Make it hurt a dark stal.., p.21
Make It Hurt (A Dark Stalker Romance), page 21
Malachi’s face was twisted with rage, eyes locked on Jacob like he wanted to break him open. “We heard her shouting ‘no’ from down the hall, scumbag.”
Jacob coughed, breath shallow. “It was just a game, okay? That’s all.”
Malachi’s gaze snapped to me. “Is that true, Kennedy?” he asked tightly. “Did you agree to play this so-called game?”
I shook my head, heart hammering. “No.”
He looked back at Jacob, jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle twitch. “You’re done.”
Jacob was still panting, but there was something smug curling at the corners of his lips now. Something that made my blood run cold.
One of the officers yanked him upright and wrenched his arms behind his back. The cuffs snapped into place with brutal finality as the second officer began reading him his rights, voice cold and clipped.
“This is bullshit,” Jacob spat. “I barely even touched her. My lawyer’s going to—”
One of the officers cut him off. “We caught you assaulting a woman. Not only that, you assaulted a woman who’s being directly targeted by the Carver. What do you think that looks like for you, huh?” he said, eyes narrowing.
Whatever was left of Jacob’s brazen confidence drained from his face. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Just silence.
Malachi stepped over to me and held out a hand. “Did he hurt you?” he asked in a low voice.
“I… I’m okay,” I said shakily, letting him help me back to my feet. “He barely touched me.”
Freya appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “What the hell is going on?”
“This man just assaulted your friend, ma’am,” the taller officer explained as he dragged Jacob toward the door.
She blinked, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then she rushed to my side. “Oh my god, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Just a bit shocked.”
Her gaze snapped to Malachi. “Thank god you guys were here,” she said. She cocked her head. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“We came looking for the two of you, because it was past six and neither of you were home yet,” he replied. “And it’s lucky we did, given what we saw when we came in.”
Freya’s eyes darted to the clock on the wall. “Shit,” she murmured. “I didn’t even notice the time.”
“Me neither,” I said, voice still unsteady. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’ll take you both home,” Malachi said, concerned eyes still on me. “I’ll have someone drop off your cars later.”
“What about him?” Freya motioned to the door Jacob had just been dragged through. “Is he going to jail?”
“He’s going to the station for now,” Malachi said, his voice measured. “Depending on what his lawyer says—or doesn’t say—he might spend the night in a holding cell.”
Freya’s face was suddenly pale, her expression stricken. “Could he be the Carver?” she asked in a low voice. “I mean, he seemed normal at first. Charming, even. But attacking Kennedy like that… it’s just crazy. And we all know the Carver has a major thing for Kennedy, so…”
She trailed off, leaving the big question lingering in the air like smoke; thick, cloying, impossible to ignore.
Malachi’s jaw flexed. “We’re not ruling anything out.”
I felt a wave of revulsion roll through my stomach, bile rising with it.
All these years, I’d sat across from Jacob in his comfortable office. Cried in front of him. Poured out my pain over my father’s disappearance and presumed death at the hands of the Carver.
He’d looked me right in the eye as he listened to it all. Sympathized. Offered me advice. And all along, he might’ve had my father locked up in some basement cell.
The back of my throat suddenly felt like it was burning. I pressed a hand to my mouth, breathing shallowly.
Freya hugged me, fierce and tight. “I’m so sorry, Kennedy,” she said. “I never should’ve invited him on the show.”
“It’s not your fault. We both invited him,” I replied, hugging her back.
“We don’t actually know if he’s the Carver, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet,” Malachi interjected. “But Kennedy, I’d strongly recommend filing a restraining order. Whether or not he’s a killer, I don’t want him anywhere near you again.”
“Me neither,” Freya muttered.
“Fine by me,” I said. I never wanted to see Jacob King again. Unless he was the Carver, in which case I wanted to see him rotting in prison for the rest of his life.
Malachi checked his watch, then jerked his head toward the hallway. “Come on. Let’s get you both out of here.”
We rode in tense silence. When we dropped Freya off at her house, she gave my hand a quick squeeze and whispered, “Call me later?”
“I will,” I promised.
Malachi pulled into my driveway five minutes later and gave me a faint, reassuring smile. “You can give your statement about what happened in the morning, if that’s okay with you. I figured you’d prefer to get some rest for now.”
“Yeah, that would be good. Thanks.”
“I’d offer to stay again tonight,” he added. “But I think I’ll be working all night now that we have a potential suspect in custody. So Officer Donovan’s posted inside. He’ll stay close.”
I nodded slowly, the tension in my chest refusing to loosen. “You really think Jacob might be the Carver?”
Malachi hesitated. “It’s far too early to speculate on that,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “Really, I shouldn’t even be referring to him as a potential suspect. But it’s definitely suspicious, because he targeted you, the Carver’s fixation.”
I leaned back against the seat, staring at the gray car ceiling. “I don’t even know what to say right now,” I murmured. “It’s just so much to take in. I feel like everything’s spinning.”
