16. Kennedy
Kennedy
As the last of the forensics crew drove off with the evidence, I lingered on the garden path, heart still hammering.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the hand in the package and wondering which of the still-missing male victims it belonged to. Silas Boone, Brian Delgado… or my father.
The thought of it being my dad made my stomach twist so violently that I thought I might vomit right there on the path, and I kept silently begging the universe not to let it be him.
Then the guilt came crashing in, sharp and instant, because in wishing that, I was essentially hoping another innocent man had been hacked apart, just so long as it wasn’t my father.
What kind of person did that make me?
Malachi was standing near the patrol car now, talking quietly with the two officers who’d called him about the package. I watched him for a moment, then waved at him.
“Malachi,” I called out. He looked up, brows rising. “Can we talk, please? Privately.”
He hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Of course.”
I led him to the small side garden; a narrow space shielded by overgrown hedges and a weatherworn fence.
There, an old wrought iron loveseat sat beneath a lemon tree.
The Carver wouldn’t be able to listen to our conversation through my security system if we stayed out here, and I really didn’t want him to hear what I had to say right now.
I sank onto the loveseat, hugging my arms around myself. Malachi sat beside me, keeping a respectful distance.
“We can’t run prints on the hand, because none of the victims were in the system before the Carver took them. But we’ll probably get DNA results back tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’m assuming that’s what you wanted to talk about?”
I nodded, throat tightening. “That was one of the things, yes.”
His head tilted slightly. “What else do you want to talk about?”
“I, um… I don’t really feel safe in the house anymore,” I said quietly, eyes on the faded stone path beneath our feet. “I know you say it’s secure, but—”
Malachi cut me off, his tone gentle but firm.
“Kennedy, I promise you, there’s no way anyone’s getting in without us knowing,” he said.
“The officers are always watching the front, and every thirty minutes, one of them does a foot patrol all around the property and fence line. Plus, there’s also the security system. Your house is absolutely secure.”
I knew that wasn’t true. I knew the Carver had gotten in. But I couldn't tell anyone that. Not without revealing what I’d done with him.
I bit down on my lip, struggling to choose my next words.
“What I mean is: logically, I know it’s safe.
But it’s a bad feeling I get at night. I just don’t feel totally safe when I’m alone,” I finally said.
“So I was wondering if one of the officers could come and sit inside the house at night, instead of both of them being in the car outside.”
I had to ask, because as much as I’d wanted the Carver last night—had ached for him—something inside me had shifted in the harsh light of day. I knew I couldn’t let it happen again. Couldn’t let him come in.
Malachi’s brows drew together as he considered my request. “We could arrange a hotel or a safe house if that makes you feel better.”
“No!” I blurted out before I could stop myself. Somehow, I instinctively knew that the Carver would be pissed as hell if I left my house to stay elsewhere, and I didn’t want to be the reason behind him deciding to escalate things.
Malachi’s brows lifted with surprise, and I forced a tight smile.
“I mean… I’d rather stay here,” I went on hurriedly.
“I’m just scared at night, that’s all, and I think I’d sleep better knowing that someone’s inside the house with me.
And I can’t really ask my friends or family to come and stay over.
Not when the Carver is using my house as a drop-off spot for body parts. ”
Malachi studied me for a moment. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“I’ll stay here tonight,” he went on. “I need to go back to the station after this, but I can come back around eight and spend the night in the living room, if that’s okay with you.”
I stared at him, forehead wrinkling. “You’d really do it yourself?”
“Yes.” He patted my shoulder. “It’s important that you feel safe, Kennedy, and it might take a couple of days to change the current setup. So in the meantime, I’m happy to cover it.”
“Thank you so much,” I said again, softer this time.
I should’ve felt relief at his offer of help, but instead, something inside me suddenly cracked, and an image of a foil-wrapped hand flashed behind my eyes.
What if it really was my father’s severed hand in that package? Was it my fault? Had the Carver decided to kill him as a twisted punishment for my pleas for his life, or was it just a coincidence?
Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them, and a broken sound escaped my throat, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. I turned slightly, curling in on myself. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, wiping my face.
