Slaughter Daughter by Eve Langlais
17
Mr. Santino might have openedthe minds of those present in his class. Outside that room, the court of opinion had finished its session and rendered its verdict: guilty.
As I headed for the campus donut shop, I noticed the stares, heard the whispers. I did my best to ignore the wide berth around me everywhere I went. Not all teachers were on the same level as Mr. Santino. He at least understood what I was going through.
In my ethics class, Mr. Guillaume glared at me enough that it encouraged the soft murmurs to become loud catcalls. I left. Bravery didn’t have to come with masochism.
I chose to skip the rest of the day. By the time I got to the house, I’d made my decision. I went straight in the door and up those stairs to my room so I could pack.
It was time I gave up the college dream. I’d finish online, or not at all. I had enough money to start over somewhere social media hadn’t completely penetrated. Or at least not an American scandal like mine. Might even be time to move continents.
With it being the middle of the day, most of my roommates were in class. Good. Kalinda would probably try and talk me out of leaving again. She meant well, but she didn’t understand how having me around could fuck up her life. If the copycat killings continued, I’d be strung up, convicted without ever having given evidence in a trial by my peers. Anyone associated with me would be tarnished by the same brush. It had cost me my only friend in college. We’d bonded on day one, but when I was outed two years later, Roxanne turned on me. Threw me to the mob.
That’d hurt.
If the people who knew you best could make false accusations, who could you trust?
Certainly not my housemates. I’d known them for less than a month.
I exited my room with my knapsack over one shoulder. The house was quiet. Too quiet. I winced at every perceived creak as I made my way downstairs. Everyone was probably gone, and yet, I kept expecting to hear someone question what I was doing.
Only once I slipped outside did I ease out a heavy breath. I’d been so certain that someone would stop me. Disappointment warred with relief at the fact that no one had.
I headed down the steps, having decided to walk a few blocks before hailing a ride via app. Two blocks and one turn later, I stood outside a coffee shop, latte in hand, waiting for my ride. I sucked at the froth as I spotted the motorcycle coming up the street, carrying a familiar helmet-headed form. Shit.
I turned and faced the shop. He wouldn’t have seen me. Even if he had, he wouldn’t stop.
Jag stopped. Over the rumble of the engine, he said, “Get on.”
“Can’t. Just got this.” I held up my latte as I whirled to offer a false smile.
Jag lifted the visor on his helmet and straddled his bike. “Toss it and get your ass on.”
“I paid six dollars for this. I’m drinking it. Besides, there’s my ride.” A small blue car pulled to the curb.
“You want to be arrested in that piece of shit or maybe avoid the cops a while longer?”
I stiffened at the question. “What are you talking about?”
“Mary overheard some chatter on the radio.”
“What kind of chatter?” I asked, my tone wooden as I dumped my latte and approached.
“The kind that said they identified the dead body as Erik Jerome.”
My stomach dropped. This wasn’t happening. I wanted to scream my frustration. Kick something. Run. Could my being framed be more obvious?
“Fuck,” I exclaimed. Then quickly added, “It wasn’t me.”
“The cops think otherwise. They’re looking to bring you in for questioning.”
“I thought we already gave them an alibi?”
“For the pentagram. Erik’s murder hasn’t been linked to it yet.”
“Where else would the blood have come from?”
He shrugged. “Until they run the tests, they’ll treat them as separate crimes, nullifying our alibi.”
“If they don’t match, I’m screwed.” I bit my lip.
“Don’t be sure. Someone witnessed me punching him.”
That drew my gaze to his battered knuckles. “You hit him? Why?”
“Because I don’t like assholes who attack women.”
Jag’s sexy level went off the charts. “Thank you.”
Being Jag, he had to be a dick. “It had nothing to do with you.”
Except he’d done it after my encounter with Erik. He’d saved me the other night with the cops, and he was coming to my rescue again.
“Me doth think you protest too much.” I did a very bad quote of something gothic.
He grimaced. “I think you are wasting time. Get on the fucking bike.”
“To go where?”
“You’ll see.”
Not the most comforting words, and yet my leg went over the seat, planting my crotch on the tiny wedge that was left. I had to wrap myself anaconda-style around Jag, my arms around his waist, my cheek on his back. He didn’t have a spare helmet. I tried not to imagine my brains on the pavement when he took off.
It was more fun than expected once I realized I wouldn’t immediately die. I even opened my eyes at one point to watch the streaming streets. We were going farther than the house. Right outside of town as it turned out. Jag turned into an old neighborhood, the type with massive open yards and mansion-style homes. He pulled in front of one with a roundabout driveway that could have fit a dozen or more cars.
“Whose place is this?” I asked, staring at the majestic manor. Old red brick, white shutters, too many windows to quickly count.
“It’s your uncle’s place.”
I blinked. “I don’t have an uncle.”
“According to recently uncovered records, you do. Your father’s bastard younger brother.”
As I slipped off the bike, I turned to frown at Jag. “My father didn’t have a brother.”
“He does now. Mary’s been working on creating a backstory online.”
“You’re really going to have to explain why I need a fake uncle. Because it makes no sense.” Why would someone with money want to go through the trouble? Unless…
“Is this some kind of weird fetish thing? Have you sold me to a perv?” I backed from Jag as he removed his helmet.
“Are you on fucking drugs? ’Course not. Why would you even—?” His expression was almost comical as he grasped it. “People do that?”
I didn’t reply.
“I’m not a sick fuck. I would never.”
“You expect me to trust you?”
“Why not? I’ve never done a damned thing to hurt you.”
“Yet. It’s just a matter of time.” It was always only a matter of time.
“For fuck’s sake, buttercup, I’m not that much of an asshole.”
“Says you. People tend to have a change of heart when the tabloids dangle dollars in front of them.”
His jaw worked as he swung his leg over the bike, placing his helmet on the seat. “Ain’t no one buying me. And I’m not a rat. I’d never fuck you or anyone over like that.”
“Why should I believe you?”
He moved into my space and looked down at me. “Because I would never hurt you.”
“I would.” I slammed my fist into his gut. Might as well have hit a wall.
He grunted. “Not nice, considering I’m trying to help.”
“You shouldn’t. It won’t end well for you.”
“Threats?” He pulled me close enough that I thought he might kiss me.
“More like reality. People get pissed when you abet a supposed killer.” My lopsided smile hid the tightness in my throat.
“You’re no killer. I would know,” was his reply.
Before I could ask what he meant, the door to the house opened. Professor Santino stood in the opening. He scowled at us before saying, “Get inside. Quick. We don’t have much time.”
