I was eight years old when I saw my first dead body. I knew all my life that I would be exposed to death, I listened to it at the kitchen table, saw it on my mother's corkboard. It was in my family. But I spent sleepless nights staring at my ceiling, wondering if one day it was going to be me who was photographed, splayed on the floor with chunks of my brain out. Or my mother. Or my father. Who would be the next victim? How would I be remembered?

Now, seventeen years later, seeing photographs of dead bodies had not gotten any easier. This wasn't a movie. This was real life. Each picture was a soul that had been lost to this world. The court room was quiet as the lawyer paced, moving slowly enough to show off the picture to its fullest extent. This time it wasn't a simple gunshot to the head – something I had learned was almost a blessing in my world – it was marks of pain, some healed, some new. Finger nails were missing. Teeth were broken. Bruises painted the skin various colours, but the skin was already the wrong shade, too pale, too sickly.

I knew Mark. He had been my mother's coworker, a successful man if there ever was one. The best of the best, they said. I had seen him receive award after reward, his tanned skin glowing, eyes sparkling. Now, seeing his face, I knew that it had been months since those eyes gleamed and his skin saw the brightness of the sun. Mark had been dead long before they had let him bleed out.

Beside me, sitting on a ridge wooden chair with her hands neatly folded in her lap and no expression on her face, was my mother. I had inherited her green eyes and dark hair, but I had not been able to inherit her ability to remain stone faced at a moment like this. That was her partner. They had worked on so many cases together. There had to be some kind of bond between the two of them. And if this could happen to Mark, it could happen to anyone.

Which meant that not even my calculating, steady mother was safe.

Everyone talked about closure coming when crime cases were solved. We knew the terrorist organization that had done this to Mark. We had a few of them in custody and they would be punished heavily – under the radar of course as the public did not need to know how the law could be twist against those who wronged us. But that wasn't enough. Knowing that a man had been murdered like that, knowing that it could be my mother next time, was haunting beyond the comfort that the law could bring.

"How are you doing?" I asked quietly as we walked down the steps of the courthouse. All around us were mournful agents, defeated and weak but silent. Others came together in times of pain. This crowd separated.

"I'm doing fine."

If it were any other person, I wouldn't have believed it. Who could look at pictures of their dead co-worker and hear horrific details from the autopsy and be unshaken? My mother. Her stiletto heels clicked on the concrete step and she thoughtlessly adjusted a cufflink on her left wrist with a sigh.

"It is a little sad though," she admitted. "He was quite good at his job. It's going to hurt the firm."

A little sad. It was a little sad to know that Mark had been beaten to bruising, had had fingernails pulled from his hands, had been jabbed with a hot poker, was left in a dark room for weeks on end, teetering on the brink of death before finally being given release.

"I'm not asking about the firm," I pressed when we hit the bottom stair. I turned to face her. Maybe a normal daughter would have taken her hands and held them, tried to connect with her. But we didn't really have that dynamic.

"It is a risk that we all take," she said with clear pride. I'm sure that others who were listening – because there was always eavesdropping among agents – would have echoed the same thing. "What happened to him was awful. But he knew there was a chance it could happen and he died honorably. We will be stronger and smarter because of it." Her chin was ticked up and her gaze focused. I think this was as close as she would ever get to truly mourning. But the moment vanished an instant later. "Dear God, it looks like your ride is here."

"Do we need to talk—"

"I'm fine." Without another word, she walked away from me. Anyone else on the street would have thought she was strutting away from a court case she had won, not leaving behind the memories of her friend.

I was left on the sidewalk by myself, trying to collect my racing thoughts while I turned to look for the vehicle she had such obvious distaste for. Among all of the sleek Mercedes sedans, the luxurious Lincoln SUVs, and the small sports cars, there was a green Astro van. Just seeing it was enough to make my muscles relax and when I saw a face I knew almost as well as my own. If I had been an emotional type, I probably would have broken down then.

Dexter was leaning against his van, nodding respectfully to the men and women in suits around him. Not that any of them had any respect for him when he pulled up in that car. Even though he had taken off his coveralls, there was a streak of grease on his sharp cheekbone. Agents in tailored suits didn't have time for people like him.

"Hey London," he greeted softly, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled at me.

"Hey, thanks for picking me up. My car is in the shop getting an oil change and a tail light fixed," I murmured. I hesitated for a moment, wanting to go in for a hug just to feel safe and secure, but not wanting to look weak in front of all of these people. I kept my arms at my sides.

He snorted and ran a hand through the midnight hair that he had gotten from his Filipino father. "It's almost like your best friend is a mechanic, right?"

All it took was a subtle shake of my head to shut him up. Of course, I knew that he could have fixed my Toyota. But having my car in shop was basically my way of saying that I needed him here. Because the reality was that I was not my mother. I couldn't just straighten my necklace and move on with my day after seeing those horrors. I didn't have the stomach for it yet.

"Come on," Dexter murmured. "I already picked up your favorite coffee."

I slipped into his van, sinking into the decade old seats that I had come to love. Even my mom's loaded SUV wasn't this comfortable. In place of seats, behind me was a bicycle that cost more than this van and everything else required for Dexter to get his adrenaline fix. He clambered into the driver side, all smiles before buckling up and pulling into Calgary traffic.

No words were said as he drove. That's how it had always been between us, comfortable and quiet. I had known him for too long to care about any kind of tension. When you watch each other go through acne and cringey phases of youth, there isn't much to be awkward about anymore. But there was plenty of comfort to be had and while my mind whirled to awful possibilities, I could still appreciate the fact that Dexter knew my favorite coffee shop and that I liked my flat whites extra hot and that I liked to take a couple detours to get to my apartment, because why live downtown if you weren't going to appreciate it?

It was after my key jingled through the lock and my door was pushed open that words were finally spoken.

A blur of darkness approached with an excited chirp.

"Stinky Inky," Dexter greeted, squatting down to scoop up my foster-fail into his arms.

I rolled my eyes as dramatically as I could manage, but the corners of my mouth tweaked up in a smile. "His name is Inkwell." I would say it a thousand more times, not that it ever mattered. I was just lucky that Dexter hadn't gotten his way and called Inkwell Shrimp like he originally intended, giving thanks to the takeout food that had lured the stray out of the gutter.

"Come on, Stinky Inky is much more creative. Besides, look at this little guy." He jutted the cat towards me as if I hadn't spent every day with the creature since he dropped the malnourished kitten off. "There is not a thought behind those eyes. He doesn't know that you're trying to make him prim and proper."

I sighed and dumped my purse on spotless stone countertop in my kitchen. Dexter was right, my cat didn't know that I wanted him to be an esteemed beast. But I had control over everything else in my life. At my desk was a pile of varied homework from my broad range of university courses, the blanket in my living room was neatly folded over the back of my leather sofa, a neutral calendar was pinned to my way, highlighting each of my upcoming activities. Everything was in perfect order, operating in seamless sync, just as it should be.

"Have you heard back from any of those opportunities you applied for?" Dexter asked, his voice no longer teasing.

Because everything aside from that was working like a well-oiled machine.

And each day was a reminder that I was the least successful in the Kingsley line, a family of government agents.