Page 3 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

Neither Ken Carpenternor I speak for the duration of the drive. There’s really no point. Neither of us is comfortable enough with the other and small talk is annoying so I don’t even bother to attempt it.

As we pull through downtown Eastpoint, as far from the university as possible without leaving the city itself, I finally spot Thomas Kincaid’s office building. Tall and cloaked in windows, it looks like a sharp broken shard of glass jutting up from the ground. I’ve never actually been here before, but I recognize it from my mother’s descriptions.

Mr. Carpenter parks the town car and together, we make our way inside. It’s only when I’m standing in the center of a private elevator, under the icy blast of the air conditioner, and surrounded by the smooth metal and tile walls, that the anxiety finally starts to hit me.

It amazes me how I can stand here, completely whole on the outside when my insides feel shredded to pieces. My mind riots and rebels. Confusion enters and fogs over all rational thought.

She’s really dead.

I’ve cried. I’ve sobbed. I’ve believed it. I saw the casket and the priest. I wore—am still wearing—the black dress. But why … now? Why does it truly hit me now? Is it more? Something else? Is it … Luc? Thinking I’ll be losing him after this meeting?

Before I can find the answer, the elevator doors slide open and Ken Carpenter steps out, turning back expectantly. My eyes fall on the rows of buttons with floor numbers on them. My instincts tell me to run. They tell me that I should just jam my finger against the bottom one and let the doors close. Whatever lies beyond this elevator in those offices can’t be anything good. I need to go back. Find Luc. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him that I love him.

I can’t…

“Miss Michaels?” Mr. Carpenter’s voice is tinged with irritation. “Come along.”

And like that, as if I’m a puppet on a set of strings held completely by someone else, I step out of the elevator and let the doors close behind me. He turns and I follow. Each movement feels like I’m being dragged along, but there’s no stopping it.

Why am I doing this?I ask myself, but again, there’s no answer. My heart thuds faster the second I enter a wide and mostly barren office that overlooks the massive city of Eastpoint. The windows are so clean and free of smudges that it feels like I’m staring at a high-definition television screen. In the distance, I can spot the top of the University’s tallest building.

Sitting behind the glass desk that matches the rest of the monotone surroundings, facing the door, is Thomas Kincaid. He lifts his head as he sits back against his chair. His eyes find mine and then slowly travel down. Swallowing around a suddenly dry throat, I barely resist the urge to grip the hem of my black pleated skirt and tug it towards my knees. I close my hands into fists and come to a stop several feet behind the two chairs stationed in front of his desk.

“You may go, Ken,” Thomas Kincaid says with a wave of his hand. Ken Carpenter nods, bows slightly like he’s addressing royalty, and then disappears out of the office, shutting the door behind him as he goes—leaving me alone with what feels like a hungry predator.

“Please have a seat, MiKayla.” Thomas’ voice is level. There’s no hint as to what he’s brought me here to talk about. I take a seat in the right chair, the one that’s the furthest pushed back from the edge of his desk—a small rebellion, but one nonetheless. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here,” he continues.

I stare back at him without speaking. This whole meeting feels like something out of a movie script. I’m just waiting to hear how he’s sorry to have to tell me, but I can’t continue living with his son. It’ll hurt, I know, but I expect it. Maybe expecting it won’t make it hurt as bad?

“Now that Adina has passed, I’ve been put in an awkward position,” he states.

Here it comes.I suck in a breath and hold it, waiting.

“I think it would be easier to show you rather than tell you,” Thomas Kincaid says. I blink, frowning as, instead of telling me that a Child Protective Services agent will be here soon, he slides a folder across the desk towards me.

When I don’t immediately reach for it, he touches the edge of the folder and arches a brow. “Open it, MiKayla.”

With shaky hands, I reach forward, scooting to the edge of the seat to reach the folder and papers inside. Propping it up on my lap with the spine between my legs, I open it and read the first page.

The words are clear in black and white print, but the content doesn’t make any sense. I turn the page, reading further. My fingers begin to tremble. My breath squeezes out of my chest. My stomach churns.

“What … is this?” I finally ask.

“I think you know what it is, MiKayla.” Every time he’s said my name thus far, I’ve ignored it, but I hate it. I shoot a look back to his face. He says my name like it’s something he has the right to, like it’s something he owns. “It’s a contract. If you’ll look to the last page, you’ll recognize the signature.”

I do and find my mom’s awkward scrawl on the bottom most line, along with the date—marked nearly a year before. “She…” The numbers written at various intervals throughout the pages grow as I flip it back and forth.

“She had a lot of debt,” Thomas states. “And as a way to pay back that debt, your mother sold herself to me.”

“You were dating…” I say, knowing how innocent and naive it sounds even to my own ears. “She said—”

“Your mother was a partner,” Thomas interrupts. “She knew the deal she made when she approached me. I’m sure she didn’t want you to worry. As a father myself, I understand the desire to keep children out of certain parts of their parents’ life. They don’t need to know all that goes on behind closed doors.”

I don’t know what to say to that. There’s nothing Icansay. He continues. “She had a love for finer things, and I didn’t mind taking on her debt and providing those things for her as long as she was capable of taking care of my needs.”

“Your needs…” Disgust fills me at his meaning, but there’s no denying the contents of this contract. This isn’t a contract at all … it’s a fucking receipt from buying someone, a person. My mother was bought and if I’m reading these pages correctly … I was too.

“I can see you understand what this means, MiKayla,” Thomas says. “Unfortunately, though she’s no longer with us, the debt remains.”

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