Twisted (15 page)

“Are you going to be okay?” Laney asked when she pulled into Bex’s driveway.

“Yeah,” Bex said, waving at the air. “You’re probably right. It was probably just some dumb prank.”

“We can stay here if you want us to,” Chelsea said as they got out of the car.

But Bex wanted them to leave. She’d wanted them to leave the second she saw Beth Anne Reimer’s Missing photo. It wasn’t a coincidence. Someone wasn’t just playing around. Beth Anne Reimer had never gone missing. Whoever had stuck the posters on Bex’s car knew who she was and had spent the time creating Beth Anne’s poster. The thought burned a hole low in Bex’s gut and she chewed the inside of her lip, going through a mental contacts list.

Had Zach found out who she was, and the posters were his reality-show way of making her admit it? Did Detective Schuster think she needed an extra nudge to cooperate? Had someone on the Forum figured out who she was and where she lived? Bex shivered, the last possibility driving a knife-sharp icicle into the center of her heart. Was it her father, playing some kind of sick game?

“You guys should go,” Bex said quickly. “I mean before it gets super late.”

She wanted them to get in Laney’s car and drive for as long and as far as they possibly could. She wanted them to drive out of Kill Devil Hills, out of the last weeks of her life. She wanted her friends to be out of danger. Again, the image of Darla on the beach floated back to her, and Bex shuddered.

“Only if you’re sure,” Laney said carefully.

“She’s fine, Lane. It was a bunch of stupid posters. Paper can’t hurt her. Unless it’s a paper cut, and those things can hurt like—”

Laney grabbed Chelsea by the arm. “We’ll go.”

Bex let herself into the house, slowly creaking the door open and looking around like a criminal. She felt as though she were a trespasser in her own home.
No,
that horrible voice whispered,
your home is with your father.

Once she was in her bedroom, Bex glanced at her laptop, pinching her upper lip.

“I tried,” she whispered to herself. “He’s not looking for me.”

Or maybe Detective Schuster had been wrong all along about her father, and he didn’t really kill all those women. Maybe her father fled because he was innocent. Maybe Zach had discovered who she was and just wanted a great story. Bex was nodding her head as hope swelled inside her. Maybe everything had just gotten turned around, and Bex—Beth Anne, rather—could have a real and regular life with a father and a mother and a home and without the need to lie. Maybe…

“Phone,” she said while rummaging through her purse. “Phone, phone, phone…” The readout on the face said 12:41. Too late to call Detective Schuster.

“Laptop.”

Bex opened it, running her fingertips over the track pad to wake up the screen. When she did, she saw the message.

GAMECREATOR: Is it really you, Bethy?

That hope that had swelled from a flicker to a flame in a few short seconds was snuffed out just as quickly.

No one else called her Bethy. Not when she was Beth Anne Reimer, not ever.

There was no joy. There was only terror, tinged with anger and hate.

Once again her father had turned her life upside down. He was on the site just like Detective Schuster had said he would be—because serial killers crave praise.

But-but-but
… that little voice started.
He was looking for me! He made the connection!

“No.” Bex licked her lips. “So he knows a pet name. He’s not real. He’s another imposter.”

She clicked the message icon and a single meager line toppled out.

What do you put on your pancakes?

Bex didn’t think. She typed.

Powdered sugar. By the bucketful.

She hit Send before she second-guessed herself. She waited for a response.

She waited all night.

• • •

Bex was poking at the soggy remains of her cereal when Denise came in the front door. Michael fixed a mug of coffee for each of them while Denise popped out her earbuds and sat down across from Bex.

“I’m telling you, Bex. A morning run feels amazing. You should come with me sometime.” She glanced at her husband and smiled. “Unless you’re like Michael here, who prefers to get his exercise by osmosis.”

Michael feigned offense. “I’ll have you know that whenever I go to the grocery store, I park very far from the front door!”

“That’s actually a great way to get extra steps in. Do you do that at work too?”

Michael globbed a knifeful of butter onto his bagel. “I’m not trying to be a hero.”

“What about you, Bex? Join me sometime? We could make it a girl thing.”

“Yeah.” Bex nodded. “That might be fun.”

“Oh, hey. How come you aren’t wearing your new necklace?”

Bex’s hands went to her throat but she didn’t answer.

“The silver heart,” Denise clarified. “That Trevor gave you.”

Bex felt her cheeks warm. “Trevor said he didn’t leave it.”

Michael crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Do you have another admirer? Am I going to have to buy a shotgun?”

