.
Janine answers before Lila can respond, her voice carrying undertones of old frustration. "That's what bothered me about the whole thing. Standard psychological evaluation after trauma should focus on immediate safety, coping mechanisms, support systems. But she asked…unusual questions."
"What kind of unusual questions?" Lila's voice has gone very quiet, very controlled.