Twisted (19 page)

Bex shoved her hands in her back pockets and smiled. “Is there anything you’re not cool about?”

“Narwhals,” he deadpanned. “They don’t get the respect they deserve.”

Bex rolled her eyes as she and Trevor strolled away from the school and toward the football field, where they slid onto the lowest bench on the bleachers. Trevor took both of her hands in his, his eyes soft.

“Seriously, you can tell me whatever you want, Bex. Or you don’t have to tell me anything. I mean, I want to know everything about you. But only if you’re cool with that. There’s nothing you can say that’s going to make me think less of you.”

“Unless it’s something derogatory about narwhals.”

Trevor nodded solemnly. “Well, obviously.”

Bex stared at the toes of her Converse sneakers tapping against the bleacher floor. She shot Trevor a sidelong glance, taking in the slant of his nose, the way his chin poked out just slightly. Behind him, Kill Devil Hills High looked like any other high school anywhere in the world: kids were milling around, and there were streamers and GO BIG RED! posters plastered all over the exterior wall of the gym. There was nothing different about the scene, and Bex was a part of it. For the first time she could remember, she was part of something normal. And she was about to ruin it. As much as she wanted to shrug off her father and Detective Schuster and just kiss Trevor and go to prom and forget about anything else, there was one other poster on the gym wall that gnawed at her: the grinning picture of Darla, the letters
R
.
I
.
P
. emblazoned across the front of her cheerleading uniform.

“You know—do you remember when we were kids, there was a serial killer out in Raleigh?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You mean the Wife Collector? He’s, like, local legend there.”

Bex kept her eyes on her toes. “He’s real. Everything he did… It was real.”

“Okay…” Trevor drew out the word.

“The man they accused of being the Wife Collector had a daughter, you know. A young daughter.” Bex’s heart slammed against her rib cage. She tried to keep her breathing steady and even, but it was like her insides wanted to implode.

Bex couldn’t bring herself to look up. She was sure that if she did, Trevor would be gone, a trail of smoke and laughter behind him as he ran to tell Chelsea and Laney and the rest of the school that Bex Andrews was a lying freak. She didn’t want to see the hate and disgust on his face, the way his lip would curl if he spat on her or slapped her. If the Wife Collector was her father, what did that make Bex?

Trevor was silent for a beat that seemed to stretch on for a year.

“I think I remember reading that. Talk about a kid who’s going to need some serious therapy.”

A stabbing pain arched through Bex. “You mean because she’s probably psycho too.”

Trevor shrugged, considering. “Not necessarily. But if you found out your dad was a murderer, don’t you think that’d mess you up, even a little?” He held her eyes and she wasn’t sure if he was asking her or challenging her. She wanted to sputter out the whole truth, who she was, because even if Trevor ran from her, it would be better than the lie she was living. If she was truly the Wife Collector’s daughter, it would always be a stain on her soul. Therapy couldn’t fix her. She would never be normal. But either way, she was the daughter of the man who was accused of committing those crimes.

“I guess.”

“So?” Trevor’s sneaker slid toward her, then lightly kicked her toe. She glanced up and he reached out to lightly stroke her cheek. “You’re not the kind of girl who needs a ton of therapy, baby.”

Bex wanted to cry. Or run. She’d thought that telling Trevor the truth might peel the weight from her shoulders and maybe he would understand. Except she knew that everything she feared about the way people thought of her as Beth Anne Reimer—messed up, in need of help—was true. She may be Bex Andrews now, but she was still the accused Wife Collector’s daughter. Tears played at the edges of her eyes, and Bex was far too tired to try to stop them when they overflowed and rolled down her cheeks.

“Why are you crying?” Trevor jammed his hands in his pockets and fished out a brown Starbucks napkin. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Bex, are you scared of something? Are you scared of that killer coming here?”

She silently shook her head, took the napkin, and blew her nose. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why I started to talk about it.”

“I’d like to believe it’s because you trust me.” His hand found hers. “And hopefully because you know that I love you.”

