Page 42 of Carved

What would she see first? The blood, probably. The unnatural positioning. The terrible stillness of a man who was alive when she left for work this morning.

What would she do?

I close my eyes and let myself slip into that other girl—the one who never watched Kent work, who never helped position the arms, who never thanked a killer for setting her free. The traumatized daughter who loved her father despite everything, who can't comprehend what she's seeing.

When I open my eyes again, I'm her.

"Dad?" The word comes out small, uncertain. My voice cracks on the single syllable. "Dad, what—oh God. Oh God, no."

I stumble forward, playing the part of someone whose legs have gone weak with shock. My hands shake as I reach toward him, then pull back, too afraid to touch. Too horrified to get closer.

The transformation is seamless, years of practice in reading his moods and anticipating his violence translating into perfect mimicry of grief. My breathing becomes shallow, panicked. Tears—real ones, pulled from some deep well of old pain—start flowing down my cheeks.

"Dad, please wake up. Please, Dad, please—"

My voice breaks completely, dissolving into the kind of keening wail that comes from the gut. The sound of a child who's lost the only parent she had left, no matter how terrible he was.

I sink to my knees beside the chair, careful not to disturb Kent's careful positioning, and let the sobs take over. They're not entirely fake—there's grief there, though not for the man who terrorized my childhood. Grief for the father I never had, for the safety that was stolen from me, for sixteen years of walking on eggshells around a monster.

The performance has to be perfect. Convincing. Because Detective Rivas will interview me, will study my reactions, will look for any sign that I'm hiding something. The entire investigation will pivot on whether they believe I'm a traumatized victim or a potential suspect.

I pull out my phone with trembling fingers, muscle memory guiding me through the motions of someone in crisis. The screen blurs through my tears as I dial 911.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My father—" The words come out in a rush, high and breathless. "Someone killed my father. He's—there's so much blood—"

"Ma'am, I need you to stay calm. What's your address?"

I give it through hitching sobs, playing the part of someone barely holding together. The operator's voice is steady, professional, designed to cut through panic and gather essential information.

"Are you injured? Are you safe?"

"I don't know. I just got home from work and found him like this. I don't know if—what if they're still here? What if—"

"Ma'am, I need you to get to a safe location. Can you leave the house?"

"I can't leave him. I can't—he's all I have left." The desperation in my voice is real, even if the reasoning is performative. "Please, just send someone. Send everyone."

"Units are already dispatched to your location. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I don't know. I was at work until—I got off early, my manager let me leave around ten-thirty. When I got home, the front door was unlocked, which was weird because Dad always locks it. I called out, but he didn't answer, so I went to the kitchen and—" My voice dissolves into fresh sobs. "There's so much blood."

"Is your father conscious? Is he breathing?"

The question hangs in the air, and I have to make a choice. Do I check? Do I pretend to check? How would a real daughter respond?

"I—I'm scared to touch him. His eyes are open, but he's not moving. There are—there are cuts all over him, and the way he's positioned—" I let my voice rise to the edge of hysteria. "They—They were wearing a mask! They ran out! Who would do this to him? Why would someone—"

"Help is almost there, ma'am. I can hear the sirens—can you hear them?"

I can. Faint but growing closer, the wail of emergency vehicles cutting through the night air. In minutes, my house will be flooded with paramedics, police officers, crime scene technicians. People who will look at my father's body and see not justice, but evidence.

The confession tape feels impossibly heavy in my pocket, a weight that seems to grow with each passing second. Sixty-three minutes of recorded truth that could destroy half the police department—or save my life if things go wrong.

"They're here," I whisper into the phone, watching red and blue lights paint the kitchen walls through the window. "The police are here."

"Stay on the line until they can speak with you, okay?"