He nodded. “Right.”

  “On top of that, the next two episodes we were supposed to record this week… they’re scrapped. Both of our guests canceled. They’re afraid the Carver might target them if he hears them speaking about him.”

  “Understandable, but that’s rough for you and Freya,” Jacob said, tilting his head. “Who were the guests? If you don’t mind sharing.”

  “One was Heather Voss’s sister.”

  “Oh, Marilyn something, right? I think I saw an interview with her on TV last year.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. Marilyn Feuer. She’s done a lot of media stuff over the years, trying to keep the case in the public eye. She’s never stopped fighting for Heather.”

  “Poor woman,” Jacob murmured, shaking his head.

  I nodded again, letting out a sigh. “The other guest was a woman named Hannah Wilson. She’s the niece of Elijah Dougherty,” I said. “Anyway, she reached out last week to say how much she appreciated that we didn’t trash her uncle like so many other true crime shows have. She was really eager to talk to us about him then… but now she’s backed out. Like I said, she was scared, and apparently her husband was worried too.”

  Jacob’s brows furrowed. “Didn’t Elijah Dougherty raise his brother’s other two children as well?”

  “Yep, another niece and a nephew. Cameron and Kai.”

  “Could you contact them? See if either of them are willing to do an interview now that Hannah’s dropped out?”

  I nodded. “Freya thought of that, but we haven’t been able to find contact details for them,” I said. “No socials or anything like that. Looks like they both moved interstate a while ago and then dropped off the radar.”

  “I get that. I’m not really much of a social media guy myself.”

  “I get it too. Especially after what they went through with their uncle being accused like that,” I said. I sighed and went on. “But… it just sucks. We were really excited to have Hannah on the show. Marilyn too. And now—” I mimed an explosion. “Everything’s up in the air.”

  “Yeah, it’s disappointing. But I’m sure you and Freya will think of something.”

  “Actually…” I sat up straighter. “I just remembered something. Freya wanted me to ask if you’d be willing to come on the show to talk to us about some psychology-related stuff. But I totally understand if you aren’t interested in it, given everything that’s happened with the case over the last few days.”

  Jacob didn’t even hesitate. “I’m in.”

  I blinked. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “The Carver might have everyone else in this city in a chokehold, but not me. I’m not scared of him. At all.”

  There was something sharp in his voice when he said it. Not cocky, but personal. Like he had a score to settle.

  “What exactly would the segment be about?” he went on, eyes glimmering with excitement. “The psychology of the Carver? Maybe a breakdown of the FBI profile? Because to be honest, I’ve never agreed with any of the profilers when it comes to that case.”

  I shook my head. “The episode we were planning is more about the trolls. You know, the people who are obsessed with the case and say awful stuff to the victims’ families, or accuse the wrong people of being the killer. We wanted a psych angle on why some people do that.”

  Jacob’s face fell slightly. “Ah. That’s an interesting subject.”

  “But,” I added quickly, “your idea might actually be better, especially now. Seeing as people are more focused on the case again, it could be a great time to revisit the FBI profile, especially with someone like you explaining what holds up and what doesn’t. I’ll run it by Freya.”

  That brought the excitement back into his expression. “You think she’d be open to it?”

  “Yeah, I think she’ll like it,” I said. “We’ve been trying to figure out how to pivot without turning the show into fear-mongering clickbait. This might be the perfect way to do that.”

  He smiled and picked up a fry. “Then it’s a deal. Just tell me when and where.”

  I grinned back. For the first time all week, something actually felt like it was falling into place.

  Jacob finished his fry and spoke again, voice slightly lower this time. “On a more personal note, how are you doing with all this Carver return stuff?” he asked. “You seem to be handling things pretty well, but… speaking as your therapist for a second, I know how good you are at hiding your true thoughts and feelings.”

