“How is that possible?”

  “While I was getting to know you, I learned about all your friends, including Freya. I found out she was a sound engineering and comms student with a passion for podcasts. That was the lightbulb moment. A little twist of fate, I suppose,” he said. “So then, about three years ago, I went into the diner she worked at. Disguised, obviously. I didn’t want her to recognize me when I eventually came back to Corwin Bay. I made sure to sit in her section, and then I started the act.”

  “What act?” I muttered, still completely lost.

  “I put on a morose face and sighed a lot. Freya was a waitress who wanted generous tips, so of course she was very attentive and friendly, and she asked me why I looked so down in the dumps,” Malachi went on. “I told her I was a producer. Said I was having a terrible day because I'd been working on a podcast that was slated to be huge. A true crime show hosted by the son of the Back Bay Butcher. That instantly caught her attention.”

  “Because she’s always loved true crime stuff,” I said softly, shoulders slumping.

  “Yes. I told her the show was tipped to do very well because true crime fans love shows hosted by family members of either killers or their victims,” he said. “But, unfortunately, the son had just changed his mind, and no contract had been signed yet, so the show was dead in the water. So now I was just sitting around feeling sorry for myself and praying the next big thing would come along to sweep the true crime world off its feet.”

  “So… you planted the idea in her head.”

  “Yes. I could practically see her brain ticking when I told her all that stuff,” he said. “She told me she’d always dreamed of starting a podcast. She also told me that her best friend was the daughter of one of the Carver victims, which meant she had her own slight personal connection to it. Then she asked if I thought the Carver case was a good idea for a show.”

  “Just for herself?”

  “Yes. She knew you’d have no interest in doing a show like that, good friend that she is,” he replied. “But I told her it would only go viral if she convinced you to co-host, because her tangential connection to the case simply wasn’t enough to provide that deeply personal family appeal that fans love so much. Then I handed her a fake business card with my email. After that, we stayed in contact. She’d occasionally send ideas, and I’d keep nudging her to get you on board with a Carver podcast.”

  “Which she eventually did.”

  Malachi nodded. “She said you rejected the idea at first. A few times, actually. But I told her exactly what to say to change your mind. Eventually, it worked.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, obviously, I’m not a real producer, so I ghosted her after that. But she was already intent on doing the show by that stage, and she’s a smart girl with a lot of connections, so I knew she’d make it happen by herself. And she did,” he said. “I helped things along from the shadows, of course. I secretly bought ads for the first teaser to help it go viral. And as for the sponsorship deal you two got after that initial success…”

  He trailed off, putting his palms up.

  “Wait… you’re Konnekt Media?” I said, eyes widening. “You’re the company who gave us all that money to keep the show going?”

  He grinned. “Yes. It’s a fake company, but I made it look real enough.”

  “But why?” I shook my head rapidly. “Why the hell did you even want us to do a podcast in the first place?”

  “Firstly, I wanted the Carver case back in the public spotlight. When the truth about it finally comes out, courtesy of me, I want everyone to hear it. A viral true crime podcast is perfect for that,” he said. “Secondly, those body parts I’ve been sending you from the so-called missing victims… they’ve caught national attention, and that’s pushed your show into the stratosphere. And the bigger it gets, the better the bait. At this point, there’s just no way your father isn’t listening.”

  My thoughts scrambled to catch up. “So… you want to use the podcast to lure my father back to Corwin Bay? Is that it?”

  “Now you’re finally getting it,” he said, flashing me another cold smile. “You’re going to record a message for me. One that I’ll send to Freya to play on a special mini-episode of After the Carver. In the message, you’ll say you’ve been kidnapped by a mysterious masked man who plans to kill you within a set time frame unless Dr. Mark Campbell returns from wherever he’s hiding in order to save you.”

  “If you’re going to kill me, then why the hell should I make things easy for you and help with your plan?” I asked woodenly, stomach churning.

  “I’m not really going to kill you, Kennedy. But your father won’t know that, obviously.”

  I stared at the opposite wall, blinking rapidly as my mind raced. “Even if I agree to do it, it won’t work,” I finally said.

  “Oh, it will. The moment your father hears his precious little protégé is in danger, he’ll return. It’s the only way to draw him out.”

  “No, I mean… it won’t work for you. Because if my father actually returns, it would have to be at a specific time and location that I mention on the hostage message, right? So you can get him,” I said. “And the police will hear it, because Freya will obviously pass the message on to them. Then they’ll show up to that location to save me, and you’ll get caught in the process.”

  Malachi scoffed. “You think I haven’t considered that already?” he said. “In the message, you’ll reference a location that only you and your father know. So you won’t actually say the spot. You’ll just hint at it in a way that only he’ll be able to interpret.”

  “I won’t do it,” I said, shaking my head. “Even if I can think of a place that only he and I know, you can’t force me to say those words.”

  “Of course I can. You know what I’m capable of. And by now, you also know that I’m a very patient man,” he replied. “I’ve already waited years for my plans to come to fruition. So I can wait as long as it takes for this.”

