Slaughter Daughter by Eve Langlais

19

“Who made the pentagram?”I half expected Santino to tell me it was him. I even worried he’d try to claim that it was my dad, back from the dead. I’d seen that theory floated around, given that only my mom’s body was ever recovered.

His answer surprised. “Erik Jerome made the pentagram.”

The very idea that someone would do something so heinous had me exclaiming, “How is that possible? He’s dead. You’re telling me he created it, slit his wrists, bled out, and then wandered off to be found days later?”

“Don’t be foolish. He created the pentagram before his death—and not as cleanly as the ones from previous records. He was also sloppy with the blood. Left the bags he’d stolen tossed in the woods behind the cemetery.”

“Hold on a second. Erik stole blood to put in a pentagram he made?”

Joseph nodded.

“Nobody died?”

“Not in that pentagram, no. But Mr. Jerome is quite dead. It won’t be long before the authorities are back with more questions.”

“Or go after Jag since he used Erik’s face as a punching bag,” I muttered.

“Don’t worry about Jag.”

“Why? What are you planning?”

The professor wouldn’t reply. “Get some rest. The next few days will be busy.”

To spite him, and every other asshole who thought I was a killer, I almost packed my things and left. Curiosity kept me in the room I’d been loaned.

Could Santino do as he claimed and clear my parents? Which would, in turn, clear me. Or would his elaborate charade backfire? What would happen to me, to him, to Jag if the cops ever found out the men had been lying on my behalf?

I didn’t have the kind of mindset that thought money and fame worth that kind of danger. It almost felt as if there were something deeper to the situation. Something I just couldn’t see. But what?

I spent some time pacing my princess suite then lying on the ridiculous bed. Given the turmoil, I’d thought sleep would be impossible, but the next thing I knew, I was drooling on a gazillion-thread-count pillowcase until someone yanked open the curtains and pulled back the covers.

“Ack! The light!” I made a sign against evil and buried my head under the pillow. Not very mature, I could admit, but it suited my mood. Which wasn’t as black as expected.

How could it be with the sun shining and Kalinda trilling, “Move those lazy cheeks.”

Pulling my head out from under my pillow, I fixed her with a bleary eye. “What are you doing here?”

Then again, what was I doing here? Yesterday seemed like some weird dream. A fucked-up reality no one would ever believe.

“I can’t believe you had a hot uncle and never told me,” she huffed.

I blinked. “Um.”

Kalinda laughed. “Gods, your face. You bought that just as much as the cops did. Walters and Jenkins—sounds like a comedy duo.”

“Don’t even talk to me about them. They were here last night making threats.”

“They’ll be back. The news just reported that Erik wasn’t killed in the pentagram and have moved the date of his death to the day before yesterday.”

“Which kills my alibi with Jag.” I closed my eyes. “Guess I should get a last shower and meal in before they show up.”

“Don’t tell me you’re just going to hand yourself over.”

“What else should I do?” I asked.

“Not run away like you were planning. I can’t believe you were going to leave without saying a word. Good thing Jag was keeping an eye on you.”

“He was spying on me?” It explained how he’d tracked me down so quickly. “Why?”

“Because we were worried about you.”

“Again, why?” All this sudden loyalty felt very strange to me.

Very. Strange.

Kalinda pursed her lips as she went through my half-strewn pile of clothes. “Because we’re friends, and friends help each other out.”

“They give each other rides and share clothes, not alibis for murder.”

“Good friends do all that and bring a shovel to bury the body.”

“You? Dig a hole?” I snorted.

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” she challenged, tossing me a shirt and pants. “Get dressed. We have work to do. Places to be.”

“Maybe you do, but I don’t. I am dropping out of college.”

“To do what?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. I’ll figure it out after I leave town.” Change my name. Cut and dye my hair. I’d go into hiding until the furor died down.

“Leave? That will make you look guilty.”

I snorted. “And if I stay and more people turn up dead, that will prove my innocence? If I’m gone, maybe it will stop.”

She sniffed. “That’s the coward’s route.”

