15. Kennedy
Kennedy
“Screw it,” I whispered, fingertip hovering over the enter key.
I’d spent the past hour agonizing over what to say to the Carver, but no combination of words could possibly cover the scope of what I wanted to get out of him: his identity, his location, his motives, and about a million other things.
I’d even cracked open an old college textbook to a chapter on abnormal psychology, hoping to get inspiration from there, but unsurprisingly, there was no section outlining something as specific as ‘ How to speak to a psychopathic serial killer in a way that will coax them into giving up their identity and secrets’ .
In the end, I’d decided to go back to basics when I made contact. Short and straightforward.
I finally pressed enter. Hi. Are you there?
The Carver’s reply came through a minute later.
I am. I’ve been waiting for you to reach out, Kennedy.
PS. Don’t bother trying to track this. I use a military-grade VPN that bounces through a dozen countries every few seconds, so it’s not possible. Not even the world’s best hacker could crack it.
Frowning, I switched my tab to Google and typed in ‘VPN’. I’d heard Dec mention the term before, but I couldn’t remember what it meant.
The first result said: ‘A virtual private network (VPN) hides your IP address by routing it through a specially configured remote server. This means your activity is untraceable by third parties, and even if intercepted, your data would be useless’.
“Dammit,” I muttered. Part of me had hoped the emails could be traced by a cybersecurity expert, but that idea had just gone right out the window.
I leaned forward again and typed out another message. Who are you?
Carver: You’ll see when the time is right.
Me: When will that be?
Carver: You’ll see .
I blew out a frustrated sigh and sent another message, irritation curling hot beneath my skin.
Me: Is this how our conversation is going to go? You giving me cryptic bullshit answers no matter what I ask?
Carver: Ask better questions and you might receive better answers.
Me: Fine. Are you watching me right now? Through my cameras?
Carver: Yes.
Me: How long have you been watching me?
Carver: I’ve had my eye on you for years. And not just through the cameras. You’re an interesting woman, Kennedy.
Me: Are you someone I know?
Carver: Sorry, sweetheart. It’s more fun for me to let you wonder about that one ;)
Me: Why did you delete last night’s footage from my bedroom?
Carver: You haven’t figured that one out already?
Me: Actually, I think I have. I just want you to confirm my theory.
Carver: And your theory is…?
Me: You want people to think I’m crazy if I tell anyone about what happened between us, right? And that’s because you want me to feel isolated from everyone else. Probably so you’ll become the only person I can truly confide in.
PS. That’s never gonna happen.
Carver: Nice theory, but wrong. I overwrote the footage with an old file to protect you.
Me: Protect me?? Are you serious?
Carver: You know what I mean. If your footage ever had to be reviewed by the police for some reason, and people saw what you did with me… that information would leak fast, and then you’d be a social pariah forever. I spared you from that.
Me: Why would you want to protect me?
Carver: Because you have something I want, sweetheart.
Me: Let me guess: the podcast. You want it to continue because it’s giving you the attention you crave so much. But if I suddenly became a social pariah for having sex with you, Freya and I would get ‘canceled’, and then the show would die and take your little spotlight with it.
Carver: It’s definitely within my interest for your show to succeed. But that’s not what I meant.
Me: So what do I have that you want from me, then?
Carver: Would you kill me if I said ‘you’ll find out when the time is right’ again? ;)
Me: You’re the killer here. Not me. But while we’re on the subject of killing: are you going to do it again?
Carver: Yes.
Me: When?
Carver: Maybe I’ve already done it. Check under your pillow, sweetheart…
My heart jerked into my throat. I leapt up and tore the pillows off my bed, half-expecting to find something grotesque, like another body part or a bloody envelope.
There was nothing but the fitted sheet.
I scrambled back to my laptop and sent another email. There’s nothing there.
Carver: I know. I just wanted to see the expression on your face when you raced over to the bed to check.
Me: You’re a real asshole.
Carver: What? A killer can’t have a sense of humor?
I muttered a string of curses under my breath as I fired off the next message.
Me: Tell me - why are you killing these people now? And why did you kill the other eight victims ten years ago?
Carver: I only kill those who deserve it, Kennedy.
Me: Why did they deserve it?
Silence.
I waited. Hit refresh on the page four times. I even checked my Wi-Fi connection just in case it was down, but there was no issue with it. My last email had definitely sent. The Carver just wasn’t replying to my question.
I hurriedly typed out another message, hoping he hadn’t abandoned the conversation entirely.
Me: Are you planning to kill me too? Is that why you’ve been stalking me?
Carver: Do I detect a guilty conscience there, sweetheart? Do you believe you deserve to die?
Me: No. But I believe you’re an unhinged psychopath, so you could simply decide that I deserve it and invent a reason to justify that decision.
Carver: I don’t operate like that.