  “Well, you’ll be waiting forever, because contrary to your beliefs, you actually can’t make me do anything,” I said stubbornly, clenching my jaw. “I won’t let you.”

  He raised a brow. “It’s interesting. You’ve spent the last thirty minutes swearing you didn’t know anything about your father’s Carver involvement,” he said. “But if that were true, you’d want him to face the music for his crimes, wouldn’t you? Instead, it sounds like you want to protect him. Save him.”

  “I’m not trying to save him,” I shot back. “I do want him to face justice for what he did. Real justice, though. Not your vigilante version of it. And I know if I record that message and make him come back, you’ll kill him the same way you killed the other four.”

  Malachi studied me in silence, the coldness in his eyes hardening.

  “So I’m not doing it,” I went on, my voice shaking now. “I’m not helping you murder my father.”

  A flicker of something passed over his face. Annoyance? Admiration? It vanished before I could tell.

  He stepped back toward the cell door, fingers curling around the handle.

  “You will, Kennedy,” he said, voice quiet but absolute. “You’ll see.”

  With that, he was gone.

  29

  Kennedy

  I lost track of time in the dark.

  There were obviously no windows in the basement cell, and no clock, either. Just the occasional drip from a pipe overhead and the steady scratch of my own thoughts.

  At first, I’d braced for violence; some sort of brutal process where Malachi tried to beat or torture me into submission. But apparently, that wasn’t his plan.

  Instead, he left me alone.

  Mostly.

  Every day, just for a minute, he’d come downstairs, open the cell door and toss in a few things: a big bottle of water, a protein bar, and a banana. Sometimes a slice of bread. Never enough food to feel full and strong. Just enough to stay alive.

  Whenever he came, it was like the real world flashed back into motion for a few seconds, just from the sound of his boots on the concrete and the scent of things from outside the cell. Cologne, or woodsmoke, or the faint tang of gasoline.

  He’d ask me if I’d changed my mind about the podcast yet, and I’d stubbornly say no, despite my desperation to get back out there. Then he’d leave, and silence would reign again.

  I tried to keep moving at first—pace the cell, stretch my legs—but the weakness from the lack of food came quickly, creeping in like fog. After a few days, even standing up made my head spin like crazy.

  Now, I just lay on the thin mattress for hours at a time and tried my best to hang onto reality.

  I thought about my family.

  I thought about Freya.

  I thought about the podcast.

  I thought about my father.

  That last one was the worst. Because the more I thought about him, the more the memories started to warp, and the image I’d clung to over the years—the one of an innocent father brutally taken from me by a cold-blooded murderer—faded away.

  He was the cold-blooded murderer in this scenario. Or at least one of them. He’d stalked and killed multiple people with his accomplices. Dismembered them and dumped them in the woods. And all the while, he’d pretended to be dead along with those hapless victims while his family cried at home.

  Given all of that… why did I care so much about what happened to him in the end? Why did I cling to this belief that he deserved justice in the form of a judge, jury, and jail cell?

  I curled tighter as the dark thoughts seeped in. Dad had abandoned us. Abandoned me. All so he could live out his sick dream of traveling around the country to murder scores of innocent people. He didn’t deserve my loyalty and protection.

  Also, if I recorded the message like Malachi wanted, he’d instantly know it was a trap, so it was unlikely that he’d show up anyway. He was a smart guy, after all, and he’d left me behind once before. So there was a good chance he’d let me rot in this hole before he risked coming back to town.

  So… what then?

  My thoughts looped back over the situation.

  If I refused to record the message, I’d keep going hungry in this cell. Keep waiting and ruminating. Maybe forever.

  If I agreed to do it, maybe I’d get out. Maybe Malachi would let me go.

  But… that didn’t seem likely. It seemed far more likely that he’d lied about sparing me once he had no use for me anymore. In fact, I was willing to bet that he’d slit my throat and bury me out in those woods as soon as I recorded that message for him.

  My chest tightened at the thought.

  There was no winning here. No right choice. Just a slow descent into madness, until something finally broke.

  The door suddenly creaked open again, and I blinked rapidly, trying to sit up. The movement made black spots swarm at the edge of my vision. I was getting weaker by the moment.

  Boots crossed the concrete floor, steady and unhurried. Then Malachi crouched beside me, setting down another bottle of water and a granola bar.

  “I got you a different flavor today,” he said. “Apple pie with a vanilla drizzle.”

  My stomach instantly growled, but I didn’t respond. What did he expect me to say? ‘Wow, thanks so much’?

  He waited a moment, then tilted his head. “Are you ready to make the recording?”

  I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. “I’m not saying yes right now. But I’m not saying no either,” I said slowly. “I have some questions first.”

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  “If I agree to do it, what happens to me afterward?” I asked. “I mean… you can’t let me go, can you? Because of the risk that I’ll turn you in. Even if I promise not to, you know I might do it anyway.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. I can’t let you go.”

  “So then…” I trailed off, shoulders slumping. “You lied the other day. You’re going to kill me.”

  Malachi shook his head. “I’m not going to kill you, Kennedy. I would never even hurt you, unless you wanted it,” he said. “You know that.”

