The attachment opened to a spreadsheet. Twenty-two members had attended during Kennedy’s time in the group, and one name instantly caught my attention like a hook under the ribs.

  Brendan Schneider.

  I grabbed the phone and dialed the number listed beside his name. He picked up on the fifth ring, his voice almost swallowed by the background noise of boarding calls and distant chatter. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Schneider? This is Detective Malachi Sieger, CBPD. I have a few questions for you.”

  “Er… all right,” he said, confusion threading through the static. “Just give me a second to go somewhere a bit quieter. I’m at the airport right now, so I can barely hear myself think.”

  The line went muffled as he covered the receiver. A couple of minutes later, his voice came back, louder and clearer, with the chaos dimmed to a distant murmur. “Sorry about that. I travel for work a lot, so I practically live at this damn airport,” he said in a lighthearted tone. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m calling about your time in the Corwin Bay grief support group five years ago. It’s regarding Kennedy Campbell.”

  There was a sharp inhale on the other end. “Kennedy… yeah. I know her. Really nice girl.”

  I kept my voice even. “We’ve been exploring every possible angle regarding her recent abduction, and I came across a series of emails she sent over the last few years. The address she was contacting seems to be named after her father, but—”

  Brendan cut me off. “You traced that email address to my laptop, didn’t you?” he said hurriedly. “Listen, I can explain all that. But I have nothing to do with her going missing. I swear. I wasn’t even in Corwin Bay when she was taken.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Schneider. You aren’t under any suspicion. I’d just like to hear your story regarding the emails.”

  “It might sound strange to you. But I swear, it wasn’t anything inappropriate. Kennedy was just drowning in grief, like me,” he said. “One day, she told me she liked to send poems to her father’s old email address. She said she wished he could answer her. So I offered to… pretend. I created an email address that looked like it could’ve belonged to her father, and whenever she sent me something, I’d send her short replies, pretending to be him.”

  I stared at the wall, my heartbeat a dull roar in my ears.

  “Like I said, I know how strange it might sound to someone who’s never lost a loved one,” Brendan continued. “But it was just a coping mechanism, and I think it helped her. And I swear I never said or did anything inappropriate. She just reminded me so much of my own daughter. So I… I was just trying to help. That’s all.”

  I thanked Brendan for his time and hung up, exhaling slowly as I set the phone down.

  Holy fuck.

  Kennedy had been telling the truth all along. About everything. She’d never spotted her father’s hidden messages in the postcards he sent her. Never sent him coded messages of her own through all those emails. Never had the faintest idea that he was still alive, or that he was one of the five monsters behind the Carver killings.

  But I’d figured otherwise, and that terrible mistake of mine had led to her ruin.

  I’d stalked her. Terrorized her. Broken her down. And now I’d totally stolen her life.

  A sensation I barely recognized twisted low in my gut; something I’d only experienced once in the last couple of decades. I’d felt it the day I found Elijah’s body, immediately after that sharp, sick realization that I was too late to save him.

  Guilt, raw and corrosive.

  And now, as much as I fucking hated it… I knew exactly what I had to do next.

  32

  Kennedy

  The lock clicked, and the door opened. Malachi entered, holding a large takeout bag. “Your dinner,” he said stiffly. “I got you a teriyaki salmon bento box and spicy tuna sushi from that place you like on Main. Extra pickled ginger and soy sauce.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured as he handed me the food.

  By now, I wasn’t surprised that he knew my exact order from Osaka Bento. It was just the kind of detail he collected and kept, catalogued alongside every other piece of me that he’d been hoarding in his mind for years. It was actually quite sweet, in a seriously twisted way.

  “I also wanted to let you know there’s been a change of plans,” he went on, rubbing his jaw like he was working up to something unpleasant. “I’m letting you go.”

  I blinked, certain I’d misheard him. “What?”

  “I’m letting you go,” he repeated. “As soon as I’ve got your father, that is. So, two nights from now.”

  My fingers tightened around the paper handles of the bag. My stomach was suddenly churning, and my appetite had vanished.

  “I don’t understand. Is this some sort of test?” I asked. “Or a game? Like… you say you’ll let me go, but it’s only so you can chase me through the woods with a gun again?”

  “It’s not a game,” he said flatly. “I’m really letting you go, Kennedy.”

  The floor suddenly felt like it was shifting beneath my feet. “Why?”

  Malachi rubbed his jaw again, his eyes flickering with something I couldn’t quite identify. Regret? Frustration?

  “I decided to check your story,” he finally said. “And I managed to get my hands on your files from the facility in South Dakota. You were really there. Not with your father.”

  “I know,” I murmured, setting the bag down on the coffee table, my fingers suddenly clumsy and weak.

  “I got in contact with Brendan Schneider, too.”

  My gaze snapped upward. “Brendan Schneider? Is that—”

  “Yes,” he cut in. “Your acquaintance from the old grief support group. I found him, and he confirmed your story about the email chain between the two of you.”

  “So… you actually believe me now?” I asked, heart hammering with a mix of shock and relief so sharp it almost hurt. “You know I was telling the truth all along?”