“I actually don’t know who would have sent it. It’s weird.”

Denise snaked Michael’s bagel and took a bite, licking the butter from her fingers. “It was probably one of the girls then. You should wear it to school today.”

“I don’t know. It just seems—”

“If it’s not Trevor, it’s got to be Laney or Chelsea. Wear it. Show it off. It looks great on you.”

Bex shrugged but climbed the stairs and slipped the necklace on anyway. It did look nice on her, the silver a pretty contrast against her skin. Bex smiled at her reflection and slid her backpack over her shoulders, bounding down the stairs when Michael called for her.

• • •

Bex expected the same circus of reporters, news vans, and cop cars when Michael dropped her off in front of the school, but they were gone. Nearly two weeks and it was as if Darla’s murder had never happened.

“That was quick,” Bex muttered.

“For the best, don’t you think?”

Bex nodded, hoping her intense relief wasn’t so obvious. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Now you guys can try to get back to normal.”

“Whatever that is,” Bex said, kicking open the car door.

She walked across campus, slowing at the quad. One of the trees had been taken over and was now a makeshift memorial. Purple ribbons were tied around the trunk, with “RIP Darla” written in puffy silver paint on the tails. Bex’s eyes burned as the ribbons caught the wind, blowing across a smiling picture of Darla in her cheerleading uniform. There were letters and notes surrounding the picture, prayers and missives to her. Stuffed animals, flowers, and candles in tall glass vials were gathered at the base of the tree.

“Pretty intense, isn’t it?”

Bex glanced at Zach, his GoPro camera slung around his neck.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s terrible.”

“A tragedy,” he said, his eyes holding hers.

Bex blinked several times, trying to ignore the cold sweat that had started at her hairline. “
A tragedy. A real tragedy.
” That word was used in the newspaper every time another one of her father’s victims was found. No matter the circumstances or the woman, the event was always classified as “a tragedy.” Bex realized now how empty that word was, being used to describe everything from a poor fashion choice to the end of someone’s life. Darla’s murder was more than a tragedy; it shouldn’t have happened.

“Yeah,” she said, stammering. She glanced down at the camera, remembering the intense burning of the red light that night on the beach. “So, did you get some good footage?”

Zach followed her eyes to his camera. “Of this? I mean, I got a few pictures but—”

“No, at the beach that night.”

Zach’s eyebrows went up. “What are you talking about? I wasn’t there.”

She pointed to his GoPro. “Yeah you were. I saw you. Or I saw that. The red light. You were filming from across the street when the cops came.”

“Look, I don’t know what you thought you saw or anything, but”—he grasped his camera protectively—“it wasn’t me. I’m not the only guy with a camera.” Zach walked away, and Bex stared after him.

“That dude is weird.”

Now it was Laney at Bex’s other shoulder.

“Zach?”

“Yeah.” Laney’s lip curled up in something like disgust. “I don’t know what it is, but something about him gives me the creeps. And he’s always staring through that stupid camera. Can’t be normal to live your life staring at other people, right?”

“I guess not.”

“By the way”—Laney thumbed over her shoulder toward the tree—“Darla would have hated this.”

“Too much?”

Laney chuckled. “Not enough.”

“Hey.” Chelsea approached them, staring down at her phone.

“You’re going to walk into a Mack truck staring at that thing, you know.”

Chelsea shrugged and slid her phone in her pocket. “I am perfectly aware of my surroundings at all times, thank you very much. Hey, Bex.” She took a step closer, squinted her eyes, then picked up the silver chain. “Ooh, something sweet from
mi amour
?”

“
Ton amour
,” Laney corrected.

Chelsea stopped when she got to the bauble. She held it up, and they all watched the silver heart slowly spin on the chain.

“Where did you get this?” Suddenly, there was a cold edge in Chelsea’s voice.

Bex slid the necklace from Chelsea’s fingertips and laid it flat against her chest. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m serious, Bex. Where did you get that necklace?”

“I don’t know. I figured one of you left it for me.”

“What do you mean ‘left it for’ you?”

“Someone left it on my doorstep. I thought it was Trevor at first, but he said it wasn’t him so I thought maybe one of you…”

Laney put her hand on Chelsea’s arm and the two shared a look.

Bex’s saliva soured in her mouth. Her breakfast sat like a cold rock at the pit of her gut. Images of television mean girls flashed in her mind, and she thought back to that first moment she’d met Chelsea and Laney, when she thought they would be horrible and mean to her. Maybe they weren’t her friends. Maybe they had been playing a part. Maybe they knew who she was all along.