“I understand. It’s—” Malachi was cut off by the buzz of his phone, and he frowned, glancing at the screen. “Sorry, one second. I have to take this.”
I turned toward the window, pretending I wasn’t listening as he answered. The voice on the other end was muffled, but Malachi’s clipped responses gave everything away.
“Yeah… already? I thought Mendoza would drag his feet on a search warrant.” There was a short pause, and then his voice dropped. “Of course. Give me both addresses.”
He offered me an apologetic wave before he reached across me to grab a small notepad from the glove compartment. As he leaned in close, I caught the faint sound of the other person on the line.
“You need to get here right away, sir,” they said. “We started searching King’s house as soon as that warrant was signed… and we already found something.”
21
Kennedy
The overhead lights in the station interview room buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the small table before me. I sat with my hands folded, trying my best to look like I wasn’t running on three hours of fragmented sleep and a gallon of coffee.
Malachi entered, closing the door quietly behind him. His badge hung from a cord around his neck, and he looked like he’d slept even less than I had.
“Thanks for coming in,” he said, settling into the chair across from me. “I hope you managed to get some sleep last night.”
I gave him a polite nod. “A little.”
I’d actually spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell the police had found when they searched Jacob’s house. I hadn’t heard anything yet, not even a hint, and the suspense was absolutely killing me.
Malachi folded his hands on the table, posture relaxed but alert. “Before I take your statement on what happened at the recording studio, I want to update you on the overall situation.”
My spine straightened. “Okay.”
“Because the Carver has been targeting you, Jacob’s attack provided sufficient cause for us to obtain a search warrant for both his home and office.” He paused for a beat, cleared his throat, and went on. “As for what we found… well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”
My pulse kicked up a notch. “Okay,” I repeated.
“The bad news is, we didn’t find anything that definitively proves he’s the Carver. No trophies, no weapons, no direct links to any of the killings,” Malachi went on. “But the good news is, what we did find was enough for us to declare him an official person of interest. And that’s enough to justify putting him under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“What exactly did you find?” I asked, eyes widening.
His jaw flexed. “You know those movies where someone stumbles onto a murder board? Photos, news clippings, red string, the works?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“We found something like that in Jacob’s home office. A full wall dedicated to the Carver case. Dozens of articles, photos, notes. He’s been obsessively documenting everything. And that’s just the start.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Malachi replied grimly. “We found drawers full of handwritten notes and partial manuscript drafts. He’s been working on a book about the Carver killings. And from what we gathered, his plan was to use interviews with victims’ families. But the centerpiece of it all was you.”
My mouth went dry. “What?
“He’s fixated on you, Kennedy. Or rather, the story he’s built around you. You were supposed to be the emotional hook of his narrative. We even found entire draft chapters based on conversations with you.”
“You mean our conversations from therapy?”
“No. He knows that would be illegal,” he said, shaking his head. “The chapters were works of fiction. Things he hoped you’d say in future conversations. I think he scripted them out to use as a guide to steer things in that direction in real life.” He paused, his expression darkening. “There were other scripts, too. Ones designed for him to use to get closer to you. More personal. More intimate.”
I slowly shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Basically, it looks like he was trying to get you to fall for him,” Malachi said. “That way, anything you shared wouldn’t be protected under doctor-patient confidentiality. You’d just be his girlfriend. Not his client. And once you trusted him and started opening up about your father and other Carver-related things… it would be fair game for his book.”
Fury flared in my chest, sharp and hot. “That motherfucker,” I muttered.
“That’s not all. In his office at the university health center, we found some interesting correspondence with a colleague,” Malachi went on. “Turns out when the college first assigned you a therapist, it wasn’t Jacob. It was someone called Dr. John Nettis. Jacob petitioned to have you transferred to him. And he got his way.”
“But… that was almost four years ago,” I said in a low voice, head spinning.
He nodded grimly. “Looks like he’s been planning this for a very long time,” he said. “Playing the long game, as they say.”
A cold wave rippled down my spine, and my stomach turned over. I felt as if the last four years had just been rewritten in a language I didn’t understand.
“God,” I whispered. “This is… insane.”
Malachi’s voice dropped. “It gets worse. His notes made it clear he was using what he knew about you from your therapy sessions to manipulate you. To become whatever you needed him to be. That way, when he finally made his move, you’d be all but guaranteed to say yes.” He raised a brow. “At least… that was his plan. Obviously, it didn’t work, because your instincts kept telling you to reject his advances.”
I stared at the wall behind him, my stomach hollow. “What a psychopath.”
“He’ll lose his license over this,” Malachi said. “That much is guaranteed.”
My gaze snapped back to his. “Hold on… earlier, you said he’ll be under surveillance from now on. Does that mean he’s free?”
His lips tightened, and he dipped his chin in a slow nod. “For now, yes. He’ll face a disciplinary board for the ethics violations, and he’s being charged for the assault, but neither of those are enough to keep him in custody,” he replied. “So yes, technically, he’s a free man. But he’s under round-the-clock surveillance. He won’t be able to get anywhere near you without someone intercepting him.”
