“I shoved him in the chest, but he barely moved, because he’s a lot stronger than me. Then you and the police officers burst in a second later,” I said, fidgeting with a strand of hair.

  The remainder of the statement process was quite straightforward; just clarifying a few timeline details and signing the official report. After that, I had to fill out more paperwork for the restraining order application.

  When that was done, I was finally free to go, so I headed home, my mind still spinning like crazy.

  I spent the rest of the day working online with Freya, sorting through case notes and drafting a short statement for our subscribers about the studio incident. No more packages from the Carver arrived, and there were no more messages, either.

  For a while, I actually started to feel normal again. At least as normal as someone in my situation could possibly feel.

  After a late dinner and a cheesy nineties rom-com to numb my brain, I crawled into bed, hoping I’d finally get a full night’s sleep… but that hope shattered the moment my phone lit up on the nightstand.

  It was another email from the Carver.

  Hi, sweetheart. Didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?

  22

  Kennedy

  The sun had been up for hours now, but it hadn’t done anything to chase away the chill from last night.

  I hadn’t really slept. Not with the Carver’s email still pulsing like static in the back of my mind. Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured him watching me read it with a sinister smirk on his face; a face that I still couldn’t quite glimpse, even in the depths of my imagination.

  Even though I’d replied immediately, demanding answers again, he hadn't written back. On the bright side, he hadn't delivered any more packages with body parts to my house either, which meant he probably hadn't killed anyone else yet.

  That made me wonder if Jacob really was responsible for it all, because he obviously couldn't sneak off to kill anyone while he was under strict surveillance. But that brought the same old questions back. Where was he keeping my father and Brian? How long could they last until the police finally found them?

  I stared at my phone for a long moment before I finally tapped on Dec’s name. He answered my call on the first ring.

  “Kenny! This is so weird. I was just about to call you!” he said.

  “Oh.” My brows rose. “How come?”

  “I heard through the grapevine that the cops declared a person of interest. Figured you’d know more details about it. Is it true?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yeah, it is.”

  He exhaled deeply. “Thank god,” he said. “Whoever he is, it’s gotta be him, right? I mean, cops don’t declare something like that and put someone under surveillance for no reason.”

  I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “I’m really not sure,” I said. “I guess we’ll find out soon. At least I hope we do.”

  “I really think it’s him,” he insisted. “I mean, just think about it. It’s been two days since that last package was dropped off at your house, right? And everyone thought the guy was escalating. So by that logic, he should’ve killed again by now. But nothing’s happened. So it makes sense that it’s him, because he’s been forced to stop all his shit because of the surveillance.”

  “Yeah, that could be it.”

  Dec sighed. “I just hope they find your dad and that other guy in time.”

  “Me too,” I said softly. “On that note… that’s actually why I called you.”

  “Yeah?”

  I hesitated for a second, wondering exactly how much to tell him.

  “Long story, but Freya and I had to scrap our most recent episode, so we need to hurry up and record something else,” I finally said.

  Now that Jacob was a person of interest in the Carver case, the episode we’d recorded with him felt tainted. Every word, every theory about the profile… what if he’d shaped them on purpose to throw everyone off his scent? Nudged us toward seeing the killer in a totally different light so that we’d never suspect him?

  We couldn’t risk it, so we agreed: it had to go.

  “Anyway, we’ve decided to do an episode that really focuses on my dad and Brian Delgado,” I hurriedly went on. “It’ll be a direct appeal to remind people that they’re still out there and still alive, hopefully. If someone out there saw something and didn’t realize that it mattered at the time… well, maybe this will jog something.”

  “Hold on, didn’t you already do an episode about your dad?” Dec asked.

  “Yeah, the one about the night he was taken. That episode was the one that got the most shares, and most of the comments said the same thing: they really felt connected to the case because of the emotional side of it. So Freya and I are leaning into that.”

  “And hoping it goes super-viral again,” he said, picking up on our logic immediately.

  “Because every new listener is another shot at a useful tip, and you’re really on a timer now that we know Brian and your dad are still out there somewhere.”

  “Exactly.” I hesitated. “But… I’ve realized that I only ever saw my dad through my twelve-year-old kid lens. There’s so much I don’t know about who he was outside of being my parent. So I’m going to the house today to go through the boxes Mom packed up after he disappeared. See what I can find.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure. Old letters, maybe. Or lectures he gave to surgical interns. Maybe some books or journals,” I said. “Anything that could help me paint a fuller picture of him as a person. Something we can use in the episode to make him feel real again.”

  “Ah. Got it. So how can I help?”

  “Well, half the boxes are stacked on high shelves in the spare room, and I can’t reach them. So I figured I’d call the neighbor with suspiciously long, strong limbs to lend a hand.”

  Dec let out a dramatic sigh. “Women only want me for my big, muscular body,” he said in a wounded tone. “It’s tragic, really.”

  I cracked a smile. “So… are you free?”

  “Of course. I’ll head over now and start pulling boxes down.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.” I paused. “Thanks, Dec.”

