Maybe she thought the knowledge could save her from me. That if she could label the sickness, she could cure it. Diagnose the monster and destroy him. But this wasn’t theory. This was real, pulsing, inescapable. And the truth was, no textbook in the world could explain why she’d opened her legs for the very thing she should’ve run from.

  She finally put the book down and headed to her bathroom. She crouched to retrieve a new bottle of bodywash from the cupboard before turning to the shower, where she’d no doubt scrub herself raw over the next few minutes, as if that could remove the traces of my hands, my mouth, or the obsession that had already sunk beneath her skin.

  I groaned as the memories of last night washed back in.

  It had been pure perfection; the kind of night that burrowed into your bones and refused to leave. The kind that rewired something in you.

  Kennedy hadn’t just given in to me. She’d surrendered entirely. Not just her body, but her fear, her fury, her fight. I’d seen it happen in real time; the exact moment that will of hers bent under the weight of want. When her breath hitched and she let me take her apart, knowing I could slice her in two if I felt like it.

  And she still chose to let me touch her. To mark her. There was something sacred about that.

  Still… she didn’t understand what it all meant yet. That once you offered your soul to someone like me, you didn’t get it back.

  Not ever.

  She could scrub herself raw, cry herself hoarse, deny what happened. But I’d seen the truth in her eyes last night, right before she came apart in my hands. And no matter how hard she tried to escape it, she’d never be clean again.

  She was mine now. Even if she hated me for it.

  I leaned back in my chair, lacing my hands behind my head as I kept my gaze on my monitor. Steam billowed toward the camera lens, blurring the edges of the screen as the shower ran behind the frosted glass. Kennedy’s silhouette moved inside, slow and methodical.

  By the time she stepped out, her skin was flushed and raw, wrapped in a towel that clung to her like a second skin. Her movements were slower now, more deliberate. She dried off, dressed in cotton shorts and a tank top, and padded back into her bedroom.

  She reached for the psychology textbook again. Then she climbed onto her bed, sat cross-legged, and cracked it open.

  I watched her read, chin tilted, her brows drawing together. After fifteen minutes, she closed the book and shifted her attention back to the laptop.

  I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes to catch what she was doing, but the text was too small to make out. I could only see that she was typing, fast. Hesitating. Deleting. Then typing again.

  A few more seconds passed, and her fingers hovered over the trackpad before moving back to the keyboard. Then she pressed enter.

  A second later, my burner phone buzzed on the desk beside me, alerting me to a new email. I glanced at it, brows rising with surprise when I saw the sender’s name.

  You have 1 new message from: Kennedy Campbell

  Slowly, my lips curved.

  Well, well.

  This just got interesting.

  15

  Kennedy

  “Screw it,” I whispered, fingertip hovering over the enter key.

  I’d spent the past hour agonizing over what to say to the Carver, but no combination of words could possibly cover the scope of what I wanted to get out of him: his identity, his location, his motives, and about a million other things.

  I’d even cracked open an old college textbook to a chapter on abnormal psychology, hoping to get inspiration from there, but unsurprisingly, there was no section outlining something as specific as ‘How to speak to a psychopathic serial killer in a way that will coax them into giving up their identity and secrets’.

  In the end, I’d decided to go back to basics when I made contact. Short and straightforward.

  I finally pressed enter. Hi. Are you there?

  The Carver’s reply came through a minute later.

  I am. I’ve been waiting for you to reach out, Kennedy.

  PS. Don’t bother trying to track this. I use a military-grade VPN that bounces through a dozen countries every few seconds, so it’s not possible. Not even the world’s best hacker could crack it.

  Frowning, I switched my tab to Google and typed in ‘VPN’. I’d heard Dec mention the term before, but I couldn’t remember what it meant.

  The first result said: ‘A virtual private network (VPN) hides your IP address by routing it through a specially configured remote server. This means your activity is untraceable by third parties, and even if intercepted, your data would be useless’.

  “Dammit,” I muttered. Part of me had hoped the emails could be traced by a cybersecurity expert, but that idea had just gone right out the window.

  I leaned forward again and typed out another message. Who are you?

  Carver: You’ll see when the time is right.

  Me: When will that be?

  Carver: You’ll see.

  I blew out a frustrated sigh and sent another message, irritation curling hot beneath my skin.

  Me: Is this how our conversation is going to go? You giving me cryptic bullshit answers no matter what I ask?

  Carver: Ask better questions and you might receive better answers.

  Me: Fine. Are you watching me right now? Through my cameras?

  Carver: Yes.

  Me: How long have you been watching me?

  Carver: I’ve had my eye on you for years. And not just through the cameras. You’re an interesting woman, Kennedy.

  Me: Are you someone I know?

  Carver: Sorry, sweetheart. It’s more fun for me to let you wonder about that one ;)

  Me: Why did you delete last night’s footage from my bedroom?

  Carver: You haven’t figured that one out already?

  Me: Actually, I think I have. I just want you to confirm my theory.

  Carver: And your theory is…?

  Me: You want people to think I’m crazy if I tell anyone about what happened between us, right? And that’s because you want me to feel isolated from everyone else. Probably so you’ll become the only person I can truly confide in.

