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“Whatever, just eat it,” he told me, the corner of his mouth kicking a little higher. But there were deeper shadows under his eyes, and he hadn’t shaved. That was unusual for him. When he left, I carried the food and the meds into the kitchen.
I ate on autopilot, then took the three pills, washing them down with a deep drink of water. After I drained the bottle, I cleaned up my debris, then wiped down the counters.
Turning, I faced the room. There are signs of the paramedics, campus security, the police, and more throughout the room. I was surprised at the lack of crime scene tape on the door to her room, but the school probably hadn’t gone for that.
Was that why they’d taken the bedsheets and stuff? Evidence maybe. After sacking up the trash in the sitting area, I made a point of wiping it all down before I headed into her room. It was hers, so she’d probably want to decide on what to do with stuff.
But the mess was just…too much. The photos with our scratched out faces were also gone. I began a mental list of what was missing. Sorting the room’s debris into manageable piles, I put all the shredded clothing that didn’t look remotely salvageable into one bag.
It was all of her uniforms. Every. Single. One.
Even the ties had been cut. The shoes in her closet had also been stabbed. Repeatedly.
The more I uncovered the damage, the more disturbing it grew. There were three t-shirts that she might be able to wear. The dirty clothes were gone, so maybe when the clothes came back from the laundry there would be more.
I tackled the papers and shredded books next. A song had been torn into several different bits of paper. I recognized some of the bars. I gathered as much of it together as I could. Maybe I could tape them back enough for her to recover the missing pieces.
It was the middle of the night by the time I finished sweeping, wiping down, and collecting the damaged pieces together. There were a few photos that seemed to have escaped her attacker’s wrath.
One of her guitars was missing. Had the police taken it, too? I’d made a list of everything I thought was missing, but she would have to check it. The three photos that survived the assault included one of KC as a child. It had to be; we all knew what Jennifer Crosse looked like. She was very glamorous.
The writing on the back said, “Legends are bornandmade. You’re the author of your own story. Never forget.”
It wasn’t KC’s writing.
The second photo was of her and a guy I didn’t know. The dark-skinned dude was tall, at least next to KC, and wore a pair of glasses. They were making faces at each other, but there was no mistaking the affection in her eyes for the guy next to her.
I hated him.
Who was he? Why did he get to make her smile?
The back saidwe could have been in a condom.
What did that mean? I glared at the photo again.
The third photo gave me far more pause. It was her with another dark-skinned child, this one tucked right up to her chest as she cuddled the baby.
A baby girl?
I flipped the picture.My little rock star. My sweetest Pen.
My.
The repetition set off alarm bells.
Was this…?
I stared at the images again—one at a time.
KC looked like her mom. A lot. But she didn’t have blonde hair anymore—KC didn’t anyway. It was always blue. The baby had KC’s eyes though.
Did she really have a baby? Was that what she kept so carefully guarded?
I kept going back to the back of it and what it said:My little rock star.
Pen.
So many questions.