“Right,” I muttered, stomach twisting. I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. “Do you think he’s actually the Carver?”
Malachi exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “I really can’t say. He’s clearly obsessed with the case, and has been since the very beginning. But that doesn’t mean he’s actually the killer,” he said. “What I can say is that he’s dangerous. Especially to you.”
“If he is the Carver, and now he knows he’s being watched… what happens to my dad and Brian Delgado, if they’re still alive and locked up somewhere?” I asked. “He’s not going to risk going near them if it means getting caught. And that means they won’t get fed.”
“We have people reviewing his previous movements and digging into any properties owned by his friends or relatives. So if he’s been keeping prisoners somewhere, we’ll find them.”
“But that could take days,” I said, shaking my head. “They could die of dehydration before you find them.”
Malachi leaned forward. “Kennedy, you have to try not to go there in your head.”
“How?” I asked, voice thick with emotion.
I couldn’t stop picturing my father and Brian Delgado trapped in some dark, windowless space, slowly running out of water. Every second that ticked by was a second closer to the worst-case scenario.
“I get how hard it is,” Malachi said gently. “But if it helps, I don’t think he—or whoever the Carver is—is actually visiting his imprisoned victims every day. That wouldn’t be sustainable for someone pretending to live a normal life. So he probably brings enough food and water to last several days each time he sees them. That gives us time.”
I stared at him, processing his words. “That actually makes me feel a little better,” I finally said in a small voice. “Thank you.”
“I promise, we’re doing everything we can,” he said, reaching across to pat my hand. I knew it was just a sympathetic gesture, but it sent a bolt of lightning through my veins. “If Jacob’s the Carver, we’ll find the evidence we need. And we will find your father and Brian. Just like we talked about the other night, right?”
I nodded, though it felt mechanical. My thoughts were still spinning like mad, because Jacob, who could very well be the Carver, was currently a free man. A watched man, yes, but still walking around like he hadn’t shattered my sense of safety into a thousand pieces.
“Are you ready to give your statement about yesterday now?” Malachi asked, drawing his hand back. “Or do you need a few more minutes to process things?”
I swallowed hard. “I’m ready.”
In a slow, halting voice, I walked him through everything leading up to the assault. He jotted down notes on a legal pad in front of him, nodding now and then without interrupting.
“Okay, so Freya left the room,” he prompted after a pause. “What happened then?”
“Jacob and I got up to stretch our legs, and we walked over to the window to look outside,” I said. “The window is pretty small, so it was a little awkward, because we had to stand close. But it didn’t feel off. Just… circumstantial, you know?”
He nodded.
I took a breath and went on. “He started flirting with me a little, but I didn’t think much of it. It just seemed like he was shooting his shot with me again.”
Malachi’s eyes stayed on the page, his hand steady. “Go on.”
“After that, things got weird really fast. It seemed like he was trying to seduce me, but…” I slowly shook my head. “It didn’t feel seductive at all. The things he said felt really cold and clinical. Like they were rehearsed. And it definitely wasn’t sexy, which was obviously what he was going for. It was just creepy.”
“Do you remember any of the exact words or phrasing he used? Anything specific that stood out?”
“I can only paraphrase. But basically, he said things like: ‘You love fear and danger. I’ve always seen that in you, and you don’t have to pretend anymore. Not with me. We could be so good together’.”
“Mm-hm.” Malachi’s eyes stayed on the page, pen scribbling in tight, quick strokes. “And then?”
“While he was saying all that stuff, he started touching me. My arm, my neck, my face. Not hurting me, but definitely crossing a line. I told him to stop, more than once, but he didn’t listen. He just kept going.” I hesitated. “I got the impression that he genuinely believed I’d be okay with it. That he had no idea I might really mean it when I said no. It was like he’d already decided how I’d respond, and when I didn’t go along with his fantasy, he couldn’t compute it.”
Malachi finally looked up, jaw tight. “Kennedy, he’s a thirty-seven-year-old man with a PhD in psychology. He knew exactly what he was doing. And he heard you when you repeatedly said no to him. He just chose not to stop.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” I murmured.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low but firm. “This is exactly how predators operate. They test boundaries. Push them slowly. Make you question yourself, and make you wonder if maybe you misread the situation. If maybe you did something wrong. That way, when you walk away shaken, you’re already half-blaming yourself.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
“That confusion and self-doubt is part of his playbook,” Malachi went on. “But let me be clear: he’s the one who crossed a line. Not you. You said no. You tried to stop him. And that’s enough.”
Had I said no on other occasions, though? Had I tried to stop him?
If he was really the Carver like I currently suspected… then the answer to both of those questions was a resounding no.
I looked away, blinking hard. “Yeah,” I murmured. “Thanks.”
Malachi let a beat of silence pass before speaking again. “What happened next?”