  PS. That’s never gonna happen.

  Carver: Nice theory, but wrong. I overwrote the footage with an old file to protect you.

  Me: Protect me?? Are you serious?

  Carver: You know what I mean. If your footage ever had to be reviewed by the police for some reason, and people saw what you did with me… that information would leak fast, and then you’d be a social pariah forever. I spared you from that.

  Me: Why would you want to protect me?

  Carver: Because you have something I want, sweetheart.

  Me: Let me guess: the podcast. You want it to continue because it’s giving you the attention you crave so much. But if I suddenly became a social pariah for having sex with you, Freya and I would get ‘canceled’, and then the show would die and take your little spotlight with it.

  Carver: It’s definitely within my interest for your show to succeed. But that’s not what I meant.

  Me: So what do I have that you want from me, then?

  Carver: Would you kill me if I said ‘you’ll find out when the time is right’ again? ;)

  Me: You’re the killer here. Not me. But while we’re on the subject of killing: are you going to do it again?

  Carver: Yes.

  Me: When?

  Carver: Maybe I’ve already done it. Check under your pillow, sweetheart…

  My heart jerked into my throat. I leapt up and tore the pillows off my bed, half-expecting to find something grotesque, like another body part or a bloody envelope.

  There was nothing but the fitted sheet.

  I scrambled back to my laptop and sent another email. There’s nothing there.

  Carver: I know. I just wanted to see the expression on your face when you raced over to the bed to check.

  Me: You’re a real asshole.

  Carver: What? A killer can’t have a sense of humor?

  I muttered a string of curses under my breath as I fired off the next message.

  Me: Tell me - why are you killing these people now? And why did you kill the other eight victims ten years ago?

  Carver: I only kill those who deserve it, Kennedy.

  Me: Why did they deserve it?

  Silence.

  I waited. Hit refresh on the page four times. I even checked my Wi-Fi connection just in case it was down, but there was no issue with it. My last email had definitely sent. The Carver just wasn’t replying to my question.

  I hurriedly typed out another message, hoping he hadn’t abandoned the conversation entirely.

  Me: Are you planning to kill me too? Is that why you’ve been stalking me?

  Carver: Do I detect a guilty conscience there, sweetheart? Do you believe you deserve to die?

  Me: No. But I believe you’re an unhinged psychopath, so you could simply decide that I deserve it and invent a reason to justify that decision.

  Carver: I don’t operate like that.

  Me: Okay, well, if you don’t want to kill me, then what the hell do you want from me? Give me a proper answer this time. Not just ‘you’ll see’.

  Carver: I want total honesty from you, Kennedy.

  Me: I was honest with you last night. You know that.

  Carver: You were honest about your desires, yes. But you haven’t fully opened up to me yet. I don’t think you’re ready.

  Me: Just tell me what you want me to be honest about, and I’ll do it. I swear. Anything you want to know, I’ll say it. But I want something in return.

  Carver: What do you want?

  I hesitated, staring at the blinking cursor. My hands trembled as I finally typed: If my father is still alive, promise me you won’t hurt him. Promise me you’ll let him go free.

  Carver: I see I was correct in my assessment. You’re still not ready.

  Me: Not ready for what?

  Once again, he didn’t reply. I sent through another message.

  Me: Are you still there? Can we talk about something else?

  Still no response.

  “Shit,” I muttered as my frustration bled into dread. He was gone, and I had no idea what that meant.

  With a sigh, I closed my laptop and stripped my bed so I could put a fresh set of sheets on it. After that, I spent a few hours working on the script for episode four of ‘After the Carver’ with Freya on FaceTime.

  Around lunchtime, a sudden shout from outside pierced the quiet in my house. I jolted upright, heart thudding, and scrambled away from my desk. Another shout followed, sharp and commanding.

  I dashed down the hall and flung the front door open. Outside, the two officers stationed to watch my house had a man pinned against the hood of their patrol car. He wasn’t resisting, and his face was twisted in confusion and panic.

  “What’s going on?” I called out, stepping onto the porch.

  “Stay back, Kennedy!” one of the officers barked without looking my way.

  I hovered at the edge of the steps, eyes locked on the man they’d detained. He wore a dark gray hoodie, jeans, and a black cap. A small cardboard box sat on the ground a few feet from the scuffle, wrapped in plain brown paper.

  “I’m just a courier!” the man called out, voice shaking. “I was hired online on an anonymous job board. So I don’t know who the sender was! I just picked it up from the specified location and brought it here.”

  The younger officer kept a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Is it normal for you to pick up and deliver unmarked packages?”

  The courier’s mouth opened and closed. “Well… not really. But I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “I was told to drop it off here, no signature required, and that’s all I’ve done. It’s not illegal to deliver a package, is it?”

  The other officer picked up the box with gloved hands, examining it carefully. “Could be nothing, I suppose, but I think it’s more than likely another gift from the Carver,” he said grimly.

  My stomach flipped.

  “Sieger needs to see this,” the other officer said. “I’ll call him. Forensics too. We’re not opening this until they’re here.”

