Page 41 of Carved

"You saved me," I say simply. "That makes us connected, whether we planned it or not."

The Carver moves finally, following my lead and cleaning potential evidence with the same methodical precision he used to arrange my father's body. But I can feel him watching me as we work, noting my calm efficiency, my lack of hysteria or shock.

"You should be falling apart right now," he observes, wiping down the door frame. "Trauma response, delayed shock, something."

"Should I be?" I pause in my cleaning to look at him directly. "Should I be mourning the man who broke my ribs when I was nine? Who told me my mother's death was my fault? Who—" I stop, unable to voice the worst of it, even now.

His jaw tightens, and something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "What else did he do to you?"

The question hangs in the blood-scented air between us, loaded with implications that make my chest tight. Becausethe Carver isn't just asking out of curiosity. There's something protective in his voice, something that suggests my answer matters to him in ways that go beyond simple concern.

"It doesn't matter now," I say, turning back to my cleaning. "He's dead. It's over."

But I can feel his gaze on my back, heavy with unasked questions and growing understanding. The pieces are clicking together in his mind—my composure, my practical response, my complete lack of grief for a murdered parent.

"The tape," he says suddenly. "His confession. Do you want to hear it?"

I consider this, cloth still in my hands. Sixty-three minutes of my father admitting to things I've never spoken aloud, acknowledging crimes I've carried alone for years.

"Not now," I decide. "Maybe someday. But not now."

The Carver nods, as if this makes sense to him. "It's the only proof of what he really was. It is yours to do with what you must."

"I will." The promise feels like a vow, binding and absolute.

We finish cleaning in silence, two people moving through the choreography of evidence disposal with surprising synchronization. He checks areas I miss; I catch details he overlooks. It's like we've done this before, though we both know we haven't.

When we're finished, he repacks his surgical kit with the same careful attention he used to arrange the body. Each tool has its place, its purpose, its role in whatever comes next for him.

"What's your name?" I ask as he prepares to leave again.

He hesitates, and I can see him weighing the wisdom of answering. Names have power. Names create connections. Names leave trails that can be followed.

"Kent," he says finally.

It feels preposterous for his name to be something so simple. Then again, Bundy was called ‘Ted.’

"Thank you, Kent." The words carry the weight of sixteen years of fear, finally lifted. "For all of it."

He pauses at the back door, looking at me with an expression I can't read. There's something in his dark eyes that might be protectiveness, or possessiveness, or simple human connection. Something that suggests this moment has changed him as much as it's changed me.

"Will you be all right?" he asks. "When they find him, when the investigation starts?"

"I'll be the grieving daughter who came home to find her hero father murdered." The role feels like putting on a costume I've worn before. "I'm good at playing parts."

Kent nods slowly, but something in his posture suggests he doesn't want to leave. Doesn't want to step back into the shadows and disappear like the ghost the police believe him to be.

"If you need anything," he says, then stops. Because what could he offer? A killer's protection? A murderer's assistance?

"I know," I say anyway, understanding what he can't voice.

He slips out into the night then, leaving me alone with my father's carefully arranged corpse and the strange, wild certainty that this isn't the end of our story.

It's just the beginning.

But first, I have a performance to give.

I stand in the kitchen doorway, studying the scene with new eyes. Not the eyes of someone who helped arrange the body, who understood the methodology, who felt grateful for the violence. The eyes of Delilah Jenkins, sixteen-year-old daughter, coming home from work to find her father murdered.