She reaches down, feels between her thighs, and draws back a slick red palm. It worked.
She smears the blood down her thighs, coats both palms in it. Her shoulder aches at the work before it, but she knows she has to continue. She has to make it look real.
And then she screams.
The noise echoes in the room around her, inside the air vents. It travels throughout the rest of the house. She hopes that it sounds desperate. That it sounds real.
The sound ricochets off the walls and penetrates her body. Her muscles feel the effort of the scream. They constrict around the wound, trying to silence her but she fights them. She has to get out of here and this is her last best chance.
The pain subsides, her blood carrying the stress chemical to her brain, silencing the pain. Her heart thuds in her chest, heavy and alive, for the first time since the shooting. She realizes suddenly that she’ll do whatever she must to live. She’ll kill if she has to.
She imagines the scandal that would ripple across the country if she, gone into labor, bleeding from between her legs, was forbade from seeking medical attention just because Tom was afraid of facing the consequences of his actions.
The thought of the journalist comes back to her. This person can help. This person can see what’s really going on here. This person has no vested interest in making Tom seem like the good guy, in fact, it’s probably the opposite. She just hopes that Tom didn’t see it that way from the start.
She hopes that this will be enough. That the blood will convince him.
She fills her lungs once more and screams a second time.
BIRDIE
6 YEARS AGO
The rumors began to circulate almost immediately. Whispers that the Wolsieffer house wasn’t a safe place to spend a Friday night ran like vines overtaking a rusted old truck, strangling any notion that Tom might not have done anything to Morgan Wallace.
The rumors were mainly confined to the students in the writing department, but enough had been said that Tom seemed to carry a black cloud with him. People got out of his way, avoiding the unpleasant awkward small talk that they’d have to make, sidestepping with great effort around the elephant in the room.
Birdie felt like a carrier of his disease. People treated her the same way. Like too close a proximity to her might make them contract an illness. They might as well have worn masks to breathe the same air as her, that’s how contaminated she felt.
But it was when the rumors picked up, a swirling mass frothing into a storm, that Birdie knew she had to act. It came over her like instinct. She’d been in the ladies’ bathroom down the hall from Tom’s office. Alone until two other girls came in. She recognized one of the voices almost immediately.
Morgan Wallace.
“What are you going to do?” the other girl asked her. Birdie could hear one of them washing their hands.
“I’m taking it to the president of the university. And if he won’t do anything, I’m going to the news.”
Morgan’s self-assurance in how to handle the situation alarmed Birdie. She had the self-possession of a woman much older. Or perhaps, it was the naiveté of a girl too young to know that the world doesn’t care what happens to women. We would rather they inherit the pain of their mothers than for any of us to examine it in the light.
“That’s a good plan,” the other girl said.
Birdie heard the hand dryer begin to whir. She flushed the toilet and stepped out. Morgan stood alone at the sink, reapplying lip gloss. Her friend had left her there. Perfect.
Morgan stopped mid-stroke with the gloss wand when she saw Birdie’s reflection in the mirror. It was well-known who she was, and tacitly understood where her loyalties lied.
The girl’s face took on a stern expression. My God, Birdie realized. She’s going to fight me on this.
Morgan re-capped the lip gloss and stuffed it into her bag with an impatient shove.
“Can I help you?” Morgan asked. She placed her hands on her hips.
Birdie studied her for a moment. She was so young. Probably nineteen or twenty—a child, really.
“Are you planning on spreading this any further than you already have?” Birdie asked.
Neither of them named the event in question. They both knew what they were talking about.
“I’ll tell whoever I need to,” Morgan said. “What’s wrong? You worried about losing your fellowship?”
Birdie steeled herself for what was about to come out of her mouth. She weighed it for a moment, trying to determine if it was worth it. If the cost to herself was worth the benefit to Tom.
“Morgan,” she said. “I will put this as bluntly as I possibly can.”
Morgan stepped back as Birdie leaned in.
“You need to shut up about whatever it is that you think Dr. Wolsieffer,” she paused, looked at Morgan from top to bottom distastefully, and spat the end of the sentence like a cherry pit to the ground, “did to you.”
Morgan opened her mouth to speak.
Birdie slapped her hard. The sound cracked throughout the bathroom. Morgan’s brown hair followed the involuntary turn of her face. She gasped and reached for her cheek, turning back to face her assailant.
“I will ruin your life if you breathe another word to anyone about this. I mean it, Morgan,” Birdie said. “If you ever want to get a book published, you’ll listen to me on this.” Her voice was quiet, only a shade above a whisper. The slap seemed to reverberate in the space around the pair.
Morgan’s eyes filled with tears. Whether as a physical or emotional response, Birdie
