21. Kennedy
Kennedy
The overhead lights in the station interview room buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the small table before me. I sat with my hands folded, trying my best to look like I wasn’t running on three hours of fragmented sleep and a gallon of coffee.
Malachi entered, closing the door quietly behind him. His badge hung from a cord around his neck, and he looked like he’d slept even less than I had.
“Thanks for coming in,” he said, settling into the chair across from me. “I hope you managed to get some sleep last night.”
I gave him a polite nod. “A little.”
I’d actually spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell the police had found when they searched Jacob’s house. I hadn’t heard anything yet, not even a hint, and the suspense was absolutely killing me.
Malachi folded his hands on the table, posture relaxed but alert. “Before I take your statement on what happened at the recording studio, I want to update you on the overall situation.”
My spine straightened. “Okay.”
“Because the Carver has been targeting you, Jacob’s attack provided sufficient cause for us to obtain a search warrant for both his home and office.” He paused for a beat, cleared his throat, and went on. “As for what we found… well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”
My pulse kicked up a notch. “Okay,” I repeated.
“The bad news is, we didn’t find anything that definitively proves he’s the Carver.
No trophies, no weapons, no direct links to any of the killings,” Malachi went on.
“But the good news is, what we did find was enough for us to declare him an official person of interest. And that’s enough to justify putting him under twenty-four-hour surveillance. ”
“What exactly did you find?” I asked, eyes widening.
His jaw flexed. “You know those movies where someone stumbles onto a murder board? Photos, news clippings, red string, the works?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“We found something like that in Jacob’s home office. A full wall dedicated to the Carver case. Dozens of articles, photos, notes. He’s been obsessively documenting everything. And that’s just the start.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Malachi replied grimly. “We found drawers full of handwritten notes and partial manuscript drafts. He’s been working on a book about the Carver killings. And from what we gathered, his plan was to use interviews with victims’ families. But the centerpiece of it all was you. ”
My mouth went dry. “What?
“He’s fixated on you, Kennedy. Or rather, the story he’s built around you. You were supposed to be the emotional hook of his narrative. We even found entire draft chapters based on conversations with you.”
“You mean our conversations from therapy?”
“No. He knows that would be illegal,” he said, shaking his head.
“The chapters were works of fiction. Things he hoped you’d say in future conversations.
I think he scripted them out to use as a guide to steer things in that direction in real life.
” He paused, his expression darkening. “There were other scripts, too. Ones designed for him to use to get closer to you. More personal. More intimate.”
I slowly shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Basically, it looks like he was trying to get you to fall for him,” Malachi said.
“That way, anything you shared wouldn’t be protected under doctor-patient confidentiality.
You’d just be his girlfriend. Not his client.
And once you trusted him and started opening up about your father and other Carver-related things… it would be fair game for his book.”
Fury flared in my chest, sharp and hot. “That motherfucker,” I muttered.
“That’s not all. In his office at the university health center, we found some interesting correspondence with a colleague,” Malachi went on.
“Turns out when the college first assigned you a therapist, it wasn’t Jacob.
It was someone called Dr. John Nettis. Jacob petitioned to have you transferred to him. And he got his way.”
“But… that was almost four years ago,” I said in a low voice, head spinning.
He nodded grimly. “Looks like he’s been planning this for a very long time,” he said. “Playing the long game, as they say.”
A cold wave rippled down my spine, and my stomach turned over. I felt as if the last four years had just been rewritten in a language I didn’t understand.
“God,” I whispered. “This is… insane.”
Malachi’s voice dropped. “It gets worse. His notes made it clear he was using what he knew about you from your therapy sessions to manipulate you. To become whatever you needed him to be. That way, when he finally made his move, you’d be all but guaranteed to say yes.
” He raised a brow. “At least… that was his plan. Obviously, it didn’t work, because your instincts kept telling you to reject his advances. ”
I stared at the wall behind him, my stomach hollow. “What a psychopath.”
“He’ll lose his license over this,” Malachi said. “That much is guaranteed.”
My gaze snapped back to his. “Hold on… earlier, you said he’ll be under surveillance from now on. Does that mean he’s free ?”
His lips tightened, and he dipped his chin in a slow nod.
“For now, yes. He’ll face a disciplinary board for the ethics violations, and he’s being charged for the assault, but neither of those are enough to keep him in custody,” he replied.
“So yes, technically, he’s a free man. But he’s under round-the-clock surveillance.
He won’t be able to get anywhere near you without someone intercepting him. ”
“Right,” I muttered, stomach twisting. I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. “Do you think he’s actually the Carver?”
