Slaughter Daughter by Eve Langlais

16

My day started out fine.A shower then breakfast, which for me consisted of a dry bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. Kalinda hated it and did her best to offer me her idea of a healthier start to my day: muffins, fruit yogurt. Ugh. On the weekends, she went all out with eggs and bacon, but I avoided the crowded kitchen and never got a taste.

I was checking emails when I heard Kalinda suck in a breath and begin cursing. Not in English, and it was seriously fantastic. Even pissed, she was absolutely stunning.

And then she narrowed that gaze on me and said, “You don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“A body was found last night.”

“Do they know who it is?”

“Not yet. The face is mangled, so they’re trying to find out if anyone is missing while they run fingerprints and sequence the DNA. They’re also doing a campus roll call.”

“They think it’s a student?” I shoveled another handful of cereal, enough that I wouldn’t be able to talk if I wanted to. This couldn’t be happening.

“No, but there are rumors.”

“Oh? What kind?” Yeah, I played dumb. I wanted this to last a little longer. Wanted to pretend I could have had this life. I really liked Kalinda and the other peeps I lived with.

Kalinda snapped, “Don’t play dumb. It’s a dead body. Of course, people are saying you had something to do with it.”

“I didn’t kill anyone, but I get it. Perception is everything. I am, after all, Slaughter Daughter.” My lips turned down as I indulged in an inner pity-fest. “I just need an hour to pack my stuff.”

Kalinda stared at me. “What are you talking about? Why would you leave?”

“You just said people think I did it.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not!” My exclamation emerged hotly as I tried not to cry.

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

My voice wobbled. “The problem is, I’m going to bring unwanted and negative attention to you and the others, not only in this house but also on campus. Every wannabe reporter and blogger will start following me around, taking my picture, doing things to provoke me for a video. And it will happen to you, too. Because people are assholes.” My mouth twisted. “I’ll leave before there’s any trouble.”

“Oh, shut up. And don’t be such a drama queen.” Kalinda waved her hand. “We are not going to have you running away from the idiots. You did nothing.”

I angled my phone at her and pointed to a trending hashtag. The meme wasn’t flattering to the school or me.

Kalinda pursed her lips. “Social media is evil.”

I totally agreed. “Worst thing ever invented.” If only I’d been born well before the internet, I might have managed to be anonymous enough to make it through life. But in the twenty-first century, there was nowhere to hide. Everyone had a camera, it seemed.

To this day, I remained the opposite of photogenic. The memes had some extremely horrible images to work with. Like my grad photo with its unnatural smile and pose. Then there was a volleyball action shot from the yearbook with my hair pulled back, my face sweaty and flushed, grunting as I bumped the ball.

I’d changed my look since then. Didn’t matter. Someone always outed me.

“We need a plan.”

“It’s called move away and lie low,” I muttered.

Again, Kalinda dismissed my proposal. “Scurrying away will only make you appear guilty. I know you’re innocent.”

Amazing how much those words meant. “Innocence won’t matter. With my parents dead, the cops are going to look for a way to pin this on me.”

Kalinda wasn’t deterred. “You have an alibi. How exciting. Jag as your lover.”

I wished. “I don’t want anyone lying for me.”

“I’m not letting you get arrested. You’re my friend, Abby. I look after my friends. And that’s final.” She cupped my cheeks, and I almost bawled my eyes out. It was seriously the sweetest thing. To be myself, in front of someone, and not be rejected.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Thank me by moving your butt. Get dressed and be downstairs by eight fifteen. I’ll drop you off for class.”

“I can’t go to class!”

“You need to act as if everything is normal.”

“Things aren’t normal,” I reminded her. Not to mention, I didn’t want to sit through a class on the evils of social media. On the other hand, Mr. Santino might be the only person who could provide an oasis in the coming storm.

“Fake it until you make it. How do you think I get through the day?” Kalinda retorted.

“You? You’re like super Miss Confident.”

“And yet inside, I’m a mess of nerves. I’m just better at hiding it.” She winked.

“I can’t. If I go out there…” I hung my head. “It won’t end well.” I’d been in this exact situation twice before. The second time I left before it really escalated. And in those cases, there weren’t any pentagrams or fresh bodies.

“You will be fine.”

