16. Kennedy #2
None of my friends knew where I’d really spent that winter break. Not even Freya. They all thought I’d gone interstate to stay with another friend while I recovered from a bad panic attack followed by a terrible misunderstanding.
I always felt like a total hypocrite when I thought about how much I’d lied and downplayed my issues, because I believed in destigmatizing mental illnesses. Just not for myself, apparently. I was so ashamed at the idea of having people know how deep my issues ran that I’d totally buried it.
“That’s awful, Kennedy,” Malachi said softly. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
I gave him a small, grateful nod. “Thanks.”
“Did the guy press charges?”
“No, thankfully. He was really nice and understanding about the whole thing,” I said. “But I totally would’ve understood if he filed a case against me. I deserved it for what I did to him.”
“I’m guessing the college made you start seeing Dr. King as a condition of letting you remain there as a student?”
I nodded slowly. “Sort of. Because it was right before the semester break, the student health center was shut down for a few weeks,” I said. “So I, uhh… I went to stay with a friend over the break, just to get away from everything for a while. Then I started seeing Jacob after I got back.”
Malachi nodded thoughtfully, his gaze still fixed on me in that steady way that always made me feel safe. “I’m glad you got the help you needed,” he said. “And that you’re talking about it now. A lot of people bury that kind of thing and let it rot them from the inside out.”
I swallowed hard, wondering if I was already rotted from the inside out.
Before I could say anything else, Malachi’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, frowned at the screen, then slipped it away again with a sigh.
“I have to head back,” he said, his tone softening. “We need to start working through the new riddle. Time’s not something we can afford to waste.”
“Oh, of course,” I said quickly, sitting up straighter. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No, it’s okay.” His hand briefly touched my shoulder again. “I’m glad we talked.”
I nodded, blinking against the pressure behind my eyes. “Thanks for listening. I know this Carver stuff is already a lot. So I really shouldn’t be adding to your burden.”
His voice dropped, firm but kind. “You’re not a burden, Kennedy. Somehow, you’ve wound up at the center of this case, and I don’t take that lightly.” He paused and glanced toward the house. “Anyway, I’ll be back tonight around eight. Will you be okay for the rest of the day on your own?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
As he walked away, I stayed seated beneath the lemon tree, listening to the fading crunch of his boots on gravel and the low murmur of the officers at the curb.
Finally, I took a deep breath and went back inside.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur as Freya and I spent hours on a video chat, updating the script for the next podcast episode.
We’d already written most of it earlier, but now, with another new victim—or at least, part of one—everything had shifted yet again.
We had to rewrite the ending, restructure the arc, re-record a few key lines.
Freya was her usual razor-sharp self, cycling between gallows humor and ruthless efficiency, and I clung to her focus like a lifeline, letting it tether me to the work and keep my brain from unraveling. By the time I finally looked up from my laptop, the sky outside had turned dark.
Just after eight, Malachi arrived at the front door with a box of pizza and a six-pack of ginger ale.
“No beer,” he said with a sheepish smile as he stepped inside. “Didn’t seem appropriate while I’m technically on duty.”
I smiled despite myself. “That pizza smells amazing.”
“Well, it’s for us to share, so knock yourself out. Unless you’ve already eaten?”
I shook my head and led Malachi to the living room. He set the pizza box between us on the coffee table, and we ate and drank in companionable silence while a ridiculous game show blared on the TV; something with bright lights, screaming contestants, and glitter cannons.
It was so far removed from body parts and riddles that I couldn’t help but watch it with a kind of stunned gratitude.
But I wasn’t entirely focused on the show, because Malachi was sitting there beside me, looking so damn good, and all I could think was: This is the kind of man I should be fantasizing about.
Steady. Nice. Protective. Not a damn killer.
I shouldn’t have been craving the Carver; a man who left body parts like breadcrumbs. Shouldn’t have let him touch me last night. And I certainly shouldn’t have wanted it, either.
But… I had. I’d wanted it so badly I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, the burn of his mouth, and the shameful ache he left behind.
I glanced at Malachi out of the corner of my eye. He was smiling at something on the screen, relaxed and unaware. I wondered how fast that smile would disappear if he learned the truth about what I’d done last night.
“I should go to bed,” I finally said, rising to my feet. “Freya and I are recording another episode first thing tomorrow.”
Malachi nodded. “I’ll be right out here. Just call out if you need anything.”
I retreated down the hall to take a shower, letting the hot water scald my skin like it could somehow burn away all the guilt and confusion, along with the dark cravings I wanted so badly to be rid of.
When I stepped out, I stared at myself in the mirror. Red eyes. Damp hair clinging to my shoulders. Bruises blooming along my hips and thighs like phantom fingerprints.
I averted my eyes and toweled off before slipping into a pale silk nightdress and padding barefoot to my room. Then I climbed into bed, looking in the direction of the camera on the far side of the bedroom.
The Carver could be watching me right now. He could’ve been watching me all day. But now, he couldn’t get inside and touch me.
Not tonight.
Not ever again.