  I gave him a wry smile and nodded. “That’s true. But honestly, I’m doing better than I thought I would be,” I replied. “I totally freaked out when I got those ears sent to me, and I’m definitely still on high alert all the time, but I think I’m handling it pretty well overall.”

  That wasn’t a complete lie. I was actually managing my anxiety pretty well. But there was still something darker under the surface. Something I couldn’t bring myself to admit out loud.

  Ever since the Carver had resurfaced, my fantasies had been stronger and more frequent than ever before. Violent. Twisted. Shameful.

  I didn’t just fear the danger. I dreamed about it every night. About him.

  It started the same way every time. I’d wake up after hearing a noise somewhere, like a floorboard creaking as my house settled, or a heavy gust of wind outside. Then I’d feel a flash of fear, followed by an image appearing in my hazy mind: a skull mask in the shadows. That was followed by the feeling of a hand clamping over my mouth, and a sharp command whispered in my ear. Don’t scream.

  The shame would come in waves then, hot and nauseating. But it wasn’t enough to stop my hand from slipping beneath my sheets, breath catching as the dark, twisted images flooded my mind.

  I never pictured his face. I couldn’t. But the power in his body, the slow, deliberate way he’d pin me down and drag a blade along the inside of my thigh—not just to hurt me, but also to mark me as his—lived so vividly in my mind that it was like muscle memory. Like I’d actually done it all before.

  My pulse would pound, my skin would flush, and I’d arch into my own touch as the images in my mind twisted into something unholy. The Carver holding me still. Whispering what he’d do if I disobeyed him. What he’d make me beg for.

  When it was over, I’d lie frozen in the aftermath, throat tight with disgust.

  It made me feel completely hollowed out every single time. Like I’d broken some unspoken rule of the universe. After all, you weren’t meant to fantasize about the man who murdered your father, along with twelve other people, and you certainly weren’t meant to make yourself come to the thought of him.

  But I did. Over and over.

  I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t stop. And in those moments, when my hands were reaching between my legs and my mind was conjuring him in the dark, I didn’t even want to stop.

  That terrified me most of all.

  “Are you still using the coping techniques I taught you?” Jacob asked, looking at me intently.

  I swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, every day. There’s also a ton of helpful stuff on the internet. You were right about that.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of great resources online.” He paused and leaned forward, lips curving in a conspiratorial smile. “I have a feeling I know exactly which site is your favorite,” he went on, raising a brow. “It’s that scream one, isn’t it?”

  I stared at him, pulse suddenly hammering in my throat. All the panic and fear from last week’s incident was flooding back to me. The Scream fanfic, the laptop hacker, the creepy text with the photo of my O-face attached.

  How the hell did Jacob know about that? I hadn’t told him about it. In fact, I’d never told anyone all the details. Not even Dec when he removed the malware from my computer afterward.

  “What did you just say?” I finally asked, voice coming out in a high-pitched squeak.

  Jacob’s smile didn’t falter. “The scream site. You’ve been on it, right?”

  My chair scraped back slightly. “Oh my god,” I said in a hollow voice. “It was you.”

  “What was me?”

  “The laptop camera thing, and the weird text,” I said. “You hacked into my—”

  “What?” Jacob cut in, brows drawing together. “I’m not talking about hacking you. Why would you think that?”

  “You knew the website I was on,” I said in a low voice. “But you had no way of knowing it. Not unless you’re the one who hacked me.”

  He lifted a palm. “Kennedy… I was just talking about one of the mental health websites I recommended in our last session. Remember the paper I gave you? With the list of online resources?”

  I hesitated, blinking fast.

  “There’s a site called Scream Therapy,” Jacob continued. “It’s a trauma-release program based on somatic practices that’s proven really effective with anxiety and PTSD patients. I figured there was a very high chance you’d checked it out and liked it, because it was close to the top of the list I gave you, and all of my other anxiety patients have found it extremely helpful. That’s all I meant.”