  He gave me a curt nod. “Yes. So I’m letting you go once the final stage of my plan is complete.”

  “Holy shit,” I said, finally recognizing the look in his eyes. “You feel guilty right now, don’t you?”

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  “Have you ever felt it before?” I asked, brows rising. “Since the accident, I mean.”

  He was silent for a beat. “Only once.”

  Realization dawned on me, and my stomach lurched again. “When you found your uncle?”

  “That’s right,” he replied, face darkening. “I felt it then, and I feel it now. That’s how I know I have to let you go.”

  “So you’re not a dead-at-heart sociopath after all,” I said softly. “There are real feelings in you.”

  “I never said I feel nothing at all,” he replied, forehead creasing.

  I hesitated. “Look, if this isn’t a joke, and you’re really letting me go… everyone will ask where I’ve been, right? So I’ll have to tell them. Then they’ll know what you did.”

  “That’s true,” he said stiffly. “But the alternative is sticking with my original plan and keeping you here forever, which means you’ll spend your entire life being punished for something you didn’t even do. That’s not how I wanted this to go, no matter how much I—”

  He abruptly cut himself off, and I raised my brows again. “No matter how much you what?”

  “Never mind,” he muttered, averting his eyes. “What I meant was, the answer to your question is yes. In a couple of days, everyone will know what I’ve done, and I’ll be a wanted man.”

  My pulse kicked up. “So… what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to disappear,” he said, gaze sliding back to meet mine. “I have the resources and know-how to do it, so even though it wasn’t part of the original plan, I’ll still be able to make it happen.”

  The words slipped out before I could stop them. “But I don’t want you to disappear.”

  Surprise registered on Malachi’s face. “That wasn’t exactly the response I expected from you.”

  “I know. I just… I don’t want you gone,” I murmured.

  It was the truth. The thought of him vanishing from my life made my chest ache like crazy.

  It didn’t make sense, because this was the same man who’d stalked me, terrorized me, ripped me out of my world, and locked me away like I was his property. By all logic, I should be counting down the seconds until I never had to see his face again.

  But logic and whatever this thing between us was had stopped existing on the same plane a long time ago.

  The idea of walking out that door and knowing I’d never feel his presence again, never hear his deep voice cutting through the quiet, never see that flicker in his gaze when he let something real slip past his armor… it felt wrong.

  And no matter how much I told myself that this was unhealthy, dangerous, and toxic, I couldn’t shake the truth.

  I didn’t want to let Malachi go.

  “Six days ago, you said you wished I didn’t exist,” he said, brows furrowing. “You should be happy about this.”

  “I know I said that,” I said, heat creeping into my face. “But… things have changed.”

  “How much can possibly change in the space of a week?”

  “A lot. Especially when you have nothing but time to think,” I said. “And it’s not just me, is it? Look how much you’ve changed in such a short period. You’ve gone from telling me you’re keeping me forever to telling me that we’ll never see each other again. Talk about whiplash.”

  My voice caught on the last word, and I swallowed hard, trying to hide the sudden rise of emotion inside me.

  Malachi studied me for a moment before speaking up again. “Kennedy, have you ever heard of Stockholm syndrome?”

  “I don’t have Stockholm syndrome,” I said indignantly. “I just don’t want you to leave me alone forever. That’s all.”

  He stepped closer, and my pulse spiked. “I’m telling you that you’ll get your freedom. So why fight it?” he asked. “You can go back to your life. Your home. Your friends and family. Don’t you want that? Didn’t you beg me for that?”

  “Of course I want that,” I replied, my voice rising despite myself. “But a person can want more than one thing. And I don’t want you out of my life.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “After everything I’ve done? And everything I’m still going to do?”

  My breath hitched. “You know why,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

  Malachi let out a ragged sigh, dragging a hand over his face. “I know you think you want me, but you really shouldn’t,” he said in a low voice. “You deserve better. A decent man. Not a monster.”

  “I don’t just think I want you. I know I want you. And I don’t think you’re a monster.”

  Something dark flared in his eyes. “I enjoy causing people pain, and I enjoy killing them even more. That’s not going away. Ever.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “Do you know how hard it was for me to let that piece of shit Jacob King live after I caught him putting his hands on you?” Malachi went on. “I wanted to peel every inch of that motherfucker’s skin off and dismember him for what he did to you.”

  Against all reason, I found that statement oddly romantic. “You did?”

  “Of course,” he said, that same dangerous heat sparking in his gaze. “The only thing that stopped me was that 24/7 surveillance team we put on him. But...” He flexed his fingers, chest heaving. “The thought of torturing him still gets me fucking hard. And you really think I’m not a monster?”

  “You really aren’t as bad as you think you are, Malachi,” I said softly. “In fact, I think you actually have quite a lot of good in you.”

  The corners of his lips curved up in a thin, humorless smile. “I don't really have much of anything in me. Apart from the taste for violence.”

  “That's not true,” I said, head shaking again. “You know the difference between right and wrong, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Even five-year-olds know the difference.”