“What else can I do?”

“How about not let some jerk ruin your life? Stay and fight.”

“Fight how? I have no idea who would be trying to frame me.” The most likely suspect had turned up dead. “Besides, I don’t think the cops are interested in looking at any other options. They want a tidy solution, which means finding a way to pin this on me.”

“Except we’re not going to allow it.” Kalinda sounded so sure of herself. I wasn’t as convinced.

“It’s not a question of allowing. The cops have all the resources. All I have is the feeble truth, which is…I didn’t do it.”

“Then we’ll have to make them believe you by finding evidence to prove without a doubt that these incidences are the work of someone else.”

“But who? It could be anybody.” Not to mention, Erik’s death might not even have anything to do with me. Perhaps he had a gambling or drug debt. Maybe the town had blood-sucking vampire bats.

“We’ll have to make a list of suspects. We’ll start with your enemies.”

“Could be a long list if we count all the online trolls who said I should have died with my parents.”

“Then we best get started. Get dressed. I’m going to whip up some breakfast.”

“I am not in the mood for breakfast.”

She fixed me with her dark stare. “You are eating breakfast. We have a busy day ahead. Be downstairs in ten minutes.” She exited the room, and I sighed.

It really would be easier to just leave, but given Kalinda’s bossy nature, I wouldn’t put it past her to hunt me down and drag me back by the ear like she’d done to Peter when he’d left a mess in her kitchen.

Despite her ten-minute warning, I took longer and showered, letting the hot water scorch my skin. I exited in a cloud of steam and toweled my body briskly before tossing the damp cloth over the bathroom door. I was standing naked in the middle of my room, underwear in hand, when someone flung open the door.

My eyes widened, and so did Jag’s.

“What the fuck?” I squeaked. “Ever hear of knocking?”

Rather than apologize, he blamed me for the intrusion. “You didn’t come downstairs.” He continued staring. Not at my face—his gaze strayed lower.

I was only human and attracted to him, even if he was an ass, which meant my nipples hardened. He noticed, and I fought the urge to cover myself. So what if he looked at my naked body? A body was a body. He’d seen tons, I was sure. Yet I couldn’t stop my skin from flushing. And that tingle between my legs? Not the right time or place, but that didn’t stop it from happening.

“Because I’m a few minutes late, you think you can barge right in?”

“I thought you left,” he repeated.

“Am I a prisoner who now has her every move watched?” I replied, giving him my back. I still had my underpants in hand and slid them on, conscious of how I had to bend to pull them up my legs and cover my butt. I expected him to leave. It would have been the polite thing to do.

“Someone has to keep an eye on you, given the trouble you keep getting into.”

“What trouble? No matter what people think, I haven’t done shit.” I snared a sports bra from the pile and went to put it on. It got stuck, rolled up around my armpits, and refused to come down. My frustration burned, and yet I froze when I felt his fingers on my skin.

“Hold still for a second while I untangle it.” He untwisted the straps, and I managed to cover my breasts. I flipped around to see him standing close. Too close.

I had to tilt my head to look at his face. He stared at me. And then he was kissing me.

His lips were on mine, and mine on his, and it was hot. So very hot. And passionate—his hands on my bare back. He grabbed and squeezed my ass, grinding against me. I somehow hit the wall and, with it bracing me, lifted my leg around his waist, spreading myself to him, getting the pressure of him where I needed it most.

His mouth teased mine. His hand slipped between our bodies to stroke me. He caught a soft cry and fingered me again, stroking me and bringing me quickly, but not fast enough that our lack of appearance wasn’t noticed.

My intercom came to life with Peter groaning, “Are you guys coming down? Kalinda is holding the food hostage again.”

At the intrusion, Jag sprang away from me as if I were on fire.

It hurt. He’d been the one to kiss me. Touch me. He could have been a little less stiff as he said, “Don’t take too long getting dressed. The gang is hungry.”

“Why is everyone here?”

Rather than reply, Jag fled. I put my fingers to my tingling lips.

Jag wanted me. I was okay with that.