The air was sucked out of Bex’s lungs. She stared at Trevor, stunned. He squeezed her hands.

“Bex?”

“Did you just—?”

No. She had heard wrong. Trevor didn’t love her. No one did. She was unlovable. She was the daughter of an alleged murderer, and that blood—that horrifying blood—flowed through her veins, so no one could love her. No one should. No one could ever know—not Trevor, not Chelsea or Laney, not Michael or Denise. Even her own father didn’t love her to fight for her.

“Did I just say that I love you?” Trevor nodded. “Yeah, I did. I do.”

Bex knew she should talk. Acknowledge him somehow. Tell him that she loved him too, because she really thought she did. But all she could do was open her mouth, then close it again dumbly. She was the child of a
murderer
, and this good, decent guy didn’t know that and now he thought he loved her. He
said
he loved her. But he didn’t really know her.

“Did you want to tell me something else, Bex?”

Trevor’s eyes were intense and drew Bex in. They were gorgeous but at the same time terrifying. The sun broke though the clouds, and she squinted in the light. When the sun was bright enough, you couldn’t see the darkness, but the second the wind changed, the clouds shifted and the gloom was there again. That was the story of her life.

“Um, just that I love you too.”

Bex shifted the weight of her backpack from one shoulder to the other. The coffeehouse was populated with a half dozen people who didn’t look up when Bex walked in and Lauren, looking especially out of place in her boho chic dress and flats. She waved when she saw Bex, and Bex’s stomach dropped. Now she couldn’t disappear back out onto the street and pretend that Lauren never existed.

“I was afraid you weren’t going to come,” Lauren said.

Bex nodded curtly and offered her a soft smile. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t totally sure either. This is…”

“Weird. I get it.” Lauren pushed out a chair for Bex, who sat quickly.

“But thank you so much for talking to me again. I don’t really know what I’m hoping for, just…” Lauren looked out the window, watching the waves crash, her blond hair standing out like a golden halo around her head. “I guess I’m weird. Or obsessed. I… You probably wouldn’t understand.”

Curious, Bex leaned forward. “Try me.”

“It’s just that my life was very different. Growing up, people either pitied me or feared me. I mean, not only was I the girl whose mother was killed by the Wife Collector, but my mother was the one who made him a bona fide serial killer.”

Bex dug her teeth into her lower lip. She knew what Lauren meant: a killer was just a killer until at least his third kill. Then he was a
serial
killer. Bex felt the acid burning through her gut.

“Her picture was in the paper all the time. And her story…” Lauren shook her head and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I swear I’ve heard every iteration of it. Some of them say my mom was a dedicated young wife and mother; others say she was loose and practically a prostitute.”

“What?”

“My dad… He was pretty abusive. I don’t really remember much, but I remember being scared. My mother was trying to leave him. She had taken me with her, and we were living in an apartment. People said my mother was cheating and that’s why she left. She didn’t say anything. I guess in her mind being thought of as a cheater was less humiliating than being a domestic violence victim. Your dad started coming around. Just once, maybe twice to the apartment.”

Bex swallowed down the lump in her throat, the urge to protest.

“You’re sure it was him?”

Lauren nodded.

Suddenly, Bex blurted, “Did you know Detective Schuster?”

“Schuster?” Lauren frowned, then pressed a piece of her hair between her lips. “I think so.”

Bex felt her eyes widen. “Did your mom know him too? Before she met my dad?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Think!” Bex’s voice was louder than expected and Lauren sat up with a start. “Sorry, Lauren. Just—do you remember?”

She shook her head. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t meet the detective until late—wait.” She paused, her eyes getting a faraway look in them. “He knocked on the door. He was going door to door with another guy, and they talked to my mom about coming to some kind of meeting.”

“A community meeting to talk about public safety and the murders.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Bex’s heart started to thud.

Always be watching, Bethy.

She felt the adrenaline flood her muscles, making them tight and hot. “I think…I think there might be a possibility that the police got the wrong man.”

Lauren blinked. “What?”

