Slaughter Daughter by Eve Langlais

27

Under suspicious circumstanceswas another term for murdered, and it hit close to home. I knew Peter. Not well, but enough for it to shock me. I spent that morning and the ensuing interview in a haze as Wilson hammered my friends and me with questions.

Yes, I’d been home all evening with a few people as witnesses. No, I’d not left. Yes, Jag came home before midnight. No, he didn’t leave my bed—an admission that left my cheeks smoking hot. It didn’t help that Jenkins smirked. Such an unpleasant fellow. Wilson, while no-nonsense, at least didn’t have any snide remarks to offer, and she kept the cop duo in line.

The professor showed the security system logs to prove that the house had been locked up tight and hadn’t opened until the cops knocked the next day.

“You don’t mind if we have a forensic specialist go over these to check for tampering?” Wilson asked.

My fake uncle offered a wide smile as he said, “Be my guest. We have nothing to hide.”

A complete and utter lie, but I wasn’t about to blow it wide open. For some reason, the professor and the gang had chosen to circle the proverbial wagons around me to provide a ring of protection. It both elated and terrified because I’d yet to figure out why they were watching over me. Why did they care?

At one point, the detective asked, “Professor Santino, can you explain why it appears as if all these students are living with you? It seems ill-advised and unusual.”

Unusual to me was the fact that the professor seemed acquainted with my roommates. Which, in retrospect, I should have questioned. Given they were supposedly new here, how did they all know each other so well? Obviously, I’d missed something important—the piece that would make some sense of this puzzle.

“It might seem unorthodox for the students to be living here, yet what else could I do when vandals intent on harassing my newly discovered niece rendered their house inhabitable? The place needs major repairs and isn’t safe, leaving them homeless. It seemed only right to offer my niece’s friends the use of my place, given it is large enough to accommodate.”

The man could act. Holy shit. If I didn’t know better, I’d have believed his seemingly emotional face as the professor spread his hands and delivered his speech. “And before you worry about me influencing some of their grades, I should mention that I’ve taken a leave of absence.”

“Why?” Wilson’s gaze sharpened.

“Because I am an author. Do you read?” He adeptly whipped a book out of nowhere, a man with a smoldering expression posed on the cover.

Wilson’s eyes widened, and then she blushed. “I can’t. Rules and all.”

“Ah, yes. Mustn’t look like you’re accepting a bribe. No problem. Perhaps, instead, I shall donate many books to the precinct and the local library to thank you for the fine work you do.”

“The library is a great idea.”

I couldn’t believe how the professor had Wilson eating out of his hand. It was elegantly done, and I could see Jenkins falling under his spell, as well—his posture easing, his hand nowhere near his gun.

The questions ended not long after, and with the cops unable to ruin our alibis or trip up our stories, they left. But no one sighed in relief.

“Fuck!” Kalinda uttered quite eloquently, looking appropriately tragic with her wet cheeks, yet her posture poised and strong. She was the first to move. “This kind of news needs a mimosa.”

“A jug. Easy on the juice.” Cashien’s suggestion.

“And a ton of bacon,” Jag declared. “We’re going to need protein to get through the day.”

They spoke casually with a dark humor that appalled.

“Seriously?” I exclaimed. “You’re going to eat and drink? Our friend is dead.” More their friend than mine. How could they be so calm? Apart from Kalinda’s tears, they didn’t seem angry or all that sad.

“And you think we’re not going to find out what happened?” The professor sounded chiding. “Mary?”

She held up her laptop. “I’ve got the report and skimmed it. Same MO as Erik. Drained of blood, headless and dumped.”

“Have they found another pentagram?” Jag asked.

Mary shook her head. “Not yet, at any rate. They’re still waiting to identify the victim of the pentagram at the college. It looks the same as the others but was interrupted. With three bodies, they’re now saying we’ve got a serial killer.”

“How many until they call in the FBI?” I rubbed my forehead.

“Depends on how hard the precinct gets shamed in the media since it’s contained to the campus,” Jag drawled.

The media. Shit. Bad enough the people crowding my house had been aiming their phones at me. I’d inadvertently seen that I remained just as unphotogenic as before. “This is going to get ugly.”

“Yes,” the professor said as Kalinda whipped around the kitchen, getting the juice maker going, finding some champagne—because every kitchen kept a few bottles, as everyone knew.

The professor must really be doing well at the whole writing thing.

“Now would be a good time to drive me to a train station. You don’t want me around now that the shit has hit the fan,” I said.

The backlash would be astronomical. The internet was a cruel and vicious place. People were mean.

The good news was that it did eventually die down, though it never fully went away. Like a rash, it returned. You suffered, and then you waited for the cycle to start again.

Fuck me, I was tired of it. I put my head on the granite counter.

Kalinda slid a mimosa in front of me. “Drink.”

