So Damn Beautiful: Children's Home 5 (So Damn Beautiful, #2): So Damn Beautiful, #2

By A.E. Hodge

Wanted by police after her vigilante crusade through Detroit, Meredith Banks flees the city to continue tracking her son's kidnapper, the dangerously charming psychopath named Christian Morgan. As her detective work ties Christian to a series of missing college girls, Meredith realizes she's only scratched the surface of the horror that lurks behind his beautiful smile.

 

Now afraid that she's up against a serial killer, Meredith needs help. She finds it in Glen Marsden: a surly, sarcastic student whose fiancée was among the missing college girls. Together, they set out toward what they hope is Christian's home: the desert ghost town of Shadebrook, Nevada.

 

But Shadebrook has secrets of its own, from the seedy brothel on the outskirts, to the abandoned orphanage known as Children's Home 5, rumored to be the site of abuse, murder, and human trafficking. As Meredith and Glen search the town to unravel Christian's terrifying past, they're drawn into conflict with powerful criminal forces who will do anything to keep the town's secrets buried—and silence anyone who asks the wrong questions.

 

Thus continues the epic horror-thriller trilogy SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL. The full serial includes:
1. So Damn Beautiful: The Lonely One
2. So Damn Beautiful: Children's Home 5
3. So Damn Beautiful: Lost Sanctum

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiction Fugitive Select
• Release date: Feb 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507039342

Book preview

The Story So Far...

This is the second part and continuation of a serialized novel. The first part, So Damn Beautiful: The Lonely One, is available worldwide in eBook and paperback.

In part one, we meet single mother Meredith Banks, a 31-year-old former model living in Detroit. She works a dead-end job as a legal secretary and struggles to raise her son Troy in the wake of her husband’s death.

When Meredith sleeps with Christian Morgan, a very handsome and charming intern at her law firm, she thinks it’s just a one night stand.

Unbeknownst to her, Christian has much bigger plans.

Meredith’s world is turned upside down when her son Troy abruptly disappears—kidnapped, she suspects, by Christian. She works with a police detective, Antwon Lee, to locate the inner-city apartment where Christian brought her the night they slept together.

Mysteriously, Christian is no longer living there; instead, they find a surly thug named Reggie Green. Though Reggie denies knowing Christian, Meredith suspects he knows more than he’s telling. However, Detective Lee can’t investigate him without evidence. Lee takes Meredith home, telling her to leave the detective work to him.

But Meredith can’t just wait around while Troy is out there. Determined to save her son at all costs, she decides to do some detective work of her own.

Soon she finds herself on a desperate one-woman quest that pits her against the cops, a crime syndicate, and Christian himself—a man she comes to learn is more dangerous than she ever imagined.

A series of daring gambits lands her in the hospital and under scrutiny from Lee and the police, who suspect her of murdering Reggie Green—a crime she committed, but only in self-defense.

She escapes the hospital, one step ahead of the cops, and calls a coworker, Jim Dawson, for help. Jim has a crush on Meredith and she manipulates this to ensure his cooperation. She doesn’t tell him she’s now a wanted murderer. Jim agrees to stay and assist Meredith remotely from Detroit while she flees the city for Colorado.

Her only clue is an email address that Christian’s using, a campus account from a private school in Colorado: the Middleton Heights College of Liberal Arts.

We join Meredith now on a chilly October night, as she makes her way from Denver to Middleton Heights, desperate to find Christian’s trail—and the son she hasn’t seen in nearly a week...

Chapter 1: The Middleton Three

My hair is all I have left.

I realize this as I stand before a chipped, dirty mirror in the bathroom of a Target in Denver, a loop of hair in one hand and a pocket knife in the other.

I know it's silly. I know of all the things I've lost, this will be the least. But it will also be the last; the last part of my identity that remains to me. I've lost my husband and now my son. Left behind my job, my home, every fragile piece that makes up a life. Even my beauty has been stripped away; the face that once graced calendars and fashion ads and drew every eye in the room gazes back at me in ruin, a constellation of bruises, lumps, swollen lips and half-stitched scars.