I finished dressing, brushed my teeth, and ponytailed my wet hair. Just in case I needed to move quickly, I stuffed my shit into my bag. My slim wallet with cards and cash went into my sweater pocket, my phone in my pants. I could abandon my clothes if necessary.

Going downstairs, I heard several voices. I eyed the front entrance, wondering if I should flee now.

Curiosity drove me into the kitchen to find the professor having a conversation with Cashien and Peter. Mary puttered on her laptop. Kalinda flipped stacks of pancakes. We were only missing Jackson and—

“Took you long enough. I was about to come looking for you again.” His voice hit me from behind, and I whirled a little too fast. When I wobbled, Jag grabbed me around the waist and steadied me.

“Stop sneaking up on me.”

“Not happening.” He leaned in close to whisper, “Sometimes, you see amazing things when you least expect it.”

The blush erupted, and I couldn’t take it back. I broke my gaze with him and turned to look at the kitchen, an elegant space with a Mediterranean feel. The backsplash was beige stone, the cabinets a dark wood with a vine pattern etched into them. The appliances were all gleaming stainless steel.

The gang was mostly clustered around a large kitchen table set with eight chairs. They’d obviously noticed my arrival but didn’t make a big deal about it.

“Why is everyone here?” I asked.

“Why do you think?” Jag moved around me. “Say hello to the team of Operation Save Slaughter Daughter.”

I winced at the name then grimaced as everyone looked at me.

“The lady we’ve been waiting for,” Peter announced. “Now, can we finally fucking eat?”

Kalinda waved her flipper at him. “Yes. But you better leave some bacon for everyone.”

“Yes, Mother,” Peter sassed. He took only four slices and six pancakes. The stack was high, though. Kalinda had also cut up some oranges, sliced some strawberries, and set out a bowl of whipped cream.

I had my first breakfast-gasm. Apparently, I’d been missing out with my measly coffee and dry cereal. The conversation flowed over me, and I absorbed the bits I thought most important.

“The body has already been taken to the morgue,” Mary remarked, having taken a corner spot at the table so she could keep her laptop open.

The professor mostly had fruit on his plate and a tall glass of something frothy and pink. “I have a friend who works there. I might be able to finagle a visit.”

I scrunched my nose. “Why?” I mean, the idea of going didn’t bother me; I just saw no purpose in it.

“Because we need to see the body, of course. We have questions that need answers.”

I frowned at the professor. “He’s dead and missing his blood. How is he supposed to answer?”

“Don’t you watch CSI?” Jag grumbled. He’d opted for coffee only. Probably explained his grumpiness. He should try a pancake orgasm with whipped cream and berries.

“Before we dive into the whole fascinating concept of forensics and dead bodies, I want to know what’s going on.” I leaned back from the table.

“Breakfast,” Kalinda quipped.

“I do believe Abby is speaking of how I took on the role of uncle and the rest of you as her defenders.”

At my nod, everyone stared at me. “I don’t get it. I mean, no offense, but I barely know any of you. Why are you risking yourselves for me?”

“Hardly any risk,” Jag noted, finally reaching for a piece of toast.

“You’re lying to the authorities,” I pointed out.

“Only to ensure they look in the right direction instead of the most sensational,” Kalinda remarked.

“Legally, what we’ve done so far are only misdemeanors,” Cashien added.

“It’s above and beyond what you should do for a stranger.”

“You’re our friend.” Mary lifted her head. “Friends don’t let friends go to jail for crimes they didn’t commit.”

“How are you all so certain I didn’t?” I let my gaze touch each of theirs. “I have no alibi. I was in bed at the time. Alone.”

“You didn’t do it.” The professor sounded certain and looked more relaxed than I was used to. Which made me wonder how they were all here instead of in class.

“Shouldn’t you all be on campus?”

“Given the location of the crime scene and the shock, classes have been suspended for the next week,” the professor informed.

“And for some people, the semester,” Jag uttered in a low tone.

“What’s he talking about?” I asked.