  I stared at him, heart still hammering. I wasn’t sure I believed him. Out of any website he could’ve mentioned, why did he specifically choose that one? Why not one of the breathing apps, or the mindfulness blog, or literally any of the others?

  It felt targeted. Like he’d said it just to see if I’d flinch. And I had, hard.

  I pushed back from the table, grabbing my bag in one swift motion. “Sorry, I have to go,” I muttered.

  “Kennedy,” Jacob said quickly, rising to his feet. “Wait. We should talk about—”

  “Sorry, I can’t right now,” I interrupted, not meeting his eyes. “I totally forgot I have all my groceries in the car. Some of the stuff needs to go in the fridge, so I really need to get home.”

  He remained on his feet. “Can I at least walk you to your car?” he asked. “I don’t think you should be alone outside after dark.”

  I shook my head. “I’d rather be alone right now. And I’ll be fine. This street is always packed, and there’s security guards around too.”

  Jacob gave me a small nod, then slowly sat back down. “All right. I understand,” he said. “Just remember, I’m always here if you need me.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured.

  Outside, the cool sea breeze hit my skin like a splash of cold water. I inhaled deeply, trying to shake the lingering anxiety, but it clung to me like static.

  Just as I expected, the street was crowded with people out for dinner, ice cream, or a stroll along the boardwalk. Everything should’ve felt normal and safe. But it didn’t. Not after that unsettling encounter with Jacob. And certainly not with the knowledge that the Carver was somewhere on the loose in this very city.

  I reached my car, unlocked it, and slid into the driver’s seat, fingers trembling as I pushed the key into the ignition. I turned it, and nothing happened.

  Frowning, I tried again, more firmly this time. Still nothing. The engine didn’t even sputter.

  My car was dead.

  9

  Kennedy

  I stared at the dash in disbelief, willing my car to come back to life. One more try, I told myself, gripping the key like that might make a difference.

  Still nothing. Not even a click.

  For a second, I just sat there, hands frozen on the wheel. Why did this have to happen now of all times? Right when I was absolutely desperate to get home?

  Finally, I took a breath, popped the hood, and climbed out.

  The cold metal creaked under my fingers as I lifted it. A cloud of faint steam hissed up, and I stepped back instinctively, eyes narrowing as I scanned the engine. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard my dad’s voice.

  If a car ever dies on you, don’t panic. Nine times out of ten, it’s something simple. You just have to know what to look for and how to fix it. It’s not so different from my surgical job, really.

  I was eight the first time he brought me out to the driveway to teach me how to check the oil and coolant. It became our ‘thing’ over the next four years—Sunday mornings outside peering under the hood or working on projects in the garage, along with the occasional hiking or fishing expedition, while my mom and little sister stayed inside watching TV or painting miniatures for my sister’s dollhouse.

  ‘Sometimes I think it’s the two of us against those two,’ Dad told me once, chuckling as he handed me a wrench. ‘We’re the outside kids, and they’re the inside kids.’

  ‘You’re not a kid, Dad,’ I’d replied with a teasing grin. ‘You’re old!’

  But of course, he wasn’t old. Things just seemed that way when I was a child. He was only forty-four when the Carver took him, and that was a very young age to die.

  Although… I knew now that there was a chance he wasn’t really dead.

  An image of him locked in an underground cell, tormented and terrified, flashed in my mind for what felt like the hundredth time today, making my blood turn to ice.

  I took another deep breath, trying to shove the awful thought away, and leaned in beneath my car hood to inspect the belts, connections, and battery terminals, just like Dad taught me.

  It didn’t take long to figure out the problem. A loose cable near the fuse box, maybe jarred free, and worse, a snapped belt further in. Not catastrophic, but definitely not fixable with the basic toolkit I kept in the trunk.

  I blew out a frustrated breath and let the hood drop back into place with a heavy clunk. Then I pulled out my phone and called Dec.

  He answered on the fifth ring. “Kenny, what’s up?” he asked, voice a little slurred.

  “Hey, I was wondering if you could do me a massive favor,” I said, rubbing my temple. “I’ll totally owe you one if you can.”

  “What is it?”

  “My car’s dead. I know what’s wrong, but I need my big toolkit to fix it, so would you mind swinging by my place to grab it for me?” I asked. “If you can, the code for the lock on the front door is 9463. You’ll just have to tell the cops out front who you are first.”

  Dec groaned. “I would love to help, I swear, but I’m, uh… pretty wasted right now. Been drinking with an old friend. So I don’t think I should be anywhere near a steering wheel.”

  “Oh, right.” I laughed softly at the thought of him wasted. I just couldn’t picture it. “It’s okay. I’ll call the roadside assistance thing from my insurance.”

  “Sorry,” he murmured. “I really wish I could help out.”

  “It’s okay. Really! I just called you first because I know how long those roadside places can take sometimes.”

  “Ugh, yeah. They suck,” he replied. “But hopefully they don’t take too long tonight.”

  Once we’d ended the call, I dialed my insurance company’s roadside assistance line, only to get put on hold with a robotic voice telling me they were experiencing ‘higher than normal call volumes’.

  Dammit.

  The minutes dragged into half an hour. Then three quarters of an hour. I sat slouched in the driver’s seat with my phone pressed to my ear, the tinny hold music looping incessantly until it felt like it was burrowing into my brain.

  At one point, I glanced up to see that Jacob King was finally leaving the restaurant.

  Shit. I ducked low in my seat, heart racing again. I held my breath until he moved past my car and disappeared into the crowd, and then I slowly straightened up and exhaled.

  A soft beep interrupted the hold music. Call waiting. I glanced at my screen to see it was Malachi.

  I quickly switched lines. “Hi, Detective Sieger.”

  “Hi, Kennedy. Where are you right now?” he asked. His voice sounded a little tense.

  “I’m stuck across the street from the Driftwood. My car’s dead and roadside assistance is taking forever.”

  “I’ll come pick you up,” he said quickly. “Just hang tight. Stay where it’s well-lit and crowded.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” I said. “Wait, sorry, I forgot to ask. Why were you calling?”

  He hesitated for a second. “Something’s happened.”

  “What?”

  “There was an attempted break-in at your house a few minutes ago,” he said. “The officers out front caught someone lurking outside your bedroom window. He was trying to open it.”

  My mouth went dry. “Wait, what? I didn’t get any alerts on my security app.”

  “That’s because they spotted him and apprehended him right before he laid his hands on the window, so the sensor wasn’t triggered,” he said. “But we know he was going to pry it open and sneak in, because he admitted it once he was caught.”

  I slowly shook my head, mind reeling. “Who was it?” I asked.

  Malachi hesitated again. “It’s your stepbrother,” he finally replied. “Declan Kilkenny.”

  10

  Kennedy

  The second we turned onto my street, I spotted the flashing lights.

  Red and blue strobes bounced off the windows of neighboring houses, making the quiet suburban cul-de-sac feel like a serious crime scene. I went stiff in the passenger seat as Malachi slowed the cruiser, jaw tight, eyes already scanning the scene.

  There were two uniformed officers standing in the front yard. One of them had a flashlight trained on someone sitting slumped on the sidewalk.

  Dec.

  My heart sank the second I saw him. His wrists were cuffed behind his back, and he was swaying slightly where he sat. I couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion or drunkenness, or both.

  “Oh my god,” I murmured, unbuckling. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Wait, Kennedy,” Malachi said sharply, shifting into park. “Let me get out first.”

  Before I could respond, he was already out and moving around the car. He had the presence of a protective force field: tall and broad-shouldered with that steely calm most guys only pretended to have.

  Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how much I’d already come to trust him, or how much safer I felt with him around. It was a little crazy, because I barely knew the guy.