  My stomach flipped at the reminder of the tantalizing pain he’d brought me when I begged him for it.

  “Why wouldn’t you kill me?” I asked in a small voice.

  “Because you might be a liar, but you’re not a depraved killer like your father and the others, so I don’t think you deserve to die,” he said. “And I like having you around. A lot. So… I’m going to keep you.”

  I blinked. “Keep me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I’ll just be your prisoner in this horrible cell forever?” I asked, eyes widening. “Living on rations and going crazy in the dark?”

  “Of course not,” Malachi replied, eyes flashing with what I could only assume was his best attempt at sympathy or contrition. “You’ll be taken care of, to the best of my ability.”

  “And what does that mean?” I said in a hollow voice. “Are you saying, ‘taken care of’ like the way criminals say it in movies?”

  A faint smile curved up his lips at that. “No. You’ll be staying in a very nice place that I’ve set up for you. You’ll be well-fed there. Clean. Entertained. And always, always cared for. I promise you that.”

  “How do I know you’re not just saying that to make me do whatever you want?” I asked, eyes narrowing.

  “You’ll just have to trust me when I say I want to take care of you.”

  “Trust you?” I said incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “You. The man who’s spent the last ten years obsessing over revenge, and the last four years stalking me as part of that scheme. Not to mention all of this,” I said, sweeping my arm around the cell. “How can I possibly trust you?”

  Malachi’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve had a hundred chances to hurt you,” he said, reaching forward to tenderly stroke my cheek. “I could’ve broken you. Tortured you into giving me what I want. But I didn’t, and I won’t. Even though if I had, it would’ve made things go my way a lot faster. You can trust that, can’t you? Because you know it’s the truth.”

  I stared at him, heart thudding hard. He was right. He’d had countless opportunities to torture me or even kill me, but he’d never done it. And every time that he’d presented himself to me as the clean-cut, nice-guy detective, he’d gone above and beyond to take care of me. He’d even saved me from a potential sexual assault, and I’d seen the pure fire in his eyes when he did that. So I knew he was more than capable of caring for me.

  So… maybe he really wasn’t planning to kill me. Maybe he meant it when he said he wanted to keep me. That he liked having me around. That he’d do whatever it took to take care of me.

  And for now, maybe that was enough. Because if I agreed, I’d get out of this awful cell. I’d get more food. Clean clothes. A shower. Maybe even some books to read so my mind could finally be occupied with something beyond my own dark thoughts.

  Of course, I knew it couldn’t last forever. Eventually, Malachi would grow tired of caring for a captive who couldn’t leave or offer anything but resistance and need. Then he’d probably change his mind about killing me.

  But, if I played my hand right, I could be free before that happened. Because I could use his current obsession with me. Let him believe I’d given in to it. That I’d truly resigned myself to being his forever.

  I could smile for him. Moan for him. Kiss him like he was my whole world if I had to.

  Not forever. Just long enough to lull him into a false sense of security. Gain a little trust. Maybe even gain a little leniency from him. Then, I could figure out how to escape.

  I didn’t want to make my plan too obvious, though, and blurting out a ‘yes!’ right now would definitely do that. So I had to play it cool. Make it look like I was still deeply uncertain.

  I gnawed at the inside of my cheek and looked away, shaking my head. “I don’t know,” I finally murmured. “I really want to trust that you won’t hurt me or kill me. But…”

  “It’s hard. And such a big risk for you,” he finished for me as I trailed off. “I understand.”

  I nodded slowly. Then I turned back to look at him, lips slightly parted as I searched his handsome face.

  The silence stretched between us, thick and tight, until he finally rose to his feet again. “I’ll give you some more time to think about things,” he said. “Seems like you need it.”

  As he turned around, I made a point of finding my voice again. “Wait.”

  He turned back to me. “Yes?”

  “If I decide to trust you, and I agree to make this recording to lure my father back… could you do one thing for me?”

  “What?”

  “Make it quick when you deal with him. Don’t drag it out for months or years like you did with the others.”

  Malachi was silent for a moment, presumably weighing up my wish against his desire to torture my father for what he’d done. Then he finally dipped his chin in a slow nod.

  “For you?” he said, eyes flashing with something that looked disturbingly close to affection. “Yeah. I can do that.”

  “Okay.” I let out a shaky breath and lowered my gaze. “I’ll do it. I’ll make the recording.”

  Partial transcript from After the Carver: Special Announcement 2

  [Soft ominous music fades in, then lowers to a quiet hum beneath the voice]

  FREYA:

  Hi, everyone.

  As most of you know by now, my best friend and co-host, Kennedy Campbell, has been missing for five days. Someone tried to make it look like she left on her own, but it didn’t take long for the truth to come out.

  She was abducted.

  This morning, I received an anonymous package. Inside was a USB drive and a note that said: ‘Play this on your show, or there will be serious consequences.’

  I gave it to the police immediately. Their tech analysts reviewed the recording and confirmed that it’s real.

  I never thought I’d have to do something like this, but if there’s even the slightest chance it could help bring Kennedy home, then obviously I’ll do it. So I’m going to play the recording for all of you in a moment.