Malachi didn’t move or try to touch me again. He just sat there in quiet solidarity. “You don’t need to apologize for anything,” he said gently. “This is a lot. For anyone.”
I nodded, and more tears spilled over as a crushing sense of guilt and shame set in.
Earlier, I’d begged the Carver not to kill my dad. But I didn’t beg for the lives of the other three remaining victims who were still alive alongside him. I didn’t even mention them. So once again, I found myself wondering: what kind of person did that make me?
An awful, selfish monster, a sinister little voice whispered in the back of my mind. That’s what you are.
I pressed my palms to my face, realizing this was exactly what the Carver wanted. To get into my head and make me feel crazy. Make me feel like I was the monster when it was him all along. I still had no idea why he was targeting me, but I was sure that was his plan.
Malachi finally patted my shoulder again. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. You can let it all out. No judgment from me.”
“Thanks,” I croaked, throat still tight. My whole body was trembling from the toxic mix of shame and terror now. “I just… I feel so awful. I’m so scared all the time. Last time I felt like this I—”
I stopped abruptly, but it was too late. Malachi instantly picked up where I left off. “You what?” he asked, head tilting again.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “You don’t need to hear about this stuff. It’s really not relevant to the case.”
“Kennedy… you clearly need to talk to someone right now, and I’m willing to listen. It doesn’t matter if it’s not relevant to the case.”
I hesitated, then slowly nodded. He was right. Bottling it up never helped. Jacob had always told me that.
“Do you remember how I told you I was seeing a therapist?” I said, looking at Malachi. “During our first interview.”
He nodded, brows furrowing slightly. “Jacob King, right?”
“Yes. I started seeing him because of something that happened back in my freshman year of college,” I said. I exhaled and went on. “I had an… episode.”
He tilted his head. “An episode?”
I looked down. “It happened at the end of my first semester. I’d just finished my last exam, and I should’ve felt relieved like everyone else, but instead… I felt like I was being hunted.”
Malachi didn’t say anything yet. Just let me keep going.
“I was walking across campus to the bus stop, and I became totally convinced that someone was following me,” I said. “I’ve had anxiety issues for a long time, but this was different. Way worse. It was like every anxious feeling I’d ever had suddenly compounded all at once.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“It was. I was absolutely sure someone was watching me. Tracking me. I couldn’t shake the feeling no matter what. It was so real. ”
I stopped to take a breath as the memories washed over me in a wave of shame and guilt.
“And then?” Malachi said, coaxing me to go on.
“Well, because of my anxiety issues, and also because of what happened to my dad when I was a kid, I used to carry pepper spray on me whenever I left the house. Just in case.”
He blinked. “Ah.”
“There was a guy walking a few yards behind me,” I said. “He’d been there ever since I passed the library, and the paranoid feeling I had was getting worse and worse by the second. Then it finally came to a head, and I totally lost it.”
“What happened?”
I stared at my hands, heat flooding my cheeks.
“My memory goes totally blank at this part, so I only know what happened from the people who witnessed it,” I said.
“Apparently, I turned around and pepper-sprayed the poor guy right in the face. Later, I found out that he was just walking to the same bus stop. That’s all.
But I was so far gone that I honestly thought he was about to grab me. ”
“I see.”
“The witnesses said I was screaming my head off and crying. Then I bolted away. A campus security guard found me later, huddled under a library desk. He said I was staring into space and muttering something about a killer being after me.”
“You don’t remember any of that?” Malachi asked.
“Not a second. I totally blacked out,” I said. “The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital with my family around me. The doctor said it was caused by a bad panic attack.”
There was more to the story. So much more. But only my mom, sister, Ethan, and Declan knew the truth.
While I was in the hospital, the psychiatrist on call had diagnosed me with something she referred to as an ‘acute stress reaction with dissociative features’. It sounded clinical. Containable. But it hadn’t felt that way at all. I’d honestly felt as if I were losing my mind.
My mom and Ethan had quietly arranged for me to spend the entire winter break at a mental health facility all the way out in South Dakota. It was meant for people just like me: spiraling, fragile, and desperate to deal with their issues in a private, isolated place.