1. Kennedy #2
He nodded. “I hope you do. But either way, if you can’t afford therapy right now, there are other resources you can explore. Online forums, support groups. Just because something’s free doesn’t mean it’s useless. And sometimes the anonymity can really help.”
He paused and opened a drawer. Then he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a list of websites with short descriptions.
“You just have to be careful,” he warned. “There’s a lot of misinformation online. And you’re vulnerable, so you might not always catch it right away.”
I took the list and tucked it into my bag. “I’ll take a look when I get home. Thank you.”
He glanced at his watch. “We’ve still got five minutes left. Anything you want to talk about before we wrap up?”
I started to shake my head, then paused. “Actually… yeah. There’s one thing I’ve been wondering about.”
“Go ahead.”
“Remember the email thing I told you about ages ago?” I asked. “I’ve still been doing it every so often. Do you think that’s okay?”
The ‘email thing’ was something I’d started doing a few years after my dad was taken by the Carver.
When he was alive, he was an avid reader, especially of poetry. So on important days—holidays, anniversaries, family member birthdays—I’d send a short quote or stanza from a book he liked to his old email address.
I knew he wasn’t reading the messages. He couldn’t, for obvious reasons. But for those few seconds, it felt like I was sharing something with the real him. Like the thread between us hadn’t been completely severed by the Carver’s knife.
Dr. King nodded. “Yes, I remember. And yes, I do think it’s okay. Why do you ask?”
“I mentioned it to my sister the other day, and she said it’s really weird, and that I need to accept that Dad’s gone forever,” I replied. “But I have . I know he’s not coming back. It’s just comforting to send those emails. You know?”
He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands in his lap.
“I do know. And for what it’s worth, I think it’s entirely normal,” he said.
“It’s called ‘continuing bonds’ , and it’s something grief research has shown to be healthy and healing.
Not harmful. It’s a way to stay connected to someone you’ve lost without being stuck in denial. ”
I looked down, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. “Um… to be honest, there’s actually a little more to it,” I said. “I’ve never told my sister this part before. Or you, obviously. But I know I should’ve. I guess I didn’t because I felt too ashamed.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s okay. You can tell me now, if you’re ready.”
“About five years ago, I was doing a different kind of therapy. It was a weekly group meetup for people dealing with grief, and there was a man there who’d lost his teenage daughter.
We really connected. Sometimes we’d get milkshakes after the sessions and talk about everything we were going through.
” I hesitated. “Eventually, I told him about the email thing. He said he understood why I did it. And then he made me an offer.”
Dr. King raised a brow. “What kind of offer?”
“He said if I wanted, I could occasionally email him instead, at a new address that looked like it belonged to my father. That way, whenever I sent poetry quotes, he could reply.”
“As your father?”
“Yeah.” I swallowed thickly. “He’d say things like, ‘ That was always my favorite line from Anne Sexton, ’ or ‘ You’ve got a good eye for words.
I’m proud of you .’ Stuff like that.” I paused.
“Obviously, I always knew it wasn’t really my dad replying.
But for a few seconds, when those replies came in…
it felt like it was . Like I’d somehow reached across the veil and touched him. And that really helped. It still does.”
Dr. King was quiet for a moment.
“I see,” he said at last.
I cringed. “So… on a scale of one to ten, how weird and messed up is that?”
“It’s a little unconventional, but I don’t think it’s messed up.” He hesitated, brow furrowing slightly. “As long as there was nothing else going on with this man? Given your age and vulnerability at the time.”
“No, absolutely not. He’s not a creep, and there was never anything inappropriate. He just figured it might help me, and he was right.”
“Well, I stand by what I said,” Dr. King replied. “It’s unusual, but I don’t think it’s unhealthy.”
“But… could it mean I haven’t really accepted the truth? Like my sister said?”
“No.” He shook his head. “It means you’ve found a private way to keep your father’s memory alive. If it’s brought you comfort on hard days, then that’s not holding on too tightly. It’s what I call ‘remembering with intention’, and it’s perfectly fine.”
A lump rose in my throat, but I forced it down. “Thanks,” I said softly. “That makes me feel a little less crazy.”
He offered me another soft smile. “Remember, grief doesn’t follow a linear path. Sometimes it softens, and sometimes it stings all over again,” he said. “What matters is finding the things that help you carry it.”
“That makes sense,” I murmured.
For a moment, we just sat in the stillness. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that always settled in after something honest had been said.
“Well, it looks like our time is officially up now,” Dr. King finally said, glancing at his watch again. He offered me a small smile. “Be safe, Kennedy, and keep up with those grounding techniques, okay?”
I nodded again and bade him goodbye.