Only the hair remains—long, luxuriant, a lush and natural cascade of red that ends just below my shoulders.

The first cut is the hardest. My hand trembles as I pull the hair taut and start to saw away, drawing the blade slowly in a line behind my head from ear to ear. Hair falls around me in soft clumps, piling in the sink, dusting the tile floor like red snow.

Next I remove a box of dark Clairol dye from one of my shopping bags. I mix the solution in the bottle and work it through my hair with my bare hands. Afterward I clear out the sink, shoving wads of hair in the empty shopping bag while I wait for the color to set.

In ten minutes I rinse out the dye, change into my new clothes—a scarf, a coat, a purple turtle-neck, blue jeans, and cheap sunglasses—then I look in the mirror again.

And Meredith Banks is gone.

On the way out I shove Reggie Green’s stinking jacket in the trash, along with the other clothes I wore out of Detroit, now permanently soiled to me.

Hey, Ms. Wayne. It’s Bat Cave. Did you make it?

Not yet. I’m on my way out from Denver.

Now I’m sitting in the backseat of a taxi, heading up a switchback road carved from the sheer black mountains. The night is dark and starless. The road is a terrifying nightmare of hairpin turns, almost too narrow for two cars to pass. There’s no shoulder, often not even a guard rail, with nothing beyond but a thousand foot drop. The dark valleys glimmer with scattered houses and settlements, like stars where Earth should be.

What time is it there? Jim asks through a yawn. His voice is tinny and thin through the burner phone, a thousand miles away.

Eleven.

It’s almost one here, he says, with a hint of irritation. I thought you were gonna call and check in?

Sorry, I tell him, the words as empty as I feel. I guess it slipped my mind.

I’ve been trying all night to get a lead on this email address, says Jim. "MSwan2, right? I can’t find anything. Tried reverse look-up, got nothing. Tried changing the password, don’t know his security questions. Don’t worry, I stopped before it locked me out. Christian won’t know a thing. Called the Registrar’s Office, too, at the school. Even pretended to be an employer with his resume. They wouldn’t even confirm if he was ever enrolled without a warrant. Wish I’d known that when I was job-hunting. I could’ve been a Middleton man myself."

His levity falls on deaf ears. So we got nothing, I say flatly.

There’s an Orientation tour on campus tomorrow morning. Might be a good chance to get your bearings. You’re gonna have to find the Registrar’s Office and get Christian’s records in person.

You think they’ll give them to me?

We don’t have much choice. I mean, you might be able to ask around, find someone who remembers him. But those records will be the mother lode. If you can get your hands on them, they’ll have his address, his social, everything.

"Right. If I can get my hands on them."

Silence follows. In the back of the taxi, I can see my dim reflection in the passenger side mirror. My hair now is a dark chestnut brunette, cut in a crooked bob. My face, a stranger’s face, is concealed beneath a hood and behind sunglasses, even now in black of night.

By the way, Jim says. I checked on your house for you. No sign of Troy. Do you want me to leave a note for him or anything?

No! I didn’t ask you to do that. You’re just risking police attention.

What if he comes back while you’re gone? I know it’s an off-chance, but...

He won’t, I say, with no intonation. After seeing the video Christian showed me in my car, I know there’s no hope of that; Christian has my son, somewhere, and unless I find him, Troy will never come home again.

Jim hesitates. This might be a dumb question, but is everything all right? You seem more upset than you were. He pauses. Is there anything else you need to tell me?

Where to begin? That I’m wanted by Detroit PD not for leaving the scene of an accident, but for homicide? That Reggie Green raped me before I killed him? That Christian’s obsessed with me because we slept together after Jim’s own birthday party, and now—

Everything has consequences, Ms. Wayne.

No, I say quickly. Sorry, I’m okay. Just... stressed out.

I catch the driver’s eyes on me in the rearview mirror. He looks away quickly and I adjust my sunglasses.