Malachi exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “I really can’t say. He’s clearly obsessed with the case, and has been since the very beginning. But that doesn’t mean he’s actually the killer,” he said. “What I can say is that he’s dangerous. Especially to you.”
“If he is the Carver, and now he knows he’s being watched… what happens to my dad and Brian Delgado, if they’re still alive and locked up somewhere?” I asked. “He’s not going to risk going near them if it means getting caught. And that means they won’t get fed.”
“We have people reviewing his previous movements and digging into any properties owned by his friends or relatives. So if he’s been keeping prisoners somewhere, we’ll find them.”
“But that could take days,” I said, shaking my head. “They could die of dehydration before you find them.”
Malachi leaned forward. “Kennedy, you have to try not to go there in your head.”
“How?” I asked, voice thick with emotion.
I couldn’t stop picturing my father and Brian Delgado trapped in some dark, windowless space, slowly running out of water. Every second that ticked by was a second closer to the worst-case scenario.
“I get how hard it is,” Malachi said gently.
“But if it helps, I don’t think he—or whoever the Carver is—is actually visiting his imprisoned victims every day.
That wouldn’t be sustainable for someone pretending to live a normal life.
So he probably brings enough food and water to last several days each time he sees them. That gives us time.”
I stared at him, processing his words. “That actually makes me feel a little better,” I finally said in a small voice. “Thank you.”
“I promise, we’re doing everything we can,” he said, reaching across to pat my hand.
I knew it was just a sympathetic gesture, but it sent a bolt of lightning through my veins.
“If Jacob’s the Carver, we’ll find the evidence we need.
And we will find your father and Brian. Just like we talked about the other night, right? ”
I nodded, though it felt mechanical. My thoughts were still spinning like mad, because Jacob, who could very well be the Carver, was currently a free man. A watched man, yes, but still walking around like he hadn’t shattered my sense of safety into a thousand pieces.
“Are you ready to give your statement about yesterday now?” Malachi asked, drawing his hand back. “Or do you need a few more minutes to process things?”
I swallowed hard. “I’m ready.”
In a slow, halting voice, I walked him through everything leading up to the assault. He jotted down notes on a legal pad in front of him, nodding now and then without interrupting.
“Okay, so Freya left the room,” he prompted after a pause. “What happened then?”
“Jacob and I got up to stretch our legs, and we walked over to the window to look outside,” I said. “The window is pretty small, so it was a little awkward, because we had to stand close. But it didn’t feel off. Just… circumstantial, you know?”
He nodded.
I took a breath and went on. “He started flirting with me a little, but I didn’t think much of it. It just seemed like he was shooting his shot with me again.”
Malachi’s eyes stayed on the page, his hand steady. “Go on.”
“After that, things got weird really fast. It seemed like he was trying to seduce me, but…” I slowly shook my head.
“It didn’t feel seductive at all. The things he said felt really cold and clinical.
Like they were rehearsed. And it definitely wasn’t sexy, which was obviously what he was going for. It was just creepy.”
“Do you remember any of the exact words or phrasing he used? Anything specific that stood out?”
“I can only paraphrase. But basically, he said things like: ‘ You love fear and danger. I’ve always seen that in you, and you don’t have to pretend anymore. Not with me. We could be so good together’ .”
“Mm-hm.” Malachi’s eyes stayed on the page, pen scribbling in tight, quick strokes. “And then?”
“While he was saying all that stuff, he started touching me. My arm, my neck, my face. Not hurting me, but definitely crossing a line. I told him to stop, more than once, but he didn’t listen.
He just kept going.” I hesitated. “I got the impression that he genuinely believed I’d be okay with it.
That he had no idea I might really mean it when I said no.
It was like he’d already decided how I’d respond, and when I didn’t go along with his fantasy, he couldn’t compute it. ”
Malachi finally looked up, jaw tight. “Kennedy, he’s a thirty-seven-year-old man with a PhD in psychology. He knew exactly what he was doing. And he heard you when you repeatedly said no to him. He just chose not to stop.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” I murmured.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low but firm.
“This is exactly how predators operate. They test boundaries. Push them slowly. Make you question yourself, and make you wonder if maybe you misread the situation. If maybe you did something wrong. That way, when you walk away shaken, you’re already half-blaming yourself. ”
My throat tightened. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
“That confusion and self-doubt is part of his playbook,” Malachi went on. “But let me be clear: he’s the one who crossed a line. Not you. You said no. You tried to stop him. And that’s enough.”
Had I said no on other occasions, though? Had I tried to stop him?
If he was really the Carver like I currently suspected… then the answer to both of those questions was a resounding no.
I looked away, blinking hard. “Yeah,” I murmured. “Thanks.”
Malachi let a beat of silence pass before speaking again. “What happened next?”
“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?