  “Always, Kenny.”

  I arrived twenty minutes later to find Dec in the spare room, halfway up a stepladder, balancing one of the heavier boxes against his chest.

  “Hey,” I called out as I stepped inside.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Perfect timing. I was just about to drop this on my face.”

  I smiled faintly. He’d already hauled most of the boxes off the high shelves, stacking them in several neat towers on the carpet. Each one was labeled in my mother’s neat block handwriting: CLOTHES, AWARDS, NOTES, BOOKS, MISC.

  Dec carefully lowered the box onto the floor beside the others and stepped down. Then he stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the scene like he was preparing for battle.

  “There’s a lot here,” he said, nudging one box with the edge of his shoe. “It’s going to take us hours to get through.”

  “Yeah,” I said softly. “Mom never wanted to get rid of anything. She said it’d feel like a betrayal.”

  “I get it. Want to start with the books?”

  I nodded as I sat down on the floor. “Let’s do it.”

  I opened the flaps of a box marked ‘BOOKS’ and began pulling them out one by one, checking the inside covers automatically.

  “Hey,” I said after a beat, glancing up at Dec. “I know you lived with your mom for most of your childhood, but you moved in next door with your dad when you were around seventeen or eighteen, right? Or am I remembering wrong?”

  “No, you’re right; it was at the start of my senior year. You were only four feet tall back then,” Dec replied with a grin. “How come?”

  “I was just wondering if you remember much about my dad. Or was it too long ago?”

  “I remember a bit. I mean, he wasn’t around a ton, with the hospital shifts and all, but when he was, he always waved or said hi.”

  I nodded, flipping through another book. “That’s nice.”

  “Oh, and he used to listen to jazz sometimes when he was in the garage,” Dec added. “I thought it was weird at the time. Like, who under the age of eighty listens to jazz for fun?”

  I smiled at that. “Hey, jazz is cool!”

  He smiled back at me, but it slowly dropped, fading into a more serious expression. “I guess my most vivid memory of him is a conversation we had when I’d just finished school.”

  “What did you guys talk about?” I asked.

  “I was checking the mail to see if I’d gotten any college offers yet, and he happened to be checking the mail at the same time, so we got talking. He asked what I wanted to study, and other stuff like that.” The distant look in Dec’s eyes was getting more intense, like he was peering right into the past. “He gave me some advice, and I remember thinking he must’ve been going through some sort of mid-life crisis.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “His advice was basically: don’t get sucked into a life you don’t really want just because everyone else is doing it,” he said. “He told me not to confuse expectation with purpose. That just because college and a nine-to-five job are the default path, it doesn’t mean it’s the right one. Not for everyone.”

  I blinked. That didn’t sound like the version of my father I remembered. But then again, I was twelve when he disappeared, and to me, he’d just been Dad. Serious, dedicated, practical. Not the kind of person who talked about purpose and soul-searching.

  “What else did he say?” I asked.

  Dec frowned. “He said it was easy to wake up one day and realize you’ve built a life that feels like a costume. One that looks fine on the outside but feels wrong in your bones. He told me not to settle for that. Said it was better to disappoint other people than to betray yourself.”

  I stared at him, stunned. “He said all that?”

  “Not in those exact words. But yeah, that was the gist,” he replied. “Like I said… it was all very mid-life-crisis sort of stuff. I remember feeling kinda sorry for him.”

  I nodded slowly, breathing out a quiet sigh. “I guess that actually tracks with something my mom told me recently,” I said. “She said they’d lost the spark and gotten into a roommate phase in their marriage.”

  “That makes sense. Happens to a lot of couples.” Dec reached into his box and pulled out a worn folder. Then he glanced back up at me. “Hey, I forgot to ask earlier. How are you doing with everything that’s been going on? Are you getting enough sleep?”

  “I’m all right,” I said, though nothing could be farther from the truth. “Not much sleep, though.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’ve really ended up in the middle of all this shit, haven’t you?”

  “Yup,” I murmured, lips pressing into a tight line.

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m here. So let me know if I can do anything to help,” he said. “I’m sure the cops don’t want me hanging around your place after Beer-Gate last week, but still, anything you need, just say the word. Okay?”

  “Well, actually…” I sat up straighter, an idea forming. “There is something you could help with. I have a computer-related question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If someone uses a military-grade VPN when they send emails, is it really true that even the world’s best hacker couldn’t track down their real location?”

  Dec blinked, tilting his head. “That’s a bit of a random question. Why do you want to know about military-grade VPNs?”

  “Oh, um… it’s something Freya was talking about yesterday,” I said hurriedly. “Something to do with the podcast.”

  A faint shadow passed over Dec’s face, and he studied me for a few seconds too long. “Freya wanted to know about that?” he finally asked.

  “Yeah.” I swallowed hard. “I think it’s something to do with a tip we got about the Carver possibly being a hacker. I can’t really remember the details, though.”

  “Hmm. Okay.” He looked back down at the box beside him, brows furrowing. “Well, to answer your question: yes, it’s true. With the right tools, a person can make themselves totally untraceable online.”