She swallowed even though her throat was bone dry. “It’s not from you guys? It was wrapped up in a box, and there was no note or anything.” She could feel the tears starting and tried to steel herself, to will herself not to cry.

“That necklace was Darla’s. She wore it every day. She never took it off.”

Bex was reeling. Chelsea, Laney, the tree, the school—everything blurred out of focus and became fish-eyed. Bex took off running, clawing at the bauble around her neck. With every step the thin chain seemed to tighten, the once-delicate links like barbed wire digging into her skin. She lost her breath and felt the pressure on her chest, against her windpipe. She coughed, gagged.

She pushed the bathroom door open and made it to a stall just in time to vomit. She was crying, her shoulders shaking, her lips bitter and trembling. When she turned around, she saw her reflection in the mirror: eyes wet and blackened by dripping mascara. Cheeks hollow and pale. A hair color she didn’t recognize. And around her neck the heart sat, now edged in blood from the scratches from her own clawing fingernails.

She thought of her father, the way he must have looked down at his prey, at their milky, sightless eyes, their lips, the pinkness of life giving way to deathly blue. He must have looked at them and thought of her. She imagined his fingertips brushing aside Darla’s blond hair, his rough fingers working the delicate clasp on the necklace.

Bex gripped the pendant and broke the chain.

Bex avoided her laptop all night. She unplugged it and tucked it under her bed as if those extra precautions could somehow cut her off from any response GAMECREATOR could have left or any more references to her “celebrity” father.

The next morning, she was poking at the peanut butter sandwich on her plate when Denise walked into the kitchen, her face half-obscured by the cardboard box she was carrying. She dropped it on the table with a slight thud and a puff of dust.

“Okay, Bexy, red or black?”

Bex blinked, half her sandwich in her hand. “What?”

“Red”—Denise peered over the box, shaking a red pom-pom that looked like it had seen better days—“or black?” She shook a similarly shabby black pom-pom in the other hand.

“What is all this stuff?” Bex stood, peering into the recesses of the box. “Is this a boa?”

“Ah!” Denise curled the feathery thing around Bex’s shoulders. “This was from the senior talent show!”

“Senior? Like college senior?”

“High school.” She shook the poms. “Rah, rah, rah! Kill Devil Hills!”

“You went to KDH? Why didn’t I know that?”

Denise shrugged and continued rifling through the box. “This thing has been in the garage for ages. I thought maybe you’d want some of this stuff for the big game.”

“Big game?”

“Big game.” Denise dropped two strands of red and black beads over Bex’s head. “Tonight. Last game of the season. Football?”

Bex slapped a palm to her forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot.”

“I noticed you’ve been kind of distracted lately. Everything okay?”

Bex nodded sharply, her lips pressed together in a tight, bloodless smile. “What else is in here?”

“Just some old school stuff of mine and Michael’s. I thought the KDH stuff might be cool for you to have.”

“Yeah, thanks. So, did you and Michael meet in high school then?”

Denise shook her head. “No, we didn’t meet until after college. It took a while, but I was eventually able to lure Michael out of the city and out”—she spread her arms wide—“to the beach.”

“Oh. What city was that?”

“Raleigh. Seems like a lifetime ago, but it was only about nine years ago that we moved.”

Bex’s face must have blanched because Denise’s eyes darkened and she put a hand on Bex’s arm. “Hon, are you okay? You went kind of pale.”

Bex thought about Michael and Denise in Raleigh, living and breathing and being in the same town where she had lived, where she was Beth Anne Reimer, daughter of the “most prolific serial killer” in North Carolina’s history. They must have seen the papers, probably followed the story on the news. Everyone else did.

They may have even read her name or seen her, Beth Anne Reimer, in that stiff velvet dress, the kid who turned her own father in, the kid who was raised by—and therefore shared the same tainted blood as—a serial killer. Bex’s heart did a double thump when she thought that Michael and Denise could have recognized her from then to now. Something about them living in Raleigh and living with her now tugged at her, ratcheting up the slight tremor of anxiety that never seemed to fully go away.

Bex tried to force a smile, to put some nonchalance into her voice, but it came out high and slightly cracked.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about the game.” She took the pom-poms. “These will be great. I’ll just have to find something school colored to go with them.”

Denise checked her watch. “Well, you’ve got about nine hours until kickoff. Plenty of time to pillage the closet or”—she rifled through her wallet and handed Bex some bills—“the mall. Call the girls. Get out.”