I know. It’s okay, Jim consoles me. We’re gonna find him, all right? I promise. Just find a motel, get some rest, and in the morning, go get those records. And stay out of trouble, okay?

Shortly after midnight, after a ride of nearly two hours, the taxi passes a green sign that reads WELCOME TO MIDDLETON HEIGHTS. The road abruptly levels out and widens into Main Street, lined with tall old row houses and cars parallel parked underneath.

The driver makes another turn, and we arrive at my destination: the High Comfort Motel, the only motel in Middleton Heights. It’s a squat, L-shaped building with two stories, a deck wrapping around the upper level. I pay the driver his outrageous fare and he departs with a last curious look in my direction.

The last room available is a double—orientation tours at the school evidently fill every vacancy—so I end up paying fifty bucks for two beds, neither of which I expect to need. I expect anxiety and worry to keep me up all night; but I haven’t slept, really slept, in days. As soon as my body sinks down into the motel mattress, my mind sinks out the back of my head, to some deep place where not even dreams penetrate.

* * *

Welcome to MHCLA. My name’s Jessie, and I’ll be your guide for today’s orientation.

Jessie is a tiny young woman with long, bottle-black hair and sleepy blue eyes. Her doll-like face is pale and pretty, but absent of make-up or expression. She faces the group of prospective students on the sidewalk, her hands in the pockets of her olive green trench coat.

Feel free to ask me any questions you might have. Her voice seems to grow more bored and monotone with every word. And I’ll do my best to take them seriously. Let’s get started.

Jessie leads the tour group down a sidewalk toward the buildings and lecture halls at the campus center. To one side of the footpath, past a small man-made pond, stands the campus library, an impressive old building made of stone and timber; to the other side is a field that seems to drop off sharply in the distance, giving way to a panorama of blue sky and foggy snow-capped mountaintops.

The tour group is composed of fifteen or twenty high school kids, each with at least one parental chaperone. Everyone is bundled in coats and hats by Abercrombie or American Apparel. As Jessie pauses to discuss the library, the kids snap photos on their smartphones and the parents fuss and coo.

No one seems to notice the tall, silent woman who lingers at the back of the group, too old to be a student, too young to be a parent. If anyone looked closely, peered under the hood of her off-brand winter coat, they’d see ragged stitches and bloody adhesive bandages on a bruised and milk-pale face. They’d see the snarl of a split and swollen lip. They’d see green eyes set in dark circles under thick sunglasses, and they might rightly wonder if this woman belongs here at all.

But no one sees this ghost of a woman, stumbling along behind the group; and for the most part, the ghost sees no one, either. She’s as lost to the world as the high school seniors with their noses buried in their phones.

The ghost woman is Meredith Banks.

The ghost woman is me.

I have to keep reminding myself, because everything has begun to feel unreal; not only the world, but myself, my own personhood. It feels like I’m not even here. Like this is all happening to someone else, some poor sap named Meredith who isn’t me. If only that were true.

But everything has consequences.

My name is Meredith Banks. My son Troy was kidnapped by Christian Morgan, and I’m here on this campus to track them both down. This is all that matters in the world. Everything else—

Consequences

—must be put away, like canned preserves, to be dusted off and opened and inspected in time, but not now.

I hope you all found the campus okay, Jessie says in her deadpan manner. She sounds like she’s repeating by rote from a memorized script. Her light blue eyes look almost as dead as mine. I’m sure you noticed we’re a bit remote. The whole town of Middleton Heights rests on a shelf, high in the Sawatch Range, one of the tallest in the Rockies. The road’s actually closed seasonally, from late November to around April, or whenever we thaw out. So we kinda have our own culture up here. You get used to it. And the views are incredible...

The tour enters a concrete plaza between several tall brick academic buildings. This is Central Avenue. Most of your courses will take place here. Dining Hall and ATM is up that way. This white building is Administration...

I clear my throat and interrupt in a voice rough with disuse. Is the Registrar’s Office in there? Where they keep student records?