“What if—”

“I saw him, Bex. I saw your dad. He came over to the house.”

“So did Detective Schuster.”

Bex could see Lauren’s face fall. She blinked, trying to hold back tears. “No, Bex. The detective was helping.”

But Bex wasn’t dissuaded.

“What’s up, party people?”

Both Bex’s and Lauren’s heads snapped toward Chelsea as she dragged a chair up to their table and plopped down, grin on her face, phone in her hand. “I don’t know you,” she said to Lauren. “I’m Chelsea.”

Lauren stared blankly at Chelsea’s outstretched hand and then at Bex. “I…” She stood up quickly. “I need to get going.”

Bex and Chelsea watched Lauren speed walk to the door, Bex’s gaze following Lauren across the parking lot and into her little black Honda Civic.

“Pleasant lady,” Chelsea said. “Friend of yours?”

Bex chewed her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”

• • •

Bex got home just as Denise was tying Michael into an apron. He clapped a pair of tongs at Bex and grinned. “I’m making my famous charbroiled burgers tonight, Bexy Boo. Up for helping?”

“Don’t you mean charcoaled, dear?” Denise cocked an eyebrow, shooting Bex a wicked smile. “You hungry?”

Bex couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but it was the last thing on her mind. She patted her stomach. “Actually, Chelsea and I just came from getting coffee. I’ve got a latte and a muffin sloshing around in here.” She turned and headed for the stairs before Denise or Michael could say anything. “Maybe in a little bit.”

She knew that Denise and Michael must have shared a slightly worried-looking glance. But they weren’t her parents. Bex jogged into her bedroom and slid her computer onto her lap, throwing on her headphones and bypassing the home-page images of pretty blonds and shallow graves as she went directly to Forums, searching for GAMECREATOR.

Hi, Dad. You OK?

It seemed like less than a second that her father typed back.

Good, just gathering some information.

She imagined her dad in some nondescript motel room, stretched out on some god-awful bedspread with pages and newspaper clippings all around him as he diligently pieced together the time line and clues that would prove his innocence. Then, she would appear in court with them and they’d have a father-daughter movie montage of tears and hugs when he was finally vindicated and Detective Schuster was led away in chains. People would send letters to their house apologizing for treating Bex so poorly or saying that they’d always believed in her father’s innocence. Maybe even Michael and Denise would be at the courthouse…

Bex felt a slight pinch of guilt when she thought about Michael and Denise downstairs cooking dinner without her, when she thought about leaving them to move back in with her father. But at the same time, she got a hollow-stomached feeling when she thought of sharing breakfast with her dad for the first time in ten years, seeing him across the breakfast table, making a life together. Just a regular dad and his regular daughter.

“Bex!” Michael’s call came from downstairs. “We got burgers and your buddies down here!”

Her fingers shot across the keyboard.

Friends are here, Dad. School project for lame Back to School Night on Friday! Talk to you later!

She waited for him to write her back. When he did—
Have fun, xoxo Love, Dad
—Bex could feel a big grin pushing up her cheeks.

“Well, isn’t someone bouncy?” Denise asked when Bex came downstairs.

“Dude, your dad makes some killer burgers!” Laney said, holding up a half-eaten one.

Bex felt her eyebrows ride up, and Denise nudged Michael. “I may have suggested a cooking tip or two.”

Chelsea dropped a handful of potato chips onto her burger patty and smashed the bun with the palm of her hand, the chips crunching underneath. She took a bite that bulged her cheeks.

“I have no idea how you eat like that and never gain an ounce,” Bex said, sliding into a chair.

“She’s super-active. Texting and running away from her mother,” Laney said.

Michael helped himself to a second burger while sliding one on Bex’s plate. “Why are you running away from your mother?” he asked Chelsea.

“Cell phone bill,” Chelsea with her mouth full. “She says I text too much.”

“It’s her new boyfriend.”

Bex sat up. “I didn’t know you have a new boyfriend.”

Chelsea pointed a chip at her. “You would have known if we ever saw you anymore. Even at school you’re, like, in la-la land.”

