31. ‘K’
‘K’
MALACHI
I drained the last of my coffee and immediately stood to grab another one.
I hadn’t slept much last night. Every time I tried to close my eyes, I’d seen Kennedy the way she’d looked at me yesterday: wet hair curling against her face, lips parted, eyes wide and earnest. Her words kept replaying in my head too, worming through the cracks in my resolve.
You’re all I want, Malachi.
Her voice had trembled as she spoke, but not with fear. Not entirely. There had been a real softness there; a warmth that crept under my skin in a way I couldn’t shake.
And then there was the way she fucked me afterward…
It was the same way she’d always fucked me. Hungry, reckless, desperate. Like she believed she belonged to me whether she wanted to or not.
I’d spent so long convincing myself I knew her better than she knew herself. That she was a liar. A performer. A devious little woman who’d manipulate anyone to save her own skin, along with her father.
But… had I misjudged her completely?
When I crept into her room and fucked her that first time a few weeks ago, unable to hold myself back any longer, I’d told myself that the desperate moans, the heated breaths, the way she’d melted under my touch—it was all just part of the fantasy she’d been chasing.
She didn’t really want me . She wanted the mask. The danger. The monster.
But yesterday, when she was talking about wanting me, she’d looked at me like I was the only real thing in her world, and it really seemed like she was telling the truth.
I moved to my office window and sipped at the fresh mug of coffee, watching the gray morning break over the distant ocean.
People with brains like mine had one glaring weak point. Hubris. We assumed our lack of emotions made us far more rational and logical than everyone else, and that often led to us believing we were always right. But that wasn’t true. We were fallible like others. We could be wrong.
Could my own hubris have clouded my judgment? Had I misread every sign and convinced myself that Kennedy was lying about her father, just to protect my own damn ego that always had to be right? Could she have been innocent all along?
Fuck.
I grimaced, turning away from the window. I hated the thoughts stirring in my chest right now. I had to remind myself who I was. What I’d spent the last ten years plotting, waiting for, and working toward. Why I was doing it.
It wasn’t supposed to get this fucking complicated. Kennedy was just supposed to be a pawn. A necessary piece on the board to get to her fugitive father so I could kill him like all the others. She wasn’t supposed to matter to me beyond that.
And yet…
She did. She mattered to me a hell of a lot. She’d pointed that out to me yesterday, and she was fucking right. But, because of the tunnel vision stemming from my pride and arrogance, I’d missed that glaringly obvious detail.
So what else had I missed?
I headed back to my desk, raking a hand through my hair as the doubts continued to creep in.
I’d built a huge portion of my plan around a core assumption: that Kennedy was a liar who’d been in contact with her father for years, and that she’d also been covering for him.
That belief had justified everything I’d done to her, no matter the level of cruelty.
But if that foundation cracked, even a little, then everything started to look different.
I clenched my jaw and sank back into my chair, staring at my blank screen.
I didn’t have to sit here, stewing in uncertainty, wondering if I’d allowed myself to be blinded by my own ego. I had resources. I had skills. And if I dug deep enough, I could tease out the truth.
If Kennedy had been lying, I could prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt. And if she hadn’t… then I’d have to face the ugly, dangerous reality that I might have built my master plan on a fault line.
I started with the breadcrumb she’d given me.
Elodie Wellness Retreat. A quick search confirmed that it existed, a mental health facility buried somewhere in South Dakota.
But that didn’t mean Kennedy was telling the truth.
She could have had her mother and stepfather drop her off at the facility before she slipped away to meet her father somewhere else. Easy.
I dialed their main line, drumming my fingers against the armrest as I waited.
After a few rings, a bright female voice answered. “Elodie Wellness Retreat. This is Savannah speaking.”
“Hi, Savannah. This is Detective Malachi Sieger from Corwin Bay PD in Massachusetts,” I said smoothly. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”
“All right, Detective. How can I help?”
“I was told your records aren’t digitized. Is that accurate?”
“Yes, it is,” she replied. “We believe in maintaining patient privacy to the utmost standard, and with the frequency of online data leaks, we find it safer to keep everything strictly on paper.”
“Understood. What if an outside party needs a copy of a file?”
“If a licensed physician or therapist requests it, we verify their credentials, make a copy, and send it via courier. Old-fashioned, but secure.”
