Slaughter Daughter by Eve Langlais

9

When I turned eighteen,the government couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. In their generosity, they dropped me off at a woman’s shelter with my knapsack of belongings. I had a few hundred dollars to my name. A name that kept causing trouble. Three days after my arrival, the media found me, and the shelter kindly asked me to leave.

I had enough money to rent a room for the week, but then I was fucked.

The day before I’d be forced to try my luck on the streets, my parents died. And they did so in spectacular, public fashion.

I heard about it on the news when I turned on the television. I held a burger to my lips for the entire length of the clip plus some. Riveting didn’t describe it. A drone in the sky followed the speeding blue car, supposedly carrying my parents, as cops chased them. We got a drone’s-eye view as the vehicle soared off the cliff. It rolled a few times down the steep, stony embankment before hitting the water.

By the time a body washed up on shore, it could only be identified by dental records. Mom was dead, and given what’d happened, Dad was ruled gone, as well. I became an orphan for real.

No more pentagrams were found, but interest in me didn’t wane overnight. It took a few salacious threads and headlines before it went away.

Life started to suck less. With my parents officially declared dead, I became the sole heir of their estate, although the government tried to keep it from me. Attempted to claim it was ill-gotten gains.

For a fee—because pro bono only happened when a girl was broke—Garrett helped me out again, arguing that having never been charged or convicted, my parents were still deemed innocent by law.

I inherited a few hundred thousand, which sounded like a lot until Garrett took a cut, and I did the math. If I was careful, I could live on it and go to school. To be safe, though, I’d get a part-time job for fun money.

The first thing I did once I got the funds squared away? I applied to have my name changed then began submitting to colleges that didn’t look too hard at my fake high school grades. I applied to places far enough from my hometown that no one would recognize me. It helped that I’d changed my hair color from the red I had been born with to black like my mood, cut into a short bob. I wore bulky sweaters, jeans, and thick-rimmed glasses. I spent two years studying hard and keeping my nose clean. No drugs in my veins. No booze in my liver. While I dated a bit, I never got too serious with anyone.

I wanted to be in control at all times. By the end of year two, I began to relax, which was when a nosy reporter tracked me down. The asshole revived the whole Slaughter Daughter mess and turned me into a campus freak overnight. I might have toughed it out, except winters in Pennsylvania were rough. Given I had the means and no attachment to any place, I decided to transfer south. Managed a year before I got exposed again.

But I wasn’t giving up, dammit. I’d been good with my money, and I wanted my degree.

I chose a school on the East Coast, nestled in a midsized town in Maryland, and agreed to redo some of my courses as part of a two-year program thanks to the curriculum differences.

The school sat closer than I liked to my original hometown, but as I had recently realized, I couldn’t hide from my past. Although, as I looked out over the sprawling campus of green acres cut by friendly walking paths, I wondered if it was time to stop running. If I were going to deal with this shit my entire life, perhaps I should stand my ground.

If only confrontation didn’t make me quiver.

Long strides took me across the university grounds. I’d memorized a map ahead of time, so I knew where to go for my dorm: the Hennessy House. My knapsack with all my worldly goods hung on my shoulder, my last place having been vandalized before I could move out. I planned to buy some stuff once I had somewhere to put it.

The sign on the left indicated Hen s y use. Missing a few letters. The campus wasn’t one of the newer ones, and the dorm I’d managed to find was from an older era. It stood blocky and utilitarian with its crumbling red brick façade, three stories with a pitched and gabled roof. Home sweet home for the next year. More if they didn’t kick me out.

Having been asked to leave a few residences once my name became known, I should have been used to new starts. I still needed to take a deep breath before entering the dorm. Tension filled my frame. New places, new faces, it never got any easier.

A small crowd milled in the common area, their voices loud, everyone looking to outdo, to be the cool one in the dorm. To that end, it was a competition to be the most relaxed—from the most disreputable and baggy track pants to the faded sweatshirts and T-shirts. Lots of rubber shoes and flip-flops but also the most ridiculous slippers—unicorns, giant bear feet, and more. Hair unbrushed or held in intentionally sloppy buns.

I hated dorms. Too crowded and pretentious for me. But at the same time, I didn’t need a fancy pad, just a bed to call mine until I could graduate and get a job that would pay for my living expenses. I wanted to leave the money in the bank as backup.

Easy-fucking-peasy. Funny how when I was younger, the use of curse words seemed so…well…bad. And this even though my parents cursed. My mom had an especially profane potty mouth, but she was also one of the smartest women I knew. It made sense when, later on, I read an article that said that smart people cussed. I liked to think I was better than your average Joe Schmoe.

Fuck me, I was stalling instead of finding my room. I managed to inch sideways, hugging the wall, not meeting anyone’s gaze. Shyness was only part of it. New places freaked me out. It took me time before I got comfortable, and it wouldn’t happen getting friendly with the wall.

Shoulders back, I aimed for the person holding a clipboard. About my age, she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail with tortoise-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Her T-shirt displayed some kind of cute animal with a saying meant to be edgy. It clashed with her fruit bowl leggings and neon flip-flops. I could only aspire to care so little about matching in public. I kept few clothes, and they were all tame in coloring so they could be interchangeable. Practical, right?

Boring also came to mind.

“Name?” the girl asked, only briefly meeting my gaze. No smile. She’d probably worn it out a dozen students ago. It amazed me sometimes how vocal and discontent people could get over the slightest things.

“Abby. Abby Baker.” My new, simplified name.

I’d opted to change my name only slightly, just enough that my legal papers were easy to shift. I reverted to my mother’s maiden name, which was ordinary enough to slide by without people automatically making a connection.

“Abby Baker.” She ran her finger down the list. “Three-C.”

“Who’s my roommate?”

She met my gaze briefly. “That’s private information.”

“But we’re sharing a space. I’m going to find out soon enough.”

“If your roommate chooses to divulge. Just like it’s your choice whether or not you impart any kind of personal information.”

“That’s cold,” I replied.

She stiffened. “Your aggressiveness is making me uncomfortable.”

I moved before I was the one triggered and did something to that ponytail of hers. Might be time to see the doctor again for some happy pills. I didn’t like relying on drugs, but shit was getting a little tense of late. My temper a little more volatile.

While I’d yet to actually snap and hurt anyone, I came close at times. Which then made me wonder…is murder hereditary like old Doctor Johnson used to think?

Room Three-C was obviously on the third floor. No elevator meant the many steps would give me a daily workout, thus giving me more time to study instead of exercising. I called this positive thinking because, really, I wanted to curse and kick up a fuss.

The first-floor landing door was propped open to reveal a hallway packed with people who seemed like kids to me. You know, because I was so old. I probably sat somewhere in the middle, and yet I felt a gazillion times older as I watched their young, animated faces. The din of their loud talking hit me in a muddled mess. As if that weren’t already noise enough, music played from one of the eight single-occupancy rooms, people bopping to it.

A lively bunch. A little too lively for me.

The second floor had a more serious air with someone playing classical music on a violin. Then there was the third floor, which felt a bit smaller given they’d built it in the attic, and it had a sloping roof—probably to ensure the snow could slide off. While there appeared to be less space, it was blissfully quiet.

The converted attic space had only two doors, which meant fewer of us sharing a bathroom. Personally, I could have gone with having my own, but I was too late when I applied to get a single with facilities. Maybe I should stop being so stingy and find something nearby in town. But that would involve living on my own. While I might not interact much with the dorm kids, when I huddled in my bed at night, and the anxiety came creeping in, it helped to know that someone was across the room or down the hall.

I entered my room and immediately noticed that the slanted ceiling was lowest by the headboards. Mental note: No bouncing on the mattress. I’d whack myself for sure. A window sat between the beds, partially covered by a battered desk with a single plastic chair, repaired with duct tape.

Fancy. The desk had scorch marks from a previous smoker. Crud of dirt or mold filled the cracks in the windowsill. The light flickered when I crossed the room, and I eyed it suspiciously.

I’d been in my share of crappy places. This was worse than usual.

Guess I should count myself lucky that even though there was no closet, my yet-to-be-seen roomie and I each had a tall dresser, unmatched and probably salvaged from a curb on garbage day. One had chipped purple paint. Mine was scratched walnut wood stain. The piece de resistance that made this whole room bearable? Sitting at the foot of the bed was a bench that opened. Be still my heart. Good thing I didn’t own more than two pairs of shoes.

Not exactly spacious quarters. Especially for sharing.

Maybe if I put glow-in-the-dark star-shaped stickers on the ceiling, it wouldn’t be so bad.

Don’t be a cheap cunt. Something I’d heard in a movie recently. For some reason, the phrase had stuck with me. Hoarding all the dough wouldn’t do me any good if I died of absolute misery.

I deserved better. Hadn’t my last shrink told me I should stop punishing myself? I didn’t see saving dollars rather than spending it on stuff as smart, but apparently, it could also be construed as monetary flagellation.

What could it hurt to spend a little of my inheritance? First thing after I settled into my classes, I’d see about relocating. My inheritance was enough, especially if I got a job, to allow a little splurging on myself and still have some left over for the future.

I deserve better. I repeated it to myself, trying my best to believe it. Then I remembered the note stuffed under my last dorm room door. The message on it was an angry red scrawl, the slash of the marker violent in its vehemence.

Murderous cunt. You should be the one rotting in the ground.

Words hurt—even false ones.

I set my knapsack down on the bench. All my worldly possessions in one overstuffed bag. After my room got ransacked, I’d ditched most of my things when I moved. Clothes were easy to replace, and toiletries could be gotten at just about any store. The things I truly needed were my bank card, laptop, and phone—which I should note was not to talk to anyone but because I could hotspot my computer with it. I didn’t trust open networks. I went to the window and crouched to peek outside.

The door to the room crashed open.

I almost gave myself a concussion on the low ceiling. I whirled and moved to a safer spot to see a woman walk in, shaking her head.

“You have got to be kidding me. No. This won’t do. Not at all.” She was very pretty with her dark hair shining and smoothed past her shoulders, tan skin, and full lips. She wore a blouse embroidered with thread as vivid as the gloss on her mouth. A purse hung from her forearm, and judging by its fancy stitching, I’d wager it had some kind of flashy brand name. My knapsack came from Walmart. It sported a unicorn because fantasy creatures drew attention, and thieves preferred to avoid that.

The newcomer planted her hands on her hips and went on a rant in a melodic language, still not having addressed me directly. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. For all I knew, she was ranting about my presence.

Despite wondering if I’d be safer diving out the window, I ventured a cautious, “Hi.”

Her gaze narrowed in on me. “Who are you?”

“The roommate?” I said it almost fearfully. If she didn’t like the room, what would she think of me? My well-worn jeans had a hole in the knee and a belt loop hanging. My T-shirt, picked up at some museum, had faded from being washed. My boots were comfortable and worn-in enough that I could just slip my feet into them. I kept my currently brown hair—the natural red of it dyed to hide—pulled back. Nothing fancy. My face was clean. No makeup.

Definite appraisal filled her eyes as she perused me up and down. “I am Kalinda, your roommate.” A pretty name. I went to introduce myself, only she kept talking, turning to take in the entirety of the room and exclaiming, “A tiny space like this, and they think to split it in two?”

“I don’t need much.”

“There’s ‘not much,’ and then there’s this.” Kalinda snorted. “This is not a room for ladies. Utterly unacceptable. We will require something else.” She turned on her heel and took a few steps before snapping, “Don’t sit there meekly accepting the insult, come with me. We’re upgrading accommodations.”

We?