Page 40 of Carved

"This is a first," he says finally.

But the way he looks at her—the way he looks at me—suggests he hopes the answer is yes.

From my floating perspective above the scene, I watch the sixteen-year-old girl who shares my face and my name nod acceptance of his uncertainty. She understands that some connections transcend normal social boundaries, that what they've shared tonight creates a bond that has nothing to do with conventional morality.

They're two people who understand that sometimes monsters have to be killed. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, someone else does the killing for you.

Time snaps back into focus.

I'm standing in my father's kitchen again, no longer floating, no longer observing from a distance. The reality of what just happened hits me like cold water—not horror, but clarity. Perfect, crystalline understanding of what this moment means.

The Carver is moving toward the back door, his work complete. In thirty seconds, he'll be gone, disappearing into the night like the ghost the police believe him to be. This will be our only meeting, the only time I'll ever see the man who set me free.

Unless I stop him.

"Wait," I call out, my voice steadier than it has any right to be.

He pauses at the door, hand on the knob, looking back at me with those dark, calculating eyes.

"Thank you." The words tumble out, raw and honest. "For—" But I can't finish the sentence. How do you thank someone for murder? For justice? For seeing the monster everyone else refused to acknowledge?

So I repeat it, simpler: "Thank you."

He stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. His jaw works silently for a moment, and I can see him struggling to process my reaction. This isn't what he expected. Whatever scenario he'd planned for if someone discovered him, it didn't include gratitude.

"You shouldn't be thanking me," he says finally, his voice rough with something I can't identify. "I just killed your father."

"You put down a monster." The correction comes out sharp, definitive. "There's a difference."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. Like he's seeing me clearly for the first time,understanding that this wasn't rescue in his mind, but it became partnership in mine.

"The police," I continue, my brain shifting into practical mode. "How long before they expect to hear from you? Before someone comes looking?"

"They don't expect anything from me." The Carver’s response is automatic, professional. "But they'll investigate when the body's discovered."

"Then you need to leave. Now." I move past him to the kitchen sink, turning on the tap and the hot water run. "But first we clean up properly."

He watches me with growing bewilderment as I pull rubber gloves from the cabinet under the sink—the same gloves my father used when he wanted to avoid leaving fingerprints on the belt he'd use on me.

"You touched the counter here," I say, pointing to where his surgical kit had rested. "The chair arms when you positioned him. The door handle coming in."

"I was wearing gloves—"

"Fabric leaves fibers. The sink handle, the towel rack—anywhere you might have steadied yourself." I'm already moving, methodically wiping down surfaces with the efficiency of someone who's spent years cleaning up after violence. "What about outside? The back fence, the gate latch?"

He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "How do you know all this?"

"Television. Books. And sixteen years of living with a cop who explained exactly how investigations work when he wanted to scare me into silence." I hand him a cloth. "The porch light switch, the door frame. Anywhere your clothing might have brushed."

He takes the cloth but doesn't move immediately. His dark eyes are fixed on my face with uncomfortable intensity, like he's trying to solve an equation that doesn't balance.

"This isn't normal," he says quietly.

"Says the serial killer," I snort. I continue wiping down surfaces, my movements quick and efficient. "But we can't change what happened. We can only make sure it doesn't come back to hurt either of us."

"Either of us?"

The question stops me mid-motion. Because there it is, laid bare—the assumption I made without conscious thought. That we're a team now. That his safety matters to me as much as my own.