  My heart thudded in my chest. “So there’s no way of catching them at all?”

  “Not through their computer, at least,” he said. “So yeah, if the Carver is tech-savvy, then that’s exactly what I’d expect him to do—use a high-grade VPN for anything he does online.”

  I nodded slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of a notebook I’d just pulled from the box in front of me.

  Dec’s attention drifted back to his own box, and his brows rose as he fished out a laminated card. “This must be all your dad’s book club stuff,” he said. “See? This is his membership card.”

  I leaned over to take a look. “Oh, yeah. That’s cool.”

  “Quite a few of the Carver victims were in that book club, right?” he asked, cocking his head again.

  “Yeah, and the head librarian who created it was a victim too. Theresa Linwood,” I said. “The police thought there could be some kind of connection there. Like maybe the Carver was a member. But they never found anything concrete. They just chalked it up to coincidence, because it was a massive club with sub-groups and rotating members.”

  “Classic small-town overlap,” Dec murmured.

  “Exactly.” I craned my neck to look at all the books in his box. “Dad was a member for years. He always said it was one of the very few things that was just his time.”

  Dec grabbed a book from the top of the pile and flipped it open. “Kaylee made me read this once. That’s seven hours of my life I’ll never get back.”

  I smirked. “Guess you’re not into slow-burn literary drama?”

  “Only if the burn’s attached to something that explodes,” he said. Then his expression shifted, and he squinted down at the inside cover. “Wait… what was the name of that woman whose foot was dropped off at your house the other day?”

  My stomach tensed. “Heather Voss.”

  “I thought so,” Dec said, still frowning. “This was her book.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  He turned it so I could see. A name was scribbled in loopy cursive inside the front cover. Heather Voss. “Was she in the book club too?” he asked.

  “Yeah, she was. Maybe she got her copy mixed up with Dad’s during one of the sessions,” I said, shrugging.

  “Yeah, she must’ve.” Dec leafed through another couple of books, and his brows rose. “Hmm. Seems she did it more than once.”

  I scooted closer, peering down. Sure enough, Heather Voss’s name was written in the front again. “That’s kind of weird,” I murmured.

  “Maybe they sat next to each other a lot,” Dec said, shrugging. “It’s pretty easy to pick up the wrong copy when everyone’s got the exact same book, right?”

  “That’s true. But…” I trailed off, heart thudding.

  “That brain of yours is whirring,” Dec said, side-eyeing me. “I know that look.”

  I hesitated, then exhaled. “This is going to sound crazy, but… do you think it’s possible that my dad and Heather were having an affair?”

  “An affair?” Dec’s brows shot up. “Just because they mixed their books up a couple of times?”

  “I know it sounds pretty far-fetched when you put it like that. But there’s that whole thing you mentioned about my dad being in some sort of mid-life crisis mode. And my mom said they’d basically let the romance part of their relationship fizzle out,” I said hurriedly. “So maybe that’s the motive. Maybe the Carver targeted people who were having affairs. He was punishing them.”

  Dec scratched his jaw, clearly uncomfortable. “I get where your head’s going. But that’s a hell of a leap to make,” he said. “Also, do you really think all of the victims were having affairs with each other?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Some of them could’ve been doing other things the Carver disapproved of. Lying. Theft. Addiction.”

  He lifted a palm. “Not to crap all over your ideas, but remember, you’re basing all of this on the fact that your dad and Heather Voss mixed up their stuff in book club a couple of times,” he said gently.

  “I know. But think about it. The police have never been able to figure out this guy’s motive.” I paused, throwing my hands up. “So yeah, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s nothing. Or… maybe I’m really onto something. Maybe the Carver saw himself as some sort of punisher for sinners.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “I know how it sounds,” I said, shoulders tense. “But Heather’s name is in two different books that ended up in my dad’s boxes. That’s not nothing. And right now, we really can’t afford to rule out anything.”

  Dec nodded slowly. “You’re right. Let’s look into it.” He pulled his phone out and rapidly tapped on the screen. Then he turned it to face me, displaying the local library’s contact details. “You should call them. See if anyone remembers anything about the book club sub-groups. If your dad and Heather were always in the same one and seemed close… that’d be worth knowing.”

  I slowly shook my head. “The book club shut down after Theresa Linwood was murdered.”

  “I know. But even though she started the club, I bet she wasn’t the only librarian running the sessions. I mean, it was a huge thing right? So she must’ve had help,” he said, forehead wrinkling. “One of the other librarians might still work there and remember something.”

  “You’re right,” I murmured, heart hammering. “It’s worth a shot.”

  I dialed the number on Dec’s screen and held the phone to my ear. It rang twice before a woman picked up.

  “Corwin Bay Library, this is Marla speaking. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, Marla,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m calling with some questions about the old community book club. Did you work at the library when it was running?”

  “Yes, I did. I remember it very well, because it was a huge part of our programming for years,” she said. “Are you interested in joining a new one? We’ve been talking about restarting the program in a smaller format—”