Santino replied, “The dean received a complaint about some of my subject matter.”

“She’s also pissed you’re suddenly related to Abby,” Jag added in a low tone.

“Dean Dangerfield has asked me to take a short leave of absence.”

“You got fired?” Already my curse had spread.

“It’s fine. I was going on sabbatical to write your book anyhow. This just saves me from filing the paperwork.”

“It’s not fine. None of you seem to grasp that this is only the beginning. Helping me will screw you.” I thrust myself out of my seat and aimed for the front door. When Jag moved to step into my path, the professor intercepted him with a low, “I’ll handle this.”

Except I didn’t want to be handled. I wanted to be far away from people before they got caught up in anything. Only Joseph wasn’t about to let his cash ticket walk out the door. He grabbed me by the arm, and I found myself steered into a study. He shut the door, giving us privacy. Not that I worried about being alone with him. If he wanted to assault me, he’d had the best chance the night before—or if I was going to be technical, during the wee hours of the morning.

Bookshelves lined the wall, and only a single window allowed light into the space. The ceiling sconce and scattered lamps remained dark.

The professor didn’t sit, nor did he offer me a seat. He leaned against a desk strewn with books and paper.

“You can’t run away.”

“Why the fuck not?” I exclaimed. “What will staying do, other than have me accused of every bad thing happening in town?” I knew this for a fact because it’d happened before. Was it any wonder I felt an affinity for the Salem witches? Unjustly accused with facts twisted to suit.

“You need to drop the martyr act.”

“It’s not an act. I care what happens to others.”

“We are all adults. We can make our own choices.”

“Helping someone with my reputation takes away your choices. You got fired. What’s next? Kalinda and the others expelled? Maybe implicated by the police?”

“I thought you wanted answers.”

“Not at the expense of others, Uncle.” I emphasized the word and shook my head. “I still don’t grasp what possessed you to fake a relation to me. You do realize when the cops find out, it’s going to cause shit, right?”

A faint smile hovered around his lips. “Except they won’t find out. The evidence we’re related will convince them.”

“Unless they dig deep,” I insisted. “What if they demand another blood test and run it through their labs?”

“They won’t, but even if they do, they’ll walk away convinced of our relationship.” He sounded so sure.

A pity I couldn’t share that certainty. “How will we convince them? We look nothing alike.”

“And?”

“You do realize a DNA test will quickly show it to be a lie.”

“Will it?” he taunted. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve already arranged a paper trail that will withstand most scrutiny.”

I stared at him, wishing I understood his true motives. How strange that this man, one with no relation to me, appeared so determined to protect me. And here I spurned him, even though he’d done more for me of late than my parents had.

I moved to the window and stared at the front yard, the green grass, stately trees, and planned flowerbeds. “This won’t end well,” I predicted.

“Why did you come here?” he asked suddenly.

“To get a degree.”

“Obviously. But why here specifically?”

It occurred to me to lie, and yet, after everything he’d done, didn’t I owe him something? “My mom grew up not far from here. Planned to go to this college, as a matter of fact.”

“But didn’t.”

I shook my head. “She met my dad and moved to another state instead.”

“You’re doing this to be closer to her.”

Was I? I shrugged. “Not really. I mean she never even attended one class at this school.”

The professor had moved without me hearing, and I only realized he stood close behind me when he spoke. “It’s normal to miss the things you can’t have.” He put his hands on my shoulders, and for a moment, I thought of my dad.

Santino was nothing like him.

“I wouldn’t know normal,” I said with a high-pitched laugh, moving away. And then for some reason, I was crying. The hug felt both familiar and strange as my professor soothed me.

“Don’t cry for that bastard.”

Despite my earlier words, I sobbed, “He’s dead.” I pushed away and scrubbed at my face.

“Mr. Jerome was a stain on society. The killer did the world a favor.” The professor sneered, and for a moment…just a moment…I could have sworn his eyes glowed.

“While Erik was a jerk, he didn’t deserve to die.”

“It is inconvenient given the scrutiny being placed on you.”