Me: Okay, well, if you don’t want to kill me, then what the hell do you want from me? Give me a proper answer this time. Not just ‘you’ll see’.
Carver: I want total honesty from you, Kennedy.
Me: I was honest with you last night. You know that.
Carver: You were honest about your desires, yes. But you haven’t fully opened up to me yet. I don’t think you’re ready.
Me: Just tell me what you want me to be honest about, and I’ll do it. I swear. Anything you want to know, I’ll say it. But I want something in return.
Carver: What do you want?
I hesitated, staring at the blinking cursor. My hands trembled as I finally typed: If my father is still alive, promise me you won’t hurt him. Promise me you’ll let him go free.
Carver: I see I was correct in my assessment. You’re still not ready.
Me: Not ready for what?
Once again, he didn’t reply. I sent through another message.
Me: Are you still there? Can we talk about something else?
Still no response.
“Shit,” I muttered as my frustration bled into dread. He was gone, and I had no idea what that meant.
With a sigh, I closed my laptop and stripped my bed so I could put a fresh set of sheets on it. After that, I spent a few hours working on the script for episode four of ‘ After the Carver’ with Freya on FaceTime.
Around lunchtime, a sudden shout from outside pierced the quiet in my house. I jolted upright, heart thudding, and scrambled away from my desk. Another shout followed, sharp and commanding.
I dashed down the hall and flung the front door open. Outside, the two officers stationed to watch my house had a man pinned against the hood of their patrol car. He wasn’t resisting, and his face was twisted in confusion and panic.
“What’s going on?” I called out, stepping onto the porch.
“Stay back, Kennedy!” one of the officers barked without looking my way.
I hovered at the edge of the steps, eyes locked on the man they’d detained. He wore a dark gray hoodie, jeans, and a black cap. A small cardboard box sat on the ground a few feet from the scuffle, wrapped in plain brown paper.
“I’m just a courier!” the man called out, voice shaking. “I was hired online on an anonymous job board. So I don’t know who the sender was! I just picked it up from the specified location and brought it here.”
The younger officer kept a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Is it normal for you to pick up and deliver unmarked packages?”
The courier’s mouth opened and closed. “Well… not really. But I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “I was told to drop it off here, no signature required, and that’s all I’ve done. It’s not illegal to deliver a package, is it?”
The other officer picked up the box with gloved hands, examining it carefully. “Could be nothing, I suppose, but I think it’s more than likely another gift from the Carver,” he said grimly.
My stomach flipped.
“Sieger needs to see this,” the other officer said. “I’ll call him. Forensics too. We’re not opening this until they’re here.”
His colleague nodded, then looked at the courier. “You're staying put for now. We’ll verify your story, try to trace the payment, and check for fingerprints. Don’t even think about running.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” the man said shakily, lifting his hands higher.
I stayed frozen at the top of the porch steps, arms wrapped around myself, unable to tear my gaze from the box. I tried to breathe slow and deep, like Jacob used to encourage me to do. In for four, hold for seven, out for—
No . It wasn’t working. My lungs simply refused to cooperate, and my mind refused to slow down.
Ten minutes later, Malachi and another detective strode up the driveway, expressions grim and focused. Behind them trailed two other officers, a forensics team, and a man in bulky black gear with a silver wand-like device clutched in one gloved hand.
“Stay up there for now, Kennedy,” Malachi called out to me.
I nodded, watching as the man in black waved the silver device slowly over the box. After a tense beat, he nodded at Malachi. “No sign of explosive compounds,” he called out. “Safe to open.”
Malachi tugged on a pair of gloves and crouched next to the package. A blade flashed in his hand, slicing through the tape, and the box opened with a soft rustle.
“Looks like another riddle. Bag it, please,” he said, handing a cream-colored sheet of paper to the forensics tech standing nearby. “There’s something else too.”
I leaned forward, my nails digging into my arms.
Malachi’s gloved hands moved carefully as he lifted something out. It was wrapped tightly in several layers of aluminum foil, just like the ears from the envelope I’d received a week ago.
I watched him slowly peel the foil back. He grimaced, and then he leaned toward the other detective and murmured something I couldn’t hear.
I stepped off the porch and headed down the path. “Malachi,” I called, voice shaking. “What’s in it?”
He looked over at me, a mix of concern and sympathy flashing in his eyes. “We’ll talk later, Kennedy. You should go back inside for now.”
I stepped closer. “Please,” I said, voice on the verge of breaking. “Just tell me.”
He hesitated, the muscles in his square jaw working like he was grinding down words he didn’t want to say. Then he exhaled through his nose and nodded once, like he’d finally accepted that temporarily sparing me from the truth wasn’t going to help matters.
He stepped over to me and placed a palm on my shoulder. “It’s a man’s hand,” he said quietly. “The Carver’s killed again.”