The girls.

That same newsreel spun again in Bex’s head. The girls. The victims. Unseeing eyes; hollowed, dirty cheeks; cracked, once-pink lips now an ugly headstone gray.

“Going to the mall is still a thing, right? Bex?”

Bex snapped back to attention. “The mall? Yeah, totally. I’ll do that. I’ll call Laney and Chels.”

Denise stared at Bex, who remained seated. Then she added, “I’ll call ’em now.”

Bex took the stairs two at a time, her anxiety not lessening even in the relative calm of her bedroom. She yanked out her cell phone and zipped right past Chelsea’s and Laney’s numbers, stopping at the entry for Detective Lieutenant Schuster. Her thumb hovered over the call button, the animated telephone-receiver icon bouncing up and down. What would she say to him? Everyone knew that the Wife Collector was out there, escaped.

Bex thought of the request flashing on her computer screen: GAMECREATOR has requested a private chat…

She hesitantly pushed the button, counting the rings until Schuster’s voice crackled over the line.

“You’ve reached Detective Lieutenant Schuster. I’m currently leading a training session and will have limited access to email and messages
.
If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. If this is a pressing matter, please call my assistant, Sheila, at…”

Bex held the phone to her ear, wondering if she should take down Sheila’s number or dial 911. Connecting with someone who might be masquerading as her father wasn’t an emergency. Was it even pressing?

She hung up before the message tone signaled.

• • •

The ride out to the mall in Nag’s Head was quick, and with Laney driving and Chelsea cranking up the stereo, Bex was able to let go and sink into the Outer Banks sun streaming through the open car windows—almost. Each time traffic slowed and they pulled alongside another car, she found her eyes cutting to the driver. The rest of the time, she was eyeing the passengers in the cars around her, wondering if maybe
he
was in one of them, having stolen his way out of Raleigh, and was now doing his best to blend into the last remnants of beachgoers and tourists in the beach town. It wouldn’t be hard, Bex reasoned, as she eyed a box-shaped SUV with tinted windows, the driver wearing dark sunglasses and a low-pulled East Carolina hat.

“Are you going to get a dress, Bex? You should get a dress. Something with sequins or something.”

Bex’s eyebrows rose. “We’re still talking about what we’re wearing to the game tonight, right?”

Chelsea sighed. “Yeah…but Trevor
loves
you. He’s so into you! And that’s so romantic.” She growled at her phone. “I need my new boyfriend to be romantic!”

“You have a new boyfriend?” Bex asked.

“She wishes,” Laney said. “She got some dude’s number at the coffee place and is all whipped.”

“I’m not whipped. If he would text me, then I could be whipped. Anyway, dress. No chick looks sexy in a football jersey.”

“I’m pretty sure Bex wasn’t planning on wearing an actual football uniform to the game.” Laney caught Bex’s eyes in the rearview mirror, then rolled hers. “And because Trevor loves her, that’s all the more reason she should totally be herself and dress like herself. If she showed up in an evening gown, Chels, Trevor wouldn’t even know who she was!”

Chelsea and Laney laughed and Bex wanted to. But all she could think about was the fact that Trevor wasn’t really into her at all. He was into Bex Andrews, and with each thought of the Wife Collector fan forum, with each memory of her father, with each callback from Detective Schuster, it was becoming more and more obvious that she was and would always be Beth Anne Reimer. There was no Bex Andrews.

The mall was packed, but Laney seemed to find the last spot in the parking garage. They got coffees and people watched, then Chelsea yanked Bex by the arm to a store displaying a series of funky shirts that just happened to be in the Kill Devil Hills High colors.

“These are amazing, right? You’ll look incredible but also not like you’re trying too hard.”

Laney rolled her eyes.

“Try this one. And this one.”

Bex did as she was told, throwing an impromptu fashion show, feeling better and lighter as Chelsea tried on a half dozen dresses that made her look like a Las Vegas lounge singer and Laney clomped around in a pair of hot-pink, sky-high stilettos.

“I never really thought I was a stiletto person, but I’m kind of digging these,” she said, crossing the store with an awkward walk. “Seriously.”

“They cost more than your house. So you’re getting that, right, Bex?” Chelsea wanted to know.

“Yes.” Bex rifled through her purse. “Crap. My wallet. It probably fell out in the car.”

“No worries,” Chelsea said, picking a credit card from her wallet. “You can pay me back.”

Bex bit her lip. “Thanks, but I feel weird without my wallet. I’m just going to run back to the car. I’m sure it’s there. Five minutes.”