  His colleague nodded, then looked at the courier. “You're staying put for now. We’ll verify your story, try to trace the payment, and check for fingerprints. Don’t even think about running.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” the man said shakily, lifting his hands higher.

  I stayed frozen at the top of the porch steps, arms wrapped around myself, unable to tear my gaze from the box. I tried to breathe slow and deep, like Jacob used to encourage me to do. In for four, hold for seven, out for—

  No. It wasn’t working. My lungs simply refused to cooperate, and my mind refused to slow down.

  Ten minutes later, Malachi and another detective strode up the driveway, expressions grim and focused. Behind them trailed two other officers, a forensics team, and a man in bulky black gear with a silver wand-like device clutched in one gloved hand.

  “Stay up there for now, Kennedy,” Malachi called out to me.

  I nodded, watching as the man in black waved the silver device slowly over the box. After a tense beat, he nodded at Malachi. “No sign of explosive compounds,” he called out. “Safe to open.”

  Malachi tugged on a pair of gloves and crouched next to the package. A blade flashed in his hand, slicing through the tape, and the box opened with a soft rustle.

  “Looks like another riddle. Bag it, please,” he said, handing a cream-colored sheet of paper to the forensics tech standing nearby. “There’s something else too.”

  I leaned forward, my nails digging into my arms.

  Malachi’s gloved hands moved carefully as he lifted something out. It was wrapped tightly in several layers of aluminum foil, just like the ears from the envelope I’d received a week ago.

  I watched him slowly peel the foil back. He grimaced, and then he leaned toward the other detective and murmured something I couldn’t hear.

  I stepped off the porch and headed down the path. “Malachi,” I called, voice shaking. “What’s in it?”

  He looked over at me, a mix of concern and sympathy flashing in his eyes. “We’ll talk later, Kennedy. You should go back inside for now.”

  I stepped closer. “Please,” I said, voice on the verge of breaking. “Just tell me.”

  He hesitated, the muscles in his square jaw working like he was grinding down words he didn’t want to say. Then he exhaled through his nose and nodded once, like he’d finally accepted that temporarily sparing me from the truth wasn’t going to help matters.

  He stepped over to me and placed a palm on my shoulder. “It’s a man’s hand,” he said quietly. “The Carver’s killed again.”

  16

  Kennedy

  As the last of the forensics crew drove off with the evidence, I lingered on the garden path, heart still hammering.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the hand in the package and wondering which of the still-missing male victims it belonged to. Silas Boone, Brian Delgado… or my father.

  The thought of it being my dad made my stomach twist so violently that I thought I might vomit right there on the path, and I kept silently begging the universe not to let it be him. Then the guilt came crashing in, sharp and instant, because in wishing that, I was essentially hoping another innocent man had been hacked apart, just so long as it wasn’t my father.

  What kind of person did that make me?

  Malachi was standing near the patrol car now, talking quietly with the two officers who’d called him about the package. I watched him for a moment, then waved at him.

  “Malachi,” I called out. He looked up, brows rising. “Can we talk, please? Privately.”

  He hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Of course.”

  I led him to the small side garden; a narrow space shielded by overgrown hedges and a weatherworn fence. There, an old wrought iron loveseat sat beneath a lemon tree. The Carver wouldn’t be able to listen to our conversation through my security system if we stayed out here, and I really didn’t want him to hear what I had to say right now.

  I sank onto the loveseat, hugging my arms around myself. Malachi sat beside me, keeping a respectful distance.

  “We can’t run prints on the hand, because none of the victims were in the system before the Carver took them. But we’ll probably get DNA results back tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’m assuming that’s what you wanted to talk about?”

  I nodded, throat tightening. “That was one of the things, yes.”

  His head tilted slightly. “What else do you want to talk about?”

  “I, um… I don’t really feel safe in the house anymore,” I said quietly, eyes on the faded stone path beneath our feet. “I know you say it’s secure, but—”

  Malachi cut me off, his tone gentle but firm. “Kennedy, I promise you, there’s no way anyone’s getting in without us knowing,” he said. “The officers are always watching the front, and every thirty minutes, one of them does a foot patrol all around the property and fence line. Plus, there’s also the security system. Your house is absolutely secure.”

  I knew that wasn’t true. I knew the Carver had gotten in. But I couldn't tell anyone that. Not without revealing what I’d done with him.

  I bit down on my lip, struggling to choose my next words. “What I mean is: logically, I know it’s safe. But it’s a bad feeling I get at night. I just don’t feel totally safe when I’m alone,” I finally said. “So I was wondering if one of the officers could come and sit inside the house at night, instead of both of them being in the car outside.”

  I had to ask, because as much as I’d wanted the Carver last night—had ached for him—something inside me had shifted in the harsh light of day. I knew I couldn’t let it happen again. Couldn’t let him come in.

  Malachi’s brows drew together as he considered my request. “We could arrange a hotel or a safe house if that makes you feel better.”

  “No!” I blurted out before I could stop myself. Somehow, I instinctively knew that the Carver would be pissed as hell if I left my house to stay elsewhere, and I didn’t want to be the reason behind him deciding to escalate things.