9. Kennedy
Kennedy
I stared at the dash in disbelief, willing my car to come back to life. One more try , I told myself, gripping the key like that might make a difference.
Still nothing. Not even a click.
For a second, I just sat there, hands frozen on the wheel. Why did this have to happen now of all times? Right when I was absolutely desperate to get home?
Finally, I took a breath, popped the hood, and climbed out.
The cold metal creaked under my fingers as I lifted it. A cloud of faint steam hissed up, and I stepped back instinctively, eyes narrowing as I scanned the engine. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard my dad’s voice.
If a car ever dies on you, don’t panic. Nine times out of ten, it’s something simple. You just have to know what to look for and how to fix it. It’s not so different from my surgical job, really.
I was eight the first time he brought me out to the driveway to teach me how to check the oil and coolant.
It became our ‘thing’ over the next four years—Sunday mornings outside peering under the hood or working on projects in the garage, along with the occasional hiking or fishing expedition, while my mom and little sister stayed inside watching TV or painting miniatures for my sister’s dollhouse.
‘Sometimes I think it’s the two of us against those two,’ Dad told me once, chuckling as he handed me a wrench. ‘We’re the outside kids, and they’re the inside kids.’
‘You’re not a kid, Dad,’ I’d replied with a teasing grin. ‘ You’re old! ’
But of course, he wasn’t old. Things just seemed that way when I was a child. He was only forty-four when the Carver took him, and that was a very young age to die.
Although… I knew now that there was a chance he wasn’t really dead.
An image of him locked in an underground cell, tormented and terrified, flashed in my mind for what felt like the hundredth time today, making my blood turn to ice.
I took another deep breath, trying to shove the awful thought away, and leaned in beneath my car hood to inspect the belts, connections, and battery terminals, just like Dad taught me.
It didn’t take long to figure out the problem. A loose cable near the fuse box, maybe jarred free, and worse, a snapped belt further in. Not catastrophic, but definitely not fixable with the basic toolkit I kept in the trunk.
I blew out a frustrated breath and let the hood drop back into place with a heavy clunk. Then I pulled out my phone and called Dec.
He answered on the fifth ring. “Kenny, what’s up?” he asked, voice a little slurred.
“Hey, I was wondering if you could do me a massive favor,” I said, rubbing my temple. “I’ll totally owe you one if you can.”
“What is it?”
“My car’s dead. I know what’s wrong, but I need my big toolkit to fix it, so would you mind swinging by my place to grab it for me?” I asked. “If you can, the code for the lock on the front door is 9463. You’ll just have to tell the cops out front who you are first.”
Dec groaned. “I would love to help, I swear, but I’m, uh… pretty wasted right now. Been drinking with an old friend. So I don’t think I should be anywhere near a steering wheel.”
“Oh, right.” I laughed softly at the thought of him wasted. I just couldn’t picture it. “It’s okay. I’ll call the roadside assistance thing from my insurance.”
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I really wish I could help out.”
“It’s okay. Really! I just called you first because I know how long those roadside places can take sometimes.”
“Ugh, yeah. They suck,” he replied. “But hopefully they don’t take too long tonight.”
Once we’d ended the call, I dialed my insurance company’s roadside assistance line, only to get put on hold with a robotic voice telling me they were experiencing ‘higher than normal call volumes’.
Dammit.
The minutes dragged into half an hour. Then three quarters of an hour. I sat slouched in the driver’s seat with my phone pressed to my ear, the tinny hold music looping incessantly until it felt like it was burrowing into my brain.
At one point, I glanced up to see that Jacob King was finally leaving the restaurant.
Shit . I ducked low in my seat, heart racing again. I held my breath until he moved past my car and disappeared into the crowd, and then I slowly straightened up and exhaled.
A soft beep interrupted the hold music. Call waiting. I glanced at my screen to see it was Malachi.
I quickly switched lines. “Hi, Detective Sieger.”
“Hi, Kennedy. Where are you right now?” he asked. His voice sounded a little tense.
“I’m stuck across the street from the Driftwood. My car’s dead and roadside assistance is taking forever.”
“I’ll come pick you up,” he said quickly. “Just hang tight. Stay where it’s well-lit and crowded.”
“Okay. Thank you,” I said. “Wait, sorry, I forgot to ask. Why were you calling?”
He hesitated for a second. “Something’s happened.”
“What?”
“There was an attempted break-in at your house a few minutes ago,” he said. “The officers out front caught someone lurking outside your bedroom window. He was trying to open it.”
My mouth went dry. “Wait, what ? I didn’t get any alerts on my security app.”
“That’s because they spotted him and apprehended him right before he laid his hands on the window, so the sensor wasn’t triggered,” he said. “But we know he was going to pry it open and sneak in, because he admitted it once he was caught.”
I slowly shook my head, mind reeling. “Who was it?” I asked.
Malachi hesitated again. “It’s your stepbrother,” he finally replied. “Declan Kilkenny.”