“Until they try and arrest me.”

“On what grounds? If something happens, and they take you into custody, refuse to talk and ask for your lawyer.”

“I don’t have a lawyer.” Although I did have the savings to hire one if necessary.

Kalinda snorted. “Don’t be an idiot. If you get in trouble, call me, Cashien, or Jag.”

“Jag’s not a lawyer.”

“No, but he will make sure you get one.”

Would he? “You’re making me think I would be better off not going out.”

“You can’t hide, Abby. Get out there and hold your head high.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one everyone is staring at.”

A sly smile twisted her lips. “People stare at me, and I use it as empowerment. If they’re negative, then I’m stronger. If they’re jealous, it’s because I am better. You can either fear the attention or feed on it.”

Using a lot more words, she basically said what my last therapist had when talking about my mood. Control the narrative.

“This is going to suck,” was the recurring phrase I repeated the moment I stepped out of the Jeep onto campus. Kalinda offered a jaunty wave before driving off, almost mowing down some students, then lowering her window to indulge in her singsong version of road rage.

No one would ever call her Slaughter Daughter. She’d be the Lovely Widow or something equally cool.

Head ducked and wearing a baseball cap, I avoided detection as I headed for the lecture hall. It didn’t stop me from hearing the excited whispers. “Did you hear?” And snippets of salacious detail. A body drained of blood. One group of people were convinced that the fingerprints had been burned off, too.

I also heard my nickname. I hunched my shoulders as I passed a group of freaking co-eds extorting people to sign the petition to have Slaughter Daughter expelled from the college to keep them all safe. Funny how it never occurred to them that a murderous spree might occur in retaliation.

Nothing like being innocent but declared guilty by the mob. The pariah bit was getting old, though. Why should I suffer listening to them? I’d done nothing wrong. Yet look how they treated me.

As I entered the lecture hall and headed down the stairs, those already there recognized me. My cheeks burned as I heard them conversing with hushed excitement. When I hazarded a glance to my side, other students stared, not bothering to hide their fascinated revulsion.

These strangers judged me even as not one had ever spoken to me. Must be nice to feel so superior. I wanted to scream in their faces. Hack into the college server and screw with their grades.

I would do nothing. My shrink would be so proud.

I slumped in my seat, having chosen front row middle, as close as I could get to my teacher. Looking for protection? Fuck, yeah. Would I get it? That remained to be seen.

Mr. Santino arrived at nine on the dot. The class chattered as he placed his satchel on the table at the front.

He stood and waited, but his students couldn’t seem to control themselves. Rather than curb their morbid curiosity or temper their cruelty as they speculated about my parents and me within earshot, they got louder. Someone even shouted, “Ask her. Ask where the body is.”

Kalinda was wrong. I should have hidden. Was it too late to run?

Bang.

The strident sound of a heavy book being slammed on a desk shut people up, and in that sudden quiet, Mr. Santino very succinctly said, “Everyone currently and intentionally being cruel to a classmate by propagating inflammatory speculation get out.”

No one moved.

Mr. Santino tucked his hands behind his back. “I didn’t take everyone in this room for liars.”

A brave one spoke up. “You can’t kick us out for talking about current events.”

“I can for bullying, though. You’re Theodore Baskin. Correct?

“Yeah.”

Mr. Santino activated the lecture projector, and a social media profile appeared on the screen. The round avatar was of a young guy, curly blond hair, wearing a striped shirt. Name: Theo “Long Arm” Baskin.

“Is this you?” the professor asked, tucking his hands behind his back and turning to glance at someone in the higher seats.

“Uh. Yeah. But I didn’t give you permission to show it,” Baskin complained.

“I don’t need permission since your profile is public. As is your feed. Shall we see what you like to post?”

The first meme was my grad photo, but instead of holding a diploma, someone had Photoshopped in a knife. The caption was: Getting my degree in psycho. I heard a few titters.

The next two posts didn’t cast me in a flattering light either. More laughter erupted, louder this time. I wanted to turn into a puddle and sink into the nearest crack in the floor. This was humiliating.

Santino found my gaze and held it. Held it and didn’t laugh. Oddly enough, his stare comforted, soothed, seemed to say that everything would be okay. Trust me.