Laney tossed Bex her keys and Bex zipped out of the shop, making a beeline for their third-floor parking space. The air was hot and still, the parking garage eerily silent after the dramatic din of mall voices and canned music.

A man stepped out of a car just across the aisle from Bex and locked eyes with her. Her hackles went up, tension shooting up her spine like a live wire. The man slammed his car door and locked it, then slipped into the mall without looking back.

Bex pinched the bridge of her nose. “I have to stop freaking out.”

A couple rolled down the aisle in a dark sedan, slowing as they got close to Bex. Her heart started to thud, and she could feel the lactic acid slipping through her muscles, tight and taut, waiting for flight.

The car stopped, the passenger-side window rolling down. Bex’s heart thudded in her ears.

“’Scuse me. You leaving?”

Bex stared at the keys in her hand, then back at the woman whose lips were pursed impatiently, one brow cocked.

“Well?”

“Uh, no, sorry. Not leaving.”

The couple sped away with an irritated squeak of their wheels. Bex slumped against Laney’s car, her palm pressed against her jackhammering heart.

“I’m going to die,” she mumbled to herself. “Whether or not my dad comes around, I’m going to give myself a heart attack and die.”

“What about your dad and your heart attack?”

Chelsea was standing behind Bex, hands on hips, shopping bag slung around one thin wrist. “And why are you talking to yourself?”

If it were physically possible for Bex to jump out of her skin, she would have. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“You were taking forever so we got you this.” Laney held out a bag to Bex, the T-shirt she had decided on wrapped in tissue paper inside. She rolled up onto her toes and waved, calling, “See ya, Mr. Pierson!” Then, to Bex, “Were you not supposed to go out or something?”

Bex looked dumbfounded, staring in the direction Laney was waving. “Did you see Michael?”

Laney frowned. “Didn’t you? You were talking about your dad giving you a heart attack, and he was right there.” She pointed. “He was looking right at you.”

Again Bex looked. There was a vacated parking space and a pair of taillights disappearing down the garage driveway.

When Bex let herself into the house after Laney dropped her off, Denise and Michael were sitting on the couch watching television.

“Did you get something good?” Denise asked.

Michael turned and smiled, ready to inspect Bex’s shopping spoils.

Bex held up the shirt Laney and Chelsea bought for her, a feeling of unease overwhelming her. “I’m sorry if I just stared at you in the parking lot, Michael. I…guess I didn’t recognize you.”

Denise’s eyebrows rose when Michael turned to Bex. “Which parking lot?”

“At the mall just now. Laney saw you.”

Michael and Denise shared a look, and Michael’s eyebrows knitted together. “Wasn’t me.”

“We’ve been here all afternoon.”

Michael gestured toward the TV. “Denise has me fully enthralled with this home decorating network. Apparently, I’m supposed to be taking notes on something called ‘tinning.’” He stood up and patted Bex’s shoulder conspiratorially. “Maybe it was my super-lucky doppelgänger that you saw. Enjoying his non-house-remodeling freedom.”

Denise hopped up after him. “It’s adding an antique tin ceiling and you’ll love it!”

Bex blinked, watching them go. Were Michael and Denise lying, or was Laney just mistaken?

“My God,” she mumbled, pressing her palms against her temples and making little circles. “I’ve got to stop freaking out over every little thing.”

Of course Laney was mistaken. She and Chelsea had only met Michael once.

Bex glanced down at the bag in her hand, at the coffee table where Denise’s red and black pom-poms were discarded. She wanted nothing more than to skip the game and crawl into her bed and pull the covers up over her head. “If I could wake up sometime around senior year of college, that’d be excellent.”

Sighing, Bex climbed the stairs to her room, glancing at her laptop tucked silently under her bed. She thrummed her fingernails over the closed lid, curiosity pulling at her.

GAMECREATOR
is probably some crazed fanboy
, she reasoned.
He’s not my dad. He’s not. And the memory? Just happened to fit. All little kids played games. All dads said stupid things like, “I invented the game.” It was nothing.

She glanced again at her cell phone. Not a single missed message or call from Detective Schuster.

But still that little voice inside Bex’s head said,
What if?

She sat down at her desk, opened her laptop, and touched the trackpad, and the screen flicked to life.

She navigated her way to the fan site, no longer shuddering when the page pulled up, no longer flinching at the macabre pictures. Her Forum inbox was bulging with a series of post replies and private message requests, but not one from GAMECREATOR.

Bex slammed her laptop shