Slaughter Daughter by Eve Langlais

14

I satin the dean’s office. The woman could have been as young as her forties, her skin smooth, but the iron in her hair and the steel in her gaze spoke of experience. She also appeared quite no-nonsense, meaning I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“We had a complaint,” Dean Dangerfield said, starting the conversation. “Assault on our campus grounds.”

“So he admitted he attacked me first,” I mumbled.

“That’s not how Mr. Jerome recollects the incident. He claims you startled him when he was going for a walk.”

“Lie,” I hissed.

But she continued. “Mr. Jerome says you waylaid him and became quite vocally aggressive about going somewhere with him. When he said no, you grabbed him. Given your background, he feared for his life and fought you off, suffering injury in the process.”

I gaped. “That’s not even close to the truth. He grabbed me. Said he wanted pictures. When I refused, threatened to rape me.”

“Making false accusations is truly abhorrent. Mr. Jerome is a fine young man and an outstanding student.”

“I’m not lying.” The unfairness of it had me fighting hot tears of rage. Would my psychiatrist think my urge to slam the dean’s face off my fist justified? I clasped my hands tightly and tucked them in my lap. After years of not being given a fair shake, I should have been used to it by now.

“I’m afraid our school policies are clear. You—”

“Sorry, I’m late.” A guy entered without knocking, and I half rose to leave when he said, “Sit, Ms. Baker. It took me longer than expected to retrieve the video footage of the incident for your defense.”

My what? I sat back down and stared at the guy with blond hair, long enough to be at home on a beach with a surfboard. It brushed his broad shoulders and the suit jacket he wore over a white button-down shirt. Despite the surfer-boy hair, his jaw was clean-shaven, square in shape, and his nose bumped as if it had been broken before.

“Mr. Mathews, I am not sure why you’re barging into my office.”

“I’d say it’s fairly obvious: your appointment with Ms. Baker, which really should have come through the Student Advocate’s office. The lack of notice barely gave us time to prepare, but luckily, we pulled enough information together to discuss the incident.”

“There is nothing to discuss. Due to her actions, Ms. Baker will have to vacate the college premises.”

Mathews shook his head and looked almost gleeful as he said, “Now, Mrs. Dangerfield, before you make yourself look foolish, perhaps we should play the evidence.” He pulled out his phone and lay it flat on the desk. A simple press of his finger started the video.

It was a camera feed, and I recognized it immediately as the section of the pathway where I had been attacked. It showed me jogging past without incident. “Just a second, that’s the first time she runs around,” Mathews said and fast-forwarded until I came bouncing into view again.

It showed me with my head down, arms tucked, and then the lunge from the bushes as the student attacked me. It also showed how quickly I disarmed him, how he grabbed me once I let him go. The ensuing struggle where, for a second, my eyes glowed like those of an animal caught in headlights at night.

Weird.

I didn’t see Jag in the footage, but it didn’t matter. It showed that I was attacked. For the first time since I’d been called to the dean’s office, I smiled.

Only to frown as Mrs. Dangerfield pursed her lips. “She broke his nose.”

“In self-defense, after he grabbed her not once but twice.” Mathews leaned over the desk. “Do you really want me to take this to the public? How quickly before they condemn you for encouraging a rape culture where male students aren’t held accountable?”

“She’s the daughter of serial killers.” The real truth emerged on a hiss.

But my defender didn’t back down. “Daughter of people accused and not convicted. Her parents have not been put on trial, and even if they were guilty, you are showing undue prejudice and revictimizing her simply because she’s related to them. According to her transfer files, she’s a hardworking student who was attacked on your campus. She should be demanding restitution for your negligence, along with Mr. Jerome’s expulsion.”

The dean gaped. “But his father—”

“Is rich. I know. Making Mr. Jerome’s actions even more scandalous.” Mathews shrugged. “But that’s your problem. We’ll expect a satisfactory resolution that includes an apology to Ms. Baker, or we will take this public.”

“Sorry.” The dean spat the word at me.

I wanted to dance on the dean’s desk. I wanted to shout, “In your face, biatch!” Instead, I was mature and said, “Just a misunderstanding. And you don’t have to expel him. I just want to be left alone.”

“I can’t control what the students do, Ms. Smith.” She intentionally used my old name. “If I were you, I’d watch my step.” The threat clearly indicated that she’d be watching me. Fair enough. I’d be watching, too.

I exited the office with Mathews and said, “Thank you, I—”

“Just doing my job.” He strode off and didn’t once look back. Almost as if he weren’t happy to have helped.

Weird. But who cared? I’d just survived my first expulsion, and it was only the first month.

By the middle of the week, I kind of wished the dean had kicked me out. I lay flopped on my bed, face buried under pillows, bored out of my mind by my science homework. Dull stuff. Big words and meanings. I’d rather be playing with bodies.

Dead ones.

Hmm. That still didn’t sound right.

I’d been so careful in choosing my courses so that people wouldn’t catch on to my fascination with death. I was studying to be a forensic analyst, and yet I’d have been happy as a mortician. The human body fascinated me, and even better, dead people didn’t talk or move. I found them easier to relate to.

Rolling onto my back, I sighed. The house was quiet. More than likely the others had gone out. They did that a lot despite their classes.

While they often asked me to join them, they respected my wishes and left me alone. Kind of. No one bothered me when I was at home. Yet outside of it, someone was always around when I least expected it. I’d be sitting on the quad, eating the lunch I’d scrounged from the fridge, and I’d look up to see Cashien watching me. Other times, as I had to walk past a snickering bunch of students, they would go silent, and Jag would suddenly walk through them.

I made no friends, but after the incident with the very rich Erik B. Jerome, I didn’t seem to have acquired any new enemies. Life became respectably boring. And I hated it. Was even beginning to seriously think of saying “yes” the next time Kalinda asked me to join her at a club.

Someone rapped on my door and walked in before waiting for a reply.

I eyed Jag. He’d never come into my room before. “What do you want?”

“Cops are at the door looking to talk to you.”

The instant he said it, I went through a myriad of feelings. First and foremost, fear. Had they come to arrest me?

I did the mature thing. I ducked my head, pretended to look at my textbook, and said, “I don’t want to talk to them.”

“Say no and they’ll probably come back with a warrant. Go see what they want.”

I looked at him. “Excuse me, but have you dealt with cops before? More specifically, cops that think you’re guilty of something?”

“What makes you think they’re gonna blame you for anything?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t gone online to see the thousands of theories about me.”

“Are any of them true?”

“No.” Not even close. At times, I could still be surprised by how sick some people truly were. And yet I’d bet they didn’t have to deal with the bullshit I did on an almost daily basis.

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you so naïve.”

“Not naïve, but not stupid either. I’ve dealt with cops before,” he stated, pushing away from the doorway. “And I know for a fact that ignoring them won’t make them go away.”

I groaned at the ceiling. “I am so tired of this. Everywhere I go. Same shit. Different day.”

“Whine later. Stall any longer, and things might get difficult.”

I glared at him. “I don’t like you right now.”

“Hate me later. Let’s go, buttercup.”

Buttercup? The most ridiculous name. Yet I followed, grumbling, “I’d really rather study.” I went down the steps and immediately saw two officers, well inside the house, the door gaping at their backs. All I could think of was my mom yelling at me not to let all the heat out.

The cops didn’t seem to care that they might be taxing our heating and cooling unit. They stood with their feet slightly spread, hands dangling for one, in belt loops for the other. Their light tans spoke of their mixed heritage, while the glitter in their eyes reflected a hope that they’d have something exciting to share over donuts tomorrow—which I used to think was cliché. Wrong. It proved true. I’d spent quite a bit of time in police stations, and there was always a box kicking around. I used to eye it, but only some of the cops got the hint and offered me one.

Those that didn’t made me wonder how much chaos would happen if I sprinkled a little bit of poison, the kind that would have them cramping and curling into balls of shrieking agony. I was sure my old shrink would tell me that was a normal reaction. I used to worry at times where he’d draw the line when it came to responsibility for a crime.

Not to mention, I would never use poison. It left traces and a body. The courses I took in college taught me plenty about forensics. Which probably only fueled the fire about me. But, to be honest, if I went into law, they’d assume it was to cover my ass or my parents’. Medical field? Obviously, honing my cutting skills. Biology? See medical. It didn’t really matter what I did; someone would find a way to relate it back to the ugly rumors constantly plaguing my life.

Despite the urge to run back up the stairs, I made it to the bottom step before saying, “Hello, officers, my roommate says you want to talk with me?”

The portly male with the mustache addressed me. “I’m officer Walters. This is Officer Jenkins. You’re Abigail Smith?”

Uh-oh, they’d used my old name. “Actually, it’s Baker now. And I go by Abby. I’m trying to leave my past behind. New start and all.” I saw no sympathy in their expressions.

“Where were you last night between the hours of midnight and two?” Walters asked, his mustache barely moving.

Despite feeling my blood turn icy cold, I managed to reply, “I was in bed. I had class today at eight.”

“In bed. Meaning no alibi.” Jenkins, his skin slightly pockmarked, sounded almost gleeful. He reached behind him, probably for his cuffs.

Apparently, I’d given the wrong answer.

“What’s this about?” I’d forgotten about Jag. He’d remained slightly behind me, but now he slid into place at my side. Probably morbidly curious, and yet that didn’t explain the oddity of his arm snaking around my waist. I might have elbowed him except…something told me to wait.

“Sir.” Walters had his most serious mustache face on as he looped his fingers hard at his belt and puffed out his chest. “This doesn’t concern you. We are asking Ms. Smith her whereabouts.”

“And she told you. In bed. With me.” He purred the words, and I just about visibly shivered. He’d given me an alibi. But why?

“Ms. Baker didn’t mention you when we asked.”

I hastened to jump in. “We don’t like to advertise that we’re sleeping together.”

Jag’s arm squeezed. “The house guardian frowns on fraternization.”

Since when did we have a house guardian?

Who cared? He’d given me an alibi, and I milked it. I leaned in to him. He was as solid as he looked. Cold, though. His arm fit nicely around me, and his hand palmed my lower belly. Anxiety made me quiver. Nothing else.

Nope. Nothing. Else.

“We’ll need someone to verify you were together.” Jenkins wasn’t letting his chance slip. He had the cuffs clenched in his fist. He wanted to use them, but he was smart enough to know that he needed a valid excuse.

Walters clung to what his partner demanded. “You’ll have to provide a witness.”

“Perhaps I’m just hard of hearing, but I could swear you just asked if we had someone watching us fuck,” Jag said softly. “Maybe I should call for our other roommate. He’s a law graduate. Top of his class, actually. I wonder what he’d say to your request.”

I couldn’t help but be blunt. “Do you have an audience when you screw your partner? Maybe you videotape it.”

“You can’t ask us that.” Walters turned an interesting color.

Jenkins was the boor who actually said, “Did you videotape it?”

“No!” I yelled. “No one watched us having sex.”

“Calm yourself, ma’am.” Walters held out his hand. “We are just trying to confirm the truth.”

Jag sneered. “By questioning our word.”

“Because I think you’re lying.” Jenkins leaned in with a mean look in his eye. “I think you’re covering for Ms. Smith.”

“And I think you’ve got nothing,” Jag taunted.

“What’s going on?” Kalinda flounced from the kitchen area, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Why are there police officers in the house? Is this about those parking tickets? I have a court date to fight them.” She tossed her head.

“We’re here trying to ascertain Ms. Baker’s whereabouts last night,” Jenkins stated.

“She was here. In bed.”

“Alone?” Walters asked.

Kalinda didn’t once look at me or Jag. Couldn’t have heard what he claimed. I wanted to groan as our story prepared to fall apart.

“No, she was not alone.” Kalinda rolled her eyes. “You can tell she and Jag are still in the newbie phase of dating. They kept me up a good portion of last night with their frolicking.”

“How can you be sure it was Ms. Smith?”

Kalinda’s eyes glinted with humor as she said, “Because we share a bedroom wall.” Only now did she turn to us. “If you must fornicate, you could at least move the bed away from the shared partition. The knocking is rather distracting.” The rebuke had me gaping. For one, it was beautifully delivered. I would have believed her outrage if not for the fact that I slept alone.

The cops, though, had no reason to assume Kalinda was acting.

“I see.” Walters’ entire mustache drooped in disappointment.

Jenkins blustered. “Banging walls don’t mean the suspect was on the other side.”

I held my breath at the word. Suspect in what?

“Ain’t no DA gonna touch an arrest without something more concrete,” Walters remarked.

“Fuckin’ pricks.” Jenkins took his hand off his gun, something I’d only just noticed. I blamed my distraction on the situation—and maybe just a tiny bit on Jag’s arm still looped around me, making me all too aware of him.

Walters didn’t leave quite yet. “Have you spoken to or seen your parents recently?”

“What do my parents have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question,” Jenkins snapped.

“My parents are dead and have been for years.” They abandoned me without explanation. I still had issues. My shrink told me that was normal. But he also seemed to think if they’d lived, I’d have forgiven them. Not without a pony, I wouldn’t. I’d always wanted one, and they owed me.

“You came here thinking she might be a suspect. A suspect in what?” Jag asked.

“Has something happened?” Kalinda added.

Jenkins looked practically gleeful as he dropped the bombshell. “A pentagram was found drawn in the abandoned church by the cemetery. Forensics is running tests on the stains inside, but it’s looking like blood. Human blood.”

Fuck.