I left the student health center with my coat wrapped tight around me, bracing myself against the biting sea breeze.
The sun was already dipping behind the campus buildings, casting everything in a golden haze.
I walked quickly, like always, but I still felt it: that familiar old itch of anxiety between my shoulder blades. Like eyes on the back of my neck.
I glanced over my shoulder. No one was there. I shook it off and picked up the pace.
The bus was already half-full when I boarded, so I slipped into a window seat near the middle and tucked my bag onto my lap.
I had a car back at the tiny house I’d rented since freshman year, but I’d always taken the bus to campus to avoid the constant traffic around it.
It was cheaper than driving all the time, too, and I was living on a tight budget; mostly the remainder of my student loans topped off with savings from the part-time job I’d worked at throughout high school.
The bus finally pulled away from the curb, tires hissing on the asphalt, and I leaned my head against the cold glass and stared out at the streets blurring past. A moment later, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. A black sedan.
My stomach instantly tightened, because the Carver had driven a black sedan. It was one of the many details I remembered from that awful night.
Then again, black was one of the most common car colors in this city. It didn’t mean anything.
I averted my eyes, let out a heavy breath, and pulled out my phone to check my emails. They were mostly junk. Sales I’d never use and updates from websites I couldn’t even remember subscribing to. Oh, and three job application rejections.
Great.
There were also some notes from Freya for our next recording session, and a message from my home security app. Your password is set to expire. Please update immediately to maintain access.
I clicked that instantly, because I was the kind of person who forgot stuff like this if I didn’t do it in the moment.
The security system was an expensive, much-appreciated gift from my stepfather.
Not just cameras, but touch sensors and auto-locks, along with password updates every three months for an added level of safety.
It was a little annoying that I needed to come up with a new password so frequently, but at the same time, it was worth it for the peace of mind the system brought me.
I opened the settings and started typing in a new password. Just as I was about to hit the ‘save’ button, another email appeared in my notification bar.
From: Malachi Sieger
Subject: Interview request
I had no idea who Malachi Sieger was, so I quickly finished updating the security system and then tapped the email to open it.
Hi Kennedy,
My name is Detective Malachi Sieger. I’m new to the Corwin Bay PD, having recently transferred from Boston.
I understand your family has had a cooperative relationship with the precinct in the past, and I’d like to continue that tradition. On that note, I’d appreciate the opportunity to speak with you about the podcast that you and Ms. Freya Landis have recently started.
If you’re available this coming Monday between 2 - 4 p.m., feel free to stop by the station and ask for me directly. No pressure - I just have a few questions about the show. If another time suits you better, please reach out to let me know, and I’ll try to arrange that instead.
Best,
Detective Sieger
I reread it twice, my stomach sinking a little further each time. There was nothing technically hostile or threatening in the message, but ‘ I just have a few questions’ was usually police-speak for ‘ I’m not happy, and you’re going to hear all about it’.
My first thought was of Freya.
We’d both worried that this might happen, and we’d debated it from the start—how much we could legally say on the podcast, and how much backlash we were willing to risk.
But she’d been so confident about it all in the end, having thoroughly researched what we could and couldn’t say, and I trusted her judgment, so I convinced myself we could handle whatever came once we started releasing episodes.
Now I wasn’t so sure we’d made the right call.
I made a mental note to get in touch with Freya after her shift at JJ’s Diner ended in four hours.
Then I locked my phone and stared out the window again, barely registering the blur of lights and buildings as the bus continued its route through downtown Corwin Bay.
A low, queasy ache had settled in my gut.
The black sedan I’d spotted earlier suddenly drew my attention again. It was still in the next lane, just one car length behind my seat on the bus, its dark body gleaming. My eyes flicked to the driver's side.
A man sat behind the wheel. At least I assumed it was a man, based on his hulking size.
He was wearing a black hoodie with the hood pulled low, so his face wasn’t visible.
Black leather gloves gripped the steering wheel, and something about the stiffness of his posture made my pulse stutter.
He looked… off. Like someone who was only playing at normal.
He sped up slightly, pulling up right alongside my seat, and my breath caught as he raised his head and turned to look at me. He was wearing a mask.
It looked like a skull. White and bone-smooth, like molded ceramic. Hollow black sockets where the eyes should be. No jaw, just an empty curve at the bottom like it had been cut clean off.
My blood turned to ice as I stared.
The man tilted his head slowly to the side, studying me through the bus window. Then he lifted one gloved hand from the wheel and waved.
Not casually. Not innocently. It was a slow, deliberate wave. The kind you gave someone when you wanted them to know it was personal.
I flinched back from the glass like I’d been burned, heart hammering and hands trembling in my lap.
When I dared to look again… the car was gone.