Jessie looks through the crowd at me with a skeptical expression, as if I appeared in their midst out of nowhere. A few of the nearest kids and parents turn my way, too, and I look down before anyone sees my face.

Yeah, says Jessie. "Registrar, IDs, records. Pretty much anything to do with, you know, administration. Now, over here we have the Chemistry Building..."

As the tour group mills on, I drop back, pretending to look at my phone. Then, tugging my hood down to make sure my face is hidden, I slip across the courtyard to the tall, white-bricked Admin building with its rows of dark mirrored windows.

Inside, I find a small, bright lobby with a polished tile floor. A few lone reading desks line the walls, but there are no people, and only one security camera on the ceiling, above the door. Along the back wall are two elevators and a set of double doors to what seems to be a lecture hall, judging by the low murmur of an orating professor inside. Near the elevators I find a building directory that tells me the Registrar’s Office is on Level 3.

A moment later the elevator door opens and I step out on the third floor.

The hallway stretches off to either side, toward faculty offices and restrooms around the corner. Directly across from the elevator is a door with a window of semi-opaque privacy glass, under a sign labeled Registrar.

I take a deep breath. Then I open the door.

Beyond is an empty waiting room, lined with chairs, like a dentist’s office. A young male receptionist stirs at the front desk, putting down a book by Plato he appeared to be nodding off into. The boy is white, vaguely Hispanic. His hair is buzzed to the same height as the five o’clock shadow strapped from ear to ear over his chin. He wears wire-framed glasses and a dress shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal a thin, hairless chest.

He sighs, Can I help you? Then he actually looks up and sees me, in my hood and sunglasses, and his thick eyebrows rise. Or is this a robbery? he adds mildly.

I feel my cheeks redden. Abandoning my disguise, I push back my hood and force a smile. Hello. I’m trying to get a copy of my permanent record?

He scans my battered face with the faintest curiosity. Okay. What’s your name?

Christian Morgan, I answer, hoping my confidence preempts any questions.

Nodding, he spins his chair toward a computer on the desk and starts to type. Kristin Morgan...

"No, Christian. The receptionist raises an eyebrow. I shrug. My parents were religious, and they wanted a boy."

I don’t see it, either way. You got an appointment?

I look at the empty waiting room. Do I need one?

He adjusts his glasses, unamused. "What exactly do you need?"

Repeating it makes me lose some of my nerve. "Just my student record. Anything filed under Christian Morgan."

And when do you need it by?

Today. Right now.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now let me ask you this. Do you think I just bend over and pull the records out of my ass or something? Are you aware they invented this thing called an appointment for just such an occasion?"

At first his belligerence shocks me. Then I clench my teeth. Isn’t it just some file you need to pull? I can do it myself if I have to.

The boy snorts a laugh. "You wish. It’s supposed to be on the cloud. He waggles his fingers and rolls his eyes. But for the time being, it’s probably right here."

He pats something under the counter. I lean forward to see a desktop computer down there. He twists his mouth at me as he continues, "Only, it’s not in organized little folders or anything like that. Somebody took all the records, scanned everything in as images, and dumped it on the hard drive. Thousands of individual JPEGs. The filenames are just numbers, randomly assigned by the scanner. And nothing was in order. And they expect me to go through this shit and organize it! Then we got people like you demanding files every hour of every day..."

Finally he stops, frowning at me. I blink back at him, surprised. Where are the original paper files? I ask.

He shrugs. Shredded, probably, or mixed up in a box somewhere. Hell if I know. Not my job. Now if you want me to put you down for an appointment next week, I’ll move you to the top of the backlog...

Next week! I can’t wait that long. The way forward is closing like a snare. I lean over the counter, forcing an ingratiating smile and a soft, feminine voice. "Isn’t there anything we can do? Please. I could really use some help."

Tilting his head, the boy stares at me like I’m some exotic creature at the zoo. Then he laughs lightly. "Are you seriously coming on to me now? I thought you just looked like a beat-up crack whore. Are you one for real?"

I can feel the heat rising in my face. I should’ve known that would backfire, the way I look. "No, I’m not coming on to you! How about I talk to your manager?"

He shrugs, hinting at a smile. "Sure. She’s at lunch. Can I make you an appointment? Oh, and by the way, how about I see a little ID? Miss Christian Morgan?"

I hate the way he’s smiling, almost challenging me to respond. It reminds me of Christian, which only makes me angrier, more flustered. I don’t know what to say or do. Grinding my teeth, I turn and walk out without another word, slamming the door to get his smirk off my back.

Outside the Registrar’s office, I stand in the hallway, catching my breath and glaring through a bulletin board, pinned with campus newsletters and flyers.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

As if in answer, something catches my eye: a small red fire alarm on the wall by the bulletin board.

I hesitate for a moment. Jim’s voice echoes in my ear: Stay out of trouble, okay? But I seem to be out of options. I have nowhere else to go, no other clues to follow. Without Christian’s records—a phone number, an address, some clue to where he’s keeping Troy—I’m dead in the water.

So I lift the hood over my face to conceal my identity, and casually pull the fire alarm.

Instantly the overhead lights become flashing orange strobes and a piercing siren fills my head. I pad down the hallway in my sneakers, dart into the women’s bathroom, and hide inside a closed stall. Crouched atop the toilet, I hug my backpack and count slowly to one hundred.

Minutes later, I stalk out of the bathroom and down the empty hall under deafening alarms. The door of the Registrar’s office hangs open, and when I peer inside, the boy at reception is gone; there’s no one in sight.

I don’t know how much time I have. I close the door and vault over the reception desk, knocking down the chair in my haste.

But when I turn to the computer, a login prompt greets me. The boy locked the system before he left.

I type a few random password guesses—password, prick, asshole—and the prompt warns that I’ll be locked out after two more attempts.

Shit! The sirens absorb my curse. I clutch my head, grind my teeth. Think! The desktop lights blink mockingly. Come hell or high water, I’m not leaving without the files.

Next thing I know, I’m lugging the entire computer tower across the third floor hallway, wrestling to open the stairwell door without dropping the thing. The desktop must weigh fifty pounds, so bulky I can barely wrap my arms around it. Cables trail behind me down the concrete stairwell, the sirens even louder in the confined space.

On the first floor, I shove through the stairwell door and nearly crash into some young guy with a lip piercing. He stares at me as I emerge into the lobby and I avert my gaze, trying to look at no one. I walk as calmly as I can to the exit, losing myself amidst the few students still milling out of the building. As I approach the glass doors, I glance up from under my hood at the security camera, wondering how absurd this will look when they review the tapes.

Then I’m through into cold, cloudy daylight, clutching the stolen computer in a bear hug and gasping for breath, my ears ringing. The other occupants of the building stand around in the courtyard, clustered in groups. I don’t pause for a moment, but keep trudging off in the building’s shadow, hood up and head down. My heart is pounding and I expect someone to stop me at any moment.

But the blank-faced students milling past seem dead to the world, their ears plugged up with white iPod earbuds. I catch only a few wayward glances as I trundle along the sidewalk, past athletic fields, dorms, and parking lots. By the time I hit Blue Jay Way, the road leading on and off campus, there are no other pedestrians. A light October snow begins to fall, mixed with rain. It obscures me from the cars passing by, so I don’t mind. When headlights pass, I turn my face away.

By the time I reach the High Comfort Motel, my arms ache from lugging the desktop tower nearly a mile. In the parking lot, I trip over a parking block and nearly drop the damn thing altogether. My eyes and nose are running and my cheeks sting with wind-chap as I lurch the final yards, up the slick staircase to the door of my room.

For a double, the room is tiny, dominated by the narrow twin beds. The bedspread and furniture are cheap and tacky, no doubt purchased in bulk from some industrial supplier. It looks like a life-size doll house; the illusion