Author's Note: I do not own anything within the Resident Evil Universe, though I do own Hannah/Annabelle/Melody.

I am new to the world of fanfiction, and this is my first story. It is the first installment of a quartet that I will write, but I really need the reviews and constructive feedback on fleshing out characters, emotions, and action.

Chapter Seven: The Morning After

She woke up to birds singing and Jezebel screaming. Then she remembered her mother's body outside, and the bruises around her neck. Getting up, she walked over the Jezebel who was clasping Edgars and yelling in Spanish. She needed to calm the woman down enough to not call the cops. Once Jezebel had stopped screaming, Annabelle told her and Edgars everything that had conspired in the past twenty four hours.

Jezebel sat in shock, Edgars conveyed no emotion. Annabelle knew what he felt though. Fear. Of her. Annabelle accepted that and turned back to Jezebel.

"I need to know what to do about the bodies," she said to the older woman.

Jezebel looked at her like she was crazy. "What? It's obvious – call the cops, or we will get in trouble."

Firmly Annabelle shook her head. "What would I tell them? Hm?" When Jezebel fell silent Annabelle turned to Edgars.

He did not need to be asked. "Call the mortician. Tell them a terrible accident has occurred. Call The Agency, tell them of the deaths. Say a lab accident killed Master Davenport, and that Mistress Davenport was driven mad with grief over it and killed herself."

Annabelle nodded her thanks, and went to make the appropriate phone calls. She set the funeral for the next day, her parents to be entombed in the mausoleum next to each other as was befitting their imagined rank.

It was hard to act like she was in grief, but for the next twenty four hours she put on the best acting she had ever done even with all the years living under her mother's thumb. Finally the funeral and wake were over. Lawyers were dealt with quickly. She was rich and the only living relative. Lawyers lived for cases like hers, and made sure the estate was tied to her name exclusively, as was the money in her parents ridiculously padded accounts. Within forty-eight hours, it was all settled. Annabelle Davenport was sole mistress of the Davenport estate.

She dismissed Jezebel and Edgars from their positions with enough money to live on for the rest of their lives and enough left over for heirs. There was no need for their presence where she was going.

Annabelle walked into her suite, and packed a few items. The attaché case. The two pairs of jeans Jezebel had sneaked her (she was wearing one pair already), and the few party-ish tops, also courtesy of Jezebel. The woman really had done all she could to give Annabelle as normal an upbringing as possible. Too bad it just did not quite work out. Jezebel was the closest thing to a mother Annabelle ever got. Annabelle did not pack any skirts or dresses. She was done with skirts and dresses.

Her iPod also when into the bag. It was an older one, but it held all the contraband music Jezebel could sneak her. Annabelle hesitated, but decided to pack her journal. Her mother had effectively erased who she was previous to Annabelle. Did she really want to erase Annabelle in favor of whoever she was now?

Grabbing her bag and leaving her room, she went to the photo room. There was only one photo she wanted: the picture of little Hannah playing in the tree. Annabelle smiled and packed that away in her bag. Her wallet and cellular telephone followed the picture into the bag. She put her jacket on, and with a glance at the overcast weather, she grabbed her silver handled umbrella.

Annabelle then walked outside to the taxi cab waiting for her. Making sure she locked the mansion behind her, she slid into the car. She ordered it to go to the closest salon, she did not care which one. Rain droplets hit the window as Annabelle stared outside, watching the world fly by. Soon they were at a little hole in the wall salon that served the small town by her estate. Asking the cabbie to wait for her, and promising a hundred dollar tip, she walked inside.

There were no other customers, so Annabelle was promptly seated in front of a mirror, and a tired looking pale woman asked what she would like for her hair. Annabelle stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were different. They were a lighter brown then what she had when she was little, somewhere between light brown and amber. Exotic, but not impossible. She turned her attention back to the hair stylist.

"Strip it," she said simply. "Blonde is not quite my color." Annabelle pulled the picture of her eight year old self from her bag. "I want this hair again."

The woman scrutinized the old photo, but finally smiling, handing the picture back to Annabelle. For the next hour or so, Annabelle's hair was treated for what she hoped would be the last time. The stylist even matched her eyebrows. When she was done, Annabelle stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked…sultry, exotic, new. As a blonde she looked like a youthful girl, but as a brunette she looked older, more like a woman. The stylist was nodding. "Yes, brunette is much more your color."

Annabelle smiled and handed her five hundred dollars, quietly getting up and leaving the salon.