  “No, I mean… you don’t just know it. You feel it,” I said, pressing a hand to my chest. “If you were a truly irredeemable monster like you keep telling yourself you are, then you would’ve killed me the second I was no longer useful to you. And you probably would’ve killed others too. Innocents. But as far as I know, you’ve only killed four people, and let’s face it: they deserved what they got.”

  What I didn’t say, but couldn’t stop thinking, was that maybe I was just as fucked-up as he was for finding that comforting.

  The logical part of me knew that I should probably still be terrified of the man who casually talked about dismembering someone like he was discussing the weather. But ever since I’d finally realized the depth of my feelings for him, that old fear had melted into something else. Something warm and dangerous and impossible to untangle from the truth of what he was.

  And I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Not one bit.

  I took a deep breath and lifted my chin, boldly staring up at him. He stared back at me for a long, heavy moment.

  “Kennedy,” he finally said in a gruff voice. “I’m offering you your freedom. And in order for you to have that, I need to leave. You need to accept that it’s for the best. For your sake more than my own.”

  With that, he turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

  I sank onto the couch, my body going slack as I stared at the wall ahead. My mind replayed Malachi’s words over and over, each one cutting deeper.

  Deep down, I knew he was right.

  So why did it still feel so wrong?

  33

  Kennedy

  The forest was so dark it felt like it was swallowing me whole.

  Branches clawed at my jacket as Malachi and I left the hiking trail and pushed deeper into the trees, the faint glow of his flashlight bobbing ahead of us like a lone star in an endless black sky.

  He’d barely said a word since we left the car, his expression indecipherable, his focus razor-sharp. In fact, he’d barely said a word to me in two days.

  The beam of his flashlight skimmed over slick moss and the tangle of roots at our feet. My pulse was in my throat as I followed it. Every sound in the forest—the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves—made me jump.

  Malachi slowed his pace for a few seconds, his palm briefly brushing over my back. “It’s okay,” he muttered. “You don’t need to be scared. I won’t let him hurt you.”

  I made a faint, noncommittal sound in my throat and kept walking. I didn’t tell him what I was really afraid of, which was what would happen if my father didn’t show up tonight, and also what would happen if he did.

  For the most part, I’d accepted that he was one of the Carver Five. That the blood on his hands was real, and that he deserved whatever Malachi had in store for him. But at the same time, there was still a tiny, stubborn ember of hope glowing somewhere deep inside me. Hope that it was all a huge mistake. That he’d been framed by the other four. That maybe he’d actually been dead all along.

  If he showed up tonight… then that last fragile scrap of hope would be gone, snuffed out in an instant. And in its place would be the ugly truth: that my father was exactly what Malachi said he was. A cold-blooded killer.

  We finally broke through the last wall of trees, and the thick forest opened into a large clearing. Moonlight spilled over the brook in the center, turning the rippling water into liquid light.

  “Here we are,” Malachi said quietly, scanning the area with the slow, methodical precision of a predator.

  I hugged my arms around myself as I watched him do one more pass before he killed the flashlight. I could see every contour of his face, and I knew he could see me just as clearly. There was nowhere to hide in this moonlight.

  “He’s not here,” I murmured. “So maybe the others lied to you. Maybe—”

  A sharp crackling sound cut through my words, like dry branches snapping under heavy boots.

  My head whipped toward the noise, and Malachi went still beside me. The sound came again, closer this time, followed by the faint swish of fabric against undergrowth.

  A figure finally emerged from the shadows on the far side of the brook.

  The moonlight caught him in fragments at first; the edge of a shoulder, the slope of a head, the faint glint of something metallic in a hand before it disappeared. Slowly, he stepped into the open, the water rushing between us.

  “Dad,” I whispered, even though he couldn’t possibly hear me.

  As he stepped closer, I took in the changes one by one. His hair, once dark brown, was now entirely gray. A full beard covered most of the sharp angles of his face, and he’d put on weight, softening the thin frame I remembered from my childhood. His clothes were plain and forgettable. To anyone passing him on the street, he’d be practically invisible. Just another middle-aged man, indistinguishable from a hundred others in a crowd.

  But I knew him instantly. And seeing him here, in the flesh, stripped the last of that stubborn fragment of hope right out of me.

  The world suddenly felt like it was tilting on its axis, and my chest started aching like mad, as if my ribs couldn’t contain the surge of grief and fury fighting for space inside me.

  Malachi’s arm came up in a smooth, practiced motion, the matte-black outline of his gun sharp against the pale moonlight. “Put your hands up, Mark,” he said, lethal calm coiled inside every syllable. “Slowly.”

  My father’s gaze flicked to the gun before sliding over to my face. Without a word, he raised his hands, palms open to the moonlight.

  “Good,” Malachi said. “Now step forward and cross the water. There’s a narrow spot right in front of you.”

  My father did as he was told, keeping his hands raised as he took a long step over the narrowest part of the stream. As he did so, Malachi started walking again, closing the distance between the two of them.

  I trailed after him. My body was running on muscle memory, but my mind was utter chaos. I could hardly breathe. Hardly think. Everything around me had faded under the crushing reality that my father was really here.