Denise and Michael exchanged a look, and Laney put her hands out. “But Bex is totally fixated on school, I promise.”

“You’re not giving away any secrets, Laney. Denise and I are both going to Back to School Night. We’ll be scrutinizing Bex’s teachers and learning about this la-la land of which you speak.”

“Well, spill, Chels. Who’s the new guy?” Bex clapped a hand to her forehead. “Ohmigosh, is it Brenden? You’ve been crushing hard on him since I met you.”

Chelsea looked disgusted. “It is
not
Brenden. He acts like a toddler.”

“I can’t think of anyone else I’ve seen you with at school lately.”

“He doesn’t go to KDH.”

Denise stood up, collecting Michael’s plate and then hers. “Come on, hon. Let’s give the girls a chance to talk.”

Michael looked wounded but stood up anyway. “Don’t we get to know about Chelsea’s new beau?”

“The fact that you used the term ‘beau’ should answer that question.” Denise looked over her shoulder, winking at Bex. “We’ll be upstairs. Make sure you get your project done, and, Bex, don’t stay up too late.”

Once Michael and Denise were safely out of earshot, Laney leaned forward. “Your parents are so cool.”

But Bex barely heard her, mentally calculating how long it would take to make the posters for Back to School Night, how long it would take before she could get back online to talk to her father. Maybe by now he had come up with more information about Schuster or a plan on how to catch him. Maybe he could even come to Back to School Night if…

“Bex!” Chelsea snapped her fingers. “You’re not even listening to me.”

Bex blinked. “I totally am. Was.”

“Then what did I say?”

Bex frowned. “That Laney should start opening the paints?”

Chelsea rolled her eyes. “I was talking about Dan. Danny.” She brushed her long hair back, sweeping it up into a high ponytail. “Now you don’t get to know.”

“No. Danny… I totally heard you.”

“Can we just get to work on these things, please?” Laney looked annoyed. “It’s bad enough we have to waste an entire Friday night standing around handing out that nasty orange punch to our parents while our teachers bad-mouth us. I don’t want to lose a whole other night on these things.”

“I’m pretty sure teachers don’t bad-mouth the straight-A students, Lane.” Bex grinned, then glanced down at her phone. A text message from Detective Schuster:
Please get in touch.

A wave of anger burned through her. Schuster wasn’t her father. He was… She wanted to call him no one, but that wasn’t true. Schuster was the man who had taken her father away from her, who had taken daughters away from several fathers. Bex was pulled back into the courtroom all those years ago when one of the victim’s fathers had wanted her to stay in the room, yelling, “She should have to see what he done to my little girl.”

A lump, hard anger and sadness, sat in Bex’s gut. Schuster had been sitting right there in that courtroom when shame and bewilderment had exploded through seven-year-old Bex. He hadn’t flinched. He hadn’t cared. He was a monster.

It was almost midnight when Bex stood the posters up in her garage to dry and Laney and Chelsea went home. Though sleep was pushing her eyelids closed, Bex pulled her computer into her lap after washing her face and brushing her teeth. She went to the Forum page, waited for GAMECREATOR to find her. He didn’t.

IMHIM_HESME did.

IMHIM_HESME: Hi there.

Bex ignored the message, scrolling through her last chat with her father. IMHIM_HESME popped up again.

IMHIM_HESME: Are you there?

IMHIM_HESME: Beth Anne?

Bex blew out a sigh and started to type.

BETHANNER: I’m logging off.

IMHIM_HESME: WAIT. Please.

BETHANNER: Good night.

IMHIM_HESME: You’re not safe.

BETHANNER: Go away.

IMHIM_HESME: You have to listen to me.

Bex knew she should just log off, stop typing, and shut the laptop. But something bothered her and she typed on.

BETHANNER: I don’t even know who you are.

IMHIM_HESME: A friend.

BETHANNER: Sure you are. Bye.

IMHIM_HESME: I promise. Talk to me.

BETHANNER: Blocking you now.

IMHIM_HESME: Then someone you love is going to die.