“Inconvenient is someone using the washer and dryer when I need it. I’m the prime suspect in a murder case.”

“Not for long.” He sounded smug.

“Professor—”

He halted me. “You shouldn’t call me that.”

“Then what should I call you?” I sassed.

“Uncle is fine. Although I would wager you’d be more comfortable using my first name. Joseph.”

“You told us never to use your name.”

“The students may not, but your situation is different, wouldn’t you say?” Again with the teasing smile.

“They will figure out we’re not related.”

“Doubtful.”

“We know nothing about each other,” I exclaimed.

“Which is understandable given our recent reunion.”

“Prof—Joseph, this is nuts. You’re risking your career. For what? I’m not worth it.” Low, miserable words. If my parents didn’t think me important enough to take me with them, why would anyone else value me?

“Ah, but that’s where you are wrong. I think you’re very special.”

“I—” The words caught in my throat as he brushed my hair behind my ear. Again, something my dad used to do. But my dad was dead.

My query emerged huskily. “Do you have any clues as to who killed Erik?”

“A few theories, but I don’t want to say until I know for sure.”

“You have a suspect?” I whirled from the bookcase and its old, leather-bound books to glare at my teacher. “Who?”

“I need more proof.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“Yes, you would, because it’s human nature.”

“By keeping quiet, you’re protecting a murderer,” I hotly declared.

“What if I’m wrong, though? It would ruin him.”

Him. With one pronoun, he’d narrowed it down to about half the people in the world. “What if he kills again while you dilly-dally?”

“What if he’s killed during apprehension by the police, and no one ever looks deeper to see if he truly was at fault?”

The reminder of my parents’ case snapped my mouth shut. No one had cared once my parents were ruled dead because the killing had stopped. Halted the minute they started running, as a matter of fact.

“What if something happens to you before you tell someone?” I argued for the sake of arguing.

“I won’t give a name until I am one hundred percent sure.”

“You’re asking me to put a lot of faith in you.”

“The question is, do you have faith in your parents?”

“They’re not murderers.”

Again, his eyes flashed. There one second, gone the next. “The evidence says otherwise.”

“It’s circumstantial.”

“It’s damning, and you know it. Not to mention, innocent people don’t disappear and abandon their only daughter.” He only repeated what I’d often thought myself.

“The system is unfair.”

“Only if the evidence is stacked against you. We both know criminals with good lawyers walk every day. The evidence was flimsy. There was no DNA or fingerprints to put them at any of the possible crime scenes. No bodies, just blood—and it could have come from anywhere. A lawyer would have argued and gotten the case tossed had your parents stood for trial. The video would have been proven fake. They would have walked free and probably fled with you to start over.”

My lips turned into hard lines. “Way to remind me how everything got fucked.” Why hadn’t my parents stayed to fight?

“Did you ever wonder if perhaps the police had irrefutable evidence tying your parents to the crimes?”

“I know the case inside and out.” I’d studied every bit of it.

“Are you sure of that? Because it’s not uncommon for some information to be withheld in order to ensure they can weed out false confessions.”

“I thought you were supposed to prove their innocence,” I huffed, pushing away from the bookshelf, my steps angry as I neared the professor.

“I can’t be blind to the facts along the way. I’d like to prove them innocent, as it would then be a grand coup to showcase our justice system’s inadequacies. But at the same time, if they are guilty…”

“Why would they kill anyone?”

“What are the usual reasons?”

“Money? My parents might not have been rich, but they did all right.” Or so I assumed. I wasn’t given everything I wanted, but I got two shopping sprees with Mom twice a year for clothes. At Christmas, I always had a pile of presents under the tree. While I didn’t own a car, my dad had taught me to drive and never had a problem loaning me his Beemer.

“Ritual murders aren’t about money. They’re about power. And belief.”

“I thought you were a professor of social media.”

“Society in general fascinates me.”

“With an emphasis on serial killers.” I recalled the titles of the books sitting on the shelf in the bedroom he’d loaned me. Murder mysteries by two authors. One dark and violent, the other offering a sexy vibe to go with the shadowy danger. Both authors, though, had a thing for psychos. It hit me suddenly. “You wrote those books in the bedroom.”