“I see.” I cleared my throat and went on. “I’m currently working on the Corwin Bay Carver case. You may have seen it in the news?”
“Yes, I have,” Savannah replied. “I really hope you catch him soon.”
“We’re working on it,” I said evenly. “If you’ve been following the case, then I’m sure you’re also aware of the Kennedy Campbell kidnapping? We believe she was abducted by the Carver.”
“Yes, I saw that too. I really hope you find the poor girl before it’s too late.”
“You actually might be able to help with that,” I said, lowering my voice slightly. “We have reason to believe she was a patient at your facility four years ago. I’d like to confirm that and have her file sent to me.”
“I’m sorry, Detective,” Savannah said, sympathy in her tone. “I can’t disclose that kind of information without a warrant. I can’t even confirm if she was a patient here.”
“I understand your policy,” I said, letting a note of urgency creep in. “But we believe Kennedy may have known her abductor for some time, so she might’ve mentioned him in therapy, which in turn could’ve ended up in the notes in her file. Any delay could cost her life.”
“I really do want to help,” Savannah said after a pause. “But I can’t break protocol. If you can fax us a signed warrant, I’ll personally make sure the files are sent to your department right away through an express courier service.”
My jaw tightened. “I understand. I just thought I’d try my luck while I wait on the judge.”
“I’m sure they’ll sign off very quickly, given the urgency,” she said.
I thanked her and hung up, exhaling hard.
No judge would approve me fishing through Kennedy’s therapy notes from four years ago. They weren’t relevant to the Carver case, as I’d claimed to Savannah, and if I tried to insist that they were, I’d probably bring suspicion upon myself.
If I wanted those files… I’d have to find another way.
I sat up straighter as Savannah’s earlier words came back to me. If a licensed physician or therapist requests it, we verify their credentials, make a copy, and send it via courier.
Jacob King had been Kennedy’s therapist for years.
If he’d ever wanted her full history, he would’ve requested those records long ago, which meant her entire psychological paper trail might be sitting in his old files.
And luckily for me, every scrap of paperwork from both his office and his home was currently boxed up in the evidence room down the hall.
I pushed back from my desk and strode toward the door, my pulse picking up as the plan solidified.
When I entered the evidence room, the first thing I saw was one of our younger officers—Grant—lifting a heavy box off the shelf.
“What are you doing?” I asked sharply.
Grant jerked and turned toward me, the box wobbling in his arms. “Captain Fleming asked me to return these. We know King isn’t our guy now, so there’s no point holding onto all his crap.”
My eyes flicked to the boxes still lined along the wall, and a sharp thread of panic unspooled in my gut. If they sent these back before I got what I needed…
“Actually, I need to check something in his files,” I said quickly. “You haven’t moved any out of the building yet, have you?”
“No, I was just getting started,” he said slowly, still looking confused. “But we know he’s not the Carver. So what could possibly be in these files?”
I forced a cool, thoughtful expression. “I’m starting to think Kennedy might’ve known the Carver for a while, given his clear obsession with her,” I said.
“She would’ve never known his true nature, of course, but she still might’ve spoken about him during therapy.
So I want to go through her old session notes to look for any male names that she might’ve mentioned to King. ”
Grant raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of reading.”
“Yeah. But it might give us a new lead,” I said. “And if Fleming asks why King’s things are still here, I’ll handle it.”
He hesitated, then shrugged and set the box back on the shelf. “Knock yourself out, Detective.”
I waited for him to leave, then closed the door behind me. My fingers itched as I reached for the nearest boxes marked Patient Files – C .
One by one, I opened them, sifting through neat manila folders and handwritten notes. I moved quickly but methodically, hunting for the one name that mattered.
Finally, near the bottom of the third box, I spotted a tab labeled in King’s precise handwriting: Campbell, Kennedy.
I eased the folder out and flipped it open. The first few pages were routine therapy notes. But then, tucked behind those, was a smaller folder. The front read: Dr. King – Private and Confidential.
I opened it with careful fingers, and there it was: a copy of Kennedy’s intake paperwork and progress notes from Elodie Wellness Retreat.
I scanned the first page, my eyes locking on the details.
Inpatient admission: 12/03/2020 – 01/04/2021
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