“I don’t want to drink. Or to eat. I want this to stop. I need this bullshit to go away,” I exclaimed. Shoving away from the counter, I stormed from the kitchen in a full-blown tantrum, expecting them to come after me.

No one called me to return. Jag didn’t follow.

That hurt, even though it shouldn’t have.

We’d had sex. Not all sex meant a relationship. The logic didn’t help. I remained pissed.

Stomping to my room, I slammed the door and then paced. Simmered. I lasted three minutes before I wondered what the fuck I was doing.

Would I really stick around as some asshole tried to frame me? Would I let the media storm about to descend not only sweep me into the churning viciousness but snag my friends, too?

I grabbed my knapsack and quickly stuffed it. It would be best for everyone if I left. People might live longer, too. After all, Peter had died. Erik was dead. And what about the third body in the pentagram? Want to bet the victim would somehow be linked to me, too? Hell, it might even be Jackson. When was the last time anyone saw him?

Fuck.

I needed out of this house. Had to get away from these people. What if Kalinda was next? And then there was the fact that they could so calmly eat and drink as one of their friends lay cold on a slab. Would any of them care if I left?

Jag…

He never even came to check on me. Never mind I’d stomped off only about seven minutes ago.

I snuck down the stairs, worried about every perceived creak. I saw and heard no one. The alarm system remained unarmed. I exited via the front door, expecting to hear someone yell at me to come back. I quickly moved down the driveway and into the road, walking briskly as I pulled out my phone and hesitated. Who could I call?

All my friends were back at the professor’s house. Except for one.

Ten minutes later, and four weaving blocks away at a coffee shop, Braedon picked me up.

I heaved a sigh as I leaned against the headrest on the passenger side of his car. “Thanks.”

“I heard what happened.” No shit. I doubted anyone hadn’t. “Were you close to Peter?”

“No. Not really. I mean, we were roommates, and I saw him around, but we never talked much.”

“The cops are saying we might have a serial killer copycatting the pentagram killings.”

My lips turned down. “I am aware, trust me. They keep trying to pin it on me. The problem being I’ve got alibis for their dates and times.”

Braedon spoke carefully as he said, “Word on the street is they think Jag did it.”

“If the cops thought he did it, then why did they let him go?”

“Because he’s got a supposedly airtight alibi.” He glanced at me. Was that condemnation or pity in his gaze?

“Jag’s not a killer.” The man who’d snuggled me and made my body sing couldn’t be a murderer.

“Are you sure?” Braedon’s tone turned harsh. “Don’t be so blind to the truth. Your friends aren’t who you think they are. I’ve been looking into them, Abby.”

“Why?”

He didn’t reply at first, and I could see him stalling as if looking for the right words. The right lie.

“Why have you been spying on them?” I repeated.

“Surely, you can see it. Something’s not right about them.”

“Because they’re Slaughter Daughter’s friends?” I snapped.

“That has nothing to do with it. I know who you are, and I’m your friend—hoping to be something more.” He put his hand on my leg, a light touch, and I burned with shame and guilt.

I had nothing to be ashamed of. Jag and I had exchanged no promises. And Braedon confused me.

“You hated me the first time we met,” I reminded.

“Because I knew who you were. I recognized you. And I admit I might have believed some of the media hype. Only you were a lot different than I expected.”

“Different how?” Was I uglier? Stupid?

I was wrong on all counts.

“Attractive. The pics I saw didn’t do you justice.”

“I’m aware,” I grumbled.

“Then I started talking to you and realized you were smart. And strong. Despite being attacked, you didn’t back down. You’ve been doing your best to hold your head high in spite of everything.”

His vision of me stroked my ego nicely. However, he ignored the ugliness. “It’s great you see all those things, but other people don’t. Once they realize I’m in their neighborhood, their city, I become a joke. A scapegoat for every ugly crime. They purposely get in my face to get a reaction. Or they whisper about me as I go by. They’ll take videos and pics, post them online with the dumbest captions. And anyone with me will become part of the sick game.”

“That’s brutal.”

“It’s my life.” And I’d learned to handle it. Crying achieved nothing. Standing and facing the condemnation meant listening to daily abuse. Leaving, though… It solved all my problems.

“I’m sorry I was one of those assholes who judged you without knowing you first.”

“Apology accepted. Now how about doing the same for my friends?”

“Your friends are liars.”

“What have they lied about?” I asked.

“Did you know they’re not actually registered for college?”

“What are you talking about? Of course, they’re students.”

Braedon shook his head. “Actually, they’re not.”

“But they told me… Why would they lie?”

“To get close to you.”

“To do what? Get in trouble? Because, so far, knowing me hasn’t exactly helped them out,” I snapped.

He shrugged. “I don’t know their plan, but it can’t be good. Not given what they are. Pure evil.”

I blinked. My lying roommates might be many things. But evil? “I assure you, they’re not demon spawn.”

“You’re wrong about that. They are actually demons.”