“I told you I was an author.” He rolled his shoulders.

In my ignorance, I’d assumed a professor would have done something dry like a textbook, not fiction with covers depicting either spooky locales or a man displaying an impressive physique, holding a gun. It occurred to me that Joseph might not be a bad choice for setting a narrative. What did I want people to remember about me? How could we change the perception?

“Let’s say for one second that my parents did make those pentagrams using stolen blood. Why? They were atheists. They didn’t believe in God or the devil.”

“What if the pentagram was about doing magic?”

I rolled my eyes. “My dad would not be doing magic.” My dad wouldn’t even cut our lawn in a checkerboard pattern. Still, there were those candles…

“Can you say that for sure?”

“Yeah, because magic isn’t real.” Or the death curses I’d aimed in the direction of some truly vile people would have taken effect.

“You are very rigid in your thinking. You’ll end up overlooking possibilities as a result.”

“If I want to believe that my dead parents weren’t psycho, knife-wielding killers, then that’s my prerogative. Maybe I don’t really want to know what happened,” I exclaimed.

“You do.”

“Fine. I do. But I have a good reason. It’s my parents. If someone framed them, they deserve justice. But you!” I jabbed my finger at him. “You’re doing it for fame and fortune.”

“Do my motives matter?” He crossed his arms over his chest, propping himself on the desk.

“Yes. I won’t be a tool used and then tossed aside.”

“Then leave.” He gestured to the door. “Walk out. Go. Read about the truth in the paper once I solve the mystery.”

“You can’t solve it without me,” I hastened to say.

“Why not?” He arched a brow.

He had a point. I offered nothing. “Good luck solving it.” I waved as I grabbed the doorknob.

“If you leave, the cops will think it’s an admission of guilt.”

“I see it more as they can’t pin anything else on me.”

“Don’t you want to know who’s doing it?” He changed his tactic.

Much as I wanted to say no, that would be a lie. I wanted to nail the prick screwing with me to a wall. With real spikes. And a gag. Screaming would draw attention.

“Can’t wait to hear the spin when it hits the news.”

“If we catch the person. What if”—Joseph pushed away from the desk—“the person doing this follows you? Starts it again in a new city, leading law enforcement right to you? Who will be your alibi then?”

The idea that someone would follow me wasn’t any crazier than the fact they’d killed someone. The weight of the shit in my life hit me, and I sagged. Literally. Every ounce of courage holding me up just disappeared.

My ass hit a chair, and I kept slouching until my face practically touched my knees.

I didn’t cry. I had no tears left, but I shuddered. Wondered when it would end. Started to think it might never.

The professor—Joseph—knelt and put a hand partially on my knee and hand. His voice was low. Soothing. “I didn’t say that to crush you but to appeal to your fighting spirit.”

I lifted my head to show him listless eyes. “I’ve been fighting for years. When does it end? Maybe I should just turn myself in.” At least in a cell, I might get some time to study and not worry about a knock on a door.

“Let them arrest you. Fine idea,” he said, springing to his feet. He paced as he expounded on my suggestion. “We can call them right now. Newspapers, too. We want to make this flashy. The media will love covering the trial of Slaughter Daughter.” I winced, but he wasn’t done. “They’ll start talking about the death penalty. Your face will be plastered everywhere. What a brilliant idea,” he exclaimed.

“You’re really annoying.”

“So are you,” he snorted. “Now, are you going to work with me on devising constructive ways to draw the killer out into the open, or whine?”

“That’s your plan? Bait the real killer so they show themselves?”

“How else will they be arrested and you exonerated?”

“What makes you think they’ll kill again? Maybe it was a one and done.” I poked a hole in his idea.

“Mr. Jerome wasn’t shot. He was decapitated and his blood drained. Not one drop to be found. Think about it.” My teacher waited.

It took my slow brain a second to gasp. “The police are going to find another blood-filled pentagram.”