I didn’t have much choice.

The room kept murmuring and laughing but hushed when Santino flipped to a true-or-false slide.

“How many of you believe all of those memes to be true?”

I heard rustling but had no idea how many hands rose.

Mr. Santino told me. “Five. How many think these are funny?”

I could feel the discomfort and noticed Mr. Santino’s arched brow as he said, “Come on. Fess up. We all heard the laughter.”

Uncomfortable shifting had Mr. Santino then counting aloud. “…Twelve. Thirteen. And despite not holding up your hand, that includes you, Mr. Baskin.”

“Come on,” Baskin whined. “It’s a joke. It’s not like I believe that shit or anything.”

“It’s cruel, false, and you knew that but still posted it,” Mr. Santino pointed out.

“I didn’t make it. I just shared it.” Baskin launched his defense.

“And it’s funny,” someone else added.

The professor eyed me once more and then asked softly, “Ms. Baker, are you amused?”

Shit. Why did he have to bring me into this? “No,” I whispered, the word barely there, but everyone heard.

People who feel shame for their actions often attack, so I wasn’t surprised when someone blurted out, “Who cares if the memes are true or not? We all know she shouldn’t be here. Fact is, she’s the daughter of the Pentagram Killers. And now look what’s happened.”

“Ah, Mr. Anthony, you raise an interesting point. Especially your claim of facts. Let us examine them, shall we?” It was as if my teacher had planned today’s lesson around me and the mess on campus because, with a flick of his finger on his phone, he pulled up my past and projected it onto the screen.

It began with a newspaper report, the headline bold:

Pentagram Killers Strike Again.

“For those who aren’t familiar with this case, more than two decades ago, pentagrams began appearing, etched into basement floors, some undiscovered for long periods of time given their location in abandoned buildings. They were considered remarkably unique, given the shapes were burned into the floor. Right into cement in some cases. Within those grooved lines, investigators around the country found dried blood. Human blood. Enough that it was unlikely the person who donated survived.”

The word used in my time was sacrifice.

Mr. Santino moved to the next article, and I winced.

Pentagram Killers Caught in the Act.

My teacher resumed his lecture. “A video that was never sourced surfaced, appearing to show two people identified as Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

“Killers like in that movie,” someone in the crowd shouted. As if that were the first time I’d heard that joke.

“Except the video never showed them killing anyone.” He hit Play. I would have hidden my face, but he caught my gaze. It would be okay.

Just as brutal as ever. I was surprised that he dared to show it.

When it ended, he put a question up on the screen. What are the facts?

A student, her voice high-pitched and excited, exclaimed, “They killed someone by draining them of blood.”

“I saw no knife,” the professor pointed out.

“There’s a body.”

“A body-like shape,” he corrected. “That crime scene and supposed body were never found.”

“Come on. You know they killed someone. The man had his hands in the blood,” another student piped up.

“And? Do we know it was real?”

“They identified the guy.” Baskin was back.

“Yeah, I heard he killed his boss,” Anthony added.

Santino was prepared as he riposted right back. “Mr. Smith’s co-worker died, yes. But they never had any evidence as to who killed him. So, a body with no evidence and a low-resolution video.”

“You can see their faces. How can that not be proof?” Baskin argued.

“I’m glad you asked.” The next slide was a collage of pictures featuring Theodore Baskin in a variety of scenarios: a face screaming in protest, holding a gun, doing all kinds of stuff.

“What the fuck is that?” Baskin yelped. “I didn’t do any of that shit.”

“It’s proof, according to you.”

“It’s fake.”

“Exactly. And here’s the thing, that video people used to condemn the Smiths? It was never sourced. No one ever saw the original or discovered who filmed it. Someone could have altered the faces.” The on-screen image changed. The hooded person in the video was now wearing Santino’s face then a series of faces. Judging by the gasps and angry exclamations, the people depicted belonged to this class.

With each fake the professor showed, I felt better. But the fun and games stopped as he went back to my case. “So now that I’ve shown that the video isn’t worth shit, let us now move on to the rest of the facts. We have no bodies. No missing persons.”

“The guy on that video is missing.”

“The problem being, they never found a body.”

“Probably a homeless person.”

“Can you prove it?” Santino retorted.

“There was human blood in the pentagrams,” Baskin countered.

“Could have come from a blood bank.”

A feminine voice spoke up next, sweet with a hint of slyness. “Why did her parents run if they were innocent?”

And there it was. The logic everyone always came back to. Innocent people didn’t run.

Innocent people didn’t abandon their daughter and go on the lam, only to end up dying in a car accident thousands of miles away.

“Have you ever been unjustly accused of something, Ms. Larimer?”

I was impressed at how he knew everyone’s name.

“If someone accused me, I’d argue my case. And win,” exclaimed Ms. Larimer. “I’d win because I’d have the truth on my side.”

I arched a brow at her snippy reply. My teacher wasn’t about to be taken down by the likes of her. “The truth can be manipulated. Emotions, especially emotional blackmail, can be very persuasive. It’s all about the spin.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised that he had a slide for Ms. Larimer. The meme showed two versions. Pretty and perky, smiling in a selfie, then the ugly—getting out of a car while spewing puke. Labeled simply: before and after.

Ms. Larimer took offense. “That is repulsive and false.”

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove it because it never happened.”

Santino pounced on her words. “Prove it. Prove that’s not you in the picture.”

“I don’t know why you’re harassing me. This is not the same. I’m not a drunken slag. She, though, is Slaughter Daughter.”

“Which means what exactly? She’s automatically guilty? No due process? You would accuse her and post vile things—” He began throwing them up onto the screen, screenshots of comments and memes and who posted them. When he stopped, the screen was filled. “And that’s just a portion of it. It’s not okay. What you post has consequences. The things you find amusing, the rumors you spread, cause harm. Keep in mind that, oftentimes, even the news headlines, stories, and images aren’t about the truth but evoking an emotion. A reaction. Clicks. Likes. Advertising revenue. But there are consequences for callousness and bullying.”

The professor then flipped to more headlines. But after the first, I had to duck my head because once I saw the word suicide, I fell into a dark place. A reminder of the thoughts I’d battled when everything happened. The despair that threatened to swamp me when it felt as if it were me against the whole world.

In many ways, it was.

The post drew comments from some of the students, even an apology from a girl who said she knew better given someone had bullied her online.

I didn’t face any of them. I had no interest in apologies. I just wanted to be left alone. Despite being uncomfortable for most of the class, I felt drained and stayed behind at the end of it. The professor ignored me until the last student exited and then turned his gaze on me.

I held it. Chin up. I wouldn’t let him intimidate me.

His lips curved. He was a handsome man. No ring on his finger, but that didn’t mean shit.

“Did you have a question, Ms. Baker?” He used my new name.

“Did it ever occur to you to ask me before using me as part of your lesson?”

“Given recent circumstances? No.” He didn’t apologize, leaving me with a choice. Stomp as I left or discuss things.

There was also a third option. “For a person who teaches about social media, you have absolutely no online presence.” I’d gone looking.

He leaned against his desk, a good six to eight feet between us, and yet it felt intimate. “I’m online. I’m just cautious about it.” A good-looking guy, I could see why he didn’t offer private meetings. Knowing what I did after years of college, I’d bet he got propositioned a lot, and not for better grades.

“I had to get off all the chat platforms.” I stuck only to actual news sources, not opinion rags where the clicks and ad revenue drove the slant of their stories. I never posted my picture online. Ignored all the swirling internet urban legends about my parents and me. It hurt to read and hear from people who claimed to have seen them. I just wished they’d let it go.

“But you monitor the stories.” Stated, not asked.

My shoulders rolled. “I can’t exactly ignore them.”

“Because the pentagram killings are still an unsolved mystery.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not according to that updated mockumentary that came out.” Amazing how facts could be whittled to form a narrative.

“I’m surprised they didn’t put you in it.”

“They would have if they could have, but I said no.” More like the film crew came knocking, and I dodged. I knew whatever I said would be twisted into whatever they wanted.

“Not tempted to tell your story?”

I snorted. “They’ll call me a liar if it doesn’t fit their view of what happened.”

“What did happen, Ms. Baker?”

“I don’t know. The only thing I can be sure of is that I didn’t kill anyone.”

But the cops appeared convinced that I had, and I could admit that I was starting to get the urge.