8. Kennedy #3
“What exactly would the segment be about?” he went on, eyes glimmering with excitement. “The psychology of the Carver? Maybe a breakdown of the FBI profile? Because to be honest, I’ve never agreed with any of the profilers when it comes to that case.”
I shook my head. “The episode we were planning is more about the trolls. You know, the people who are obsessed with the case and say awful stuff to the victims’ families, or accuse the wrong people of being the killer. We wanted a psych angle on why some people do that.”
Jacob’s face fell slightly. “Ah. That’s an interesting subject.”
“But,” I added quickly, “your idea might actually be better, especially now. Seeing as people are more focused on the case again, it could be a great time to revisit the FBI profile, especially with someone like you explaining what holds up and what doesn’t. I’ll run it by Freya.”
That brought the excitement back into his expression. “You think she’d be open to it?”
“Yeah, I think she’ll like it,” I said. “We’ve been trying to figure out how to pivot without turning the show into fear-mongering clickbait. This might be the perfect way to do that.”
He smiled and picked up a fry. “Then it’s a deal. Just tell me when and where.”
I grinned back. For the first time all week, something actually felt like it was falling into place.
Jacob finished his fry and spoke again, voice slightly lower this time.
“On a more personal note, how are you doing with all this Carver return stuff?” he asked.
“You seem to be handling things pretty well, but… speaking as your therapist for a second, I know how good you are at hiding your true thoughts and feelings.”
I gave him a wry smile and nodded. “That’s true. But honestly, I’m doing better than I thought I would be,” I replied. “I totally freaked out when I got those ears sent to me, and I’m definitely still on high alert all the time, but I think I’m handling it pretty well overall.”
That wasn’t a complete lie. I was actually managing my anxiety pretty well. But there was still something darker under the surface. Something I couldn’t bring myself to admit out loud.
Ever since the Carver had resurfaced, my fantasies had been stronger and more frequent than ever before. Violent. Twisted. Shameful.
I didn’t just fear the danger. I dreamed about it every night. About him.
It started the same way every time. I’d wake up after hearing a noise somewhere, like a floorboard creaking as my house settled, or a heavy gust of wind outside.
Then I’d feel a flash of fear, followed by an image appearing in my hazy mind: a skull mask in the shadows.
That was followed by the feeling of a hand clamping over my mouth, and a sharp command whispered in my ear. Don’t scream.
The shame would come in waves then, hot and nauseating. But it wasn’t enough to stop my hand from slipping beneath my sheets, breath catching as the dark, twisted images flooded my mind.
I never pictured his face. I couldn’t. But the power in his body, the slow, deliberate way he’d pin me down and drag a blade along the inside of my thigh—not just to hurt me, but also to mark me as his—lived so vividly in my mind that it was like muscle memory. Like I’d actually done it all before.
My pulse would pound, my skin would flush, and I’d arch into my own touch as the images in my mind twisted into something unholy. The Carver holding me still. Whispering what he’d do if I disobeyed him. What he’d make me beg for.
When it was over, I’d lie frozen in the aftermath, throat tight with disgust.
It made me feel completely hollowed out every single time.
Like I’d broken some unspoken rule of the universe.
After all, you weren’t meant to fantasize about the man who murdered your father, along with twelve other people, and you certainly weren’t meant to make yourself come to the thought of him.
But I did. Over and over.
I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t stop. And in those moments, when my hands were reaching between my legs and my mind was conjuring him in the dark, I didn’t even want to stop.
That terrified me most of all.
“Are you still using the coping techniques I taught you?” Jacob asked, looking at me intently.
I swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, every day. There’s also a ton of helpful stuff on the internet. You were right about that.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of great resources online.” He paused and leaned forward, lips curving in a conspiratorial smile. “I have a feeling I know exactly which site is your favorite,” he went on, raising a brow. “It’s that scream one, isn’t it?”
I stared at him, pulse suddenly hammering in my throat. All the panic and fear from last week’s incident was flooding back to me. The Scream fanfic, the laptop hacker, the creepy text with the photo of my O-face attached.
How the hell did Jacob know about that? I hadn’t told him about it. In fact, I’d never told anyone all the details. Not even Dec when he removed the malware from my computer afterward.
“What did you just say?” I finally asked, voice coming out in a high-pitched squeak.
Jacob’s smile didn’t falter. “The scream site. You’ve been on it, right?”
My chair scraped back slightly. “Oh my god,” I said in a hollow voice. “It was you .”
“What was me?”
“The laptop camera thing, and the weird text , ” I said. “You hacked into my—”
“What?” Jacob cut in, brows drawing together. “I’m not talking about hacking you. Why would you think that?”
“You knew the website I was on,” I said in a low voice. “But you had no way of knowing it. Not unless you’re the one who hacked me.”
He lifted a palm. “Kennedy… I was just talking about one of the mental health websites I recommended in our last session. Remember the paper I gave you? With the list of online resources?”
I hesitated, blinking fast.
“There’s a site called Scream Therapy,” Jacob continued.
“It’s a trauma-release program based on somatic practices that’s proven really effective with anxiety and PTSD patients.
I figured there was a very high chance you’d checked it out and liked it, because it was close to the top of the list I gave you, and all of my other anxiety patients have found it extremely helpful. That’s all I meant.”
I stared at him, heart still hammering. I wasn’t sure I believed him. Out of any website he could’ve mentioned, why did he specifically choose that one? Why not one of the breathing apps, or the mindfulness blog, or literally any of the others?
It felt targeted. Like he’d said it just to see if I’d flinch. And I had, hard.
I pushed back from the table, grabbing my bag in one swift motion. “Sorry, I have to go,” I muttered.
“Kennedy,” Jacob said quickly, rising to his feet. “Wait. We should talk about—”
“Sorry, I can’t right now,” I interrupted, not meeting his eyes. “I totally forgot I have all my groceries in the car. Some of the stuff needs to go in the fridge, so I really need to get home.”
He remained on his feet. “Can I at least walk you to your car?” he asked. “I don’t think you should be alone outside after dark.”
I shook my head. “I’d rather be alone right now. And I’ll be fine. This street is always packed, and there’s security guards around too.”
Jacob gave me a small nod, then slowly sat back down. “All right. I understand,” he said. “Just remember, I’m always here if you need me.”
“Thanks,” I murmured.
Outside, the cool sea breeze hit my skin like a splash of cold water. I inhaled deeply, trying to shake the lingering anxiety, but it clung to me like static.
Just as I expected, the street was crowded with people out for dinner, ice cream, or a stroll along the boardwalk.
Everything should’ve felt normal and safe.
But it didn’t. Not after that unsettling encounter with Jacob.
And certainly not with the knowledge that the Carver was somewhere on the loose in this very city.
I reached my car, unlocked it, and slid into the driver’s seat, fingers trembling as I pushed the key into the ignition. I turned it, and nothing happened.
Frowning, I tried again, more firmly this time. Still nothing. The engine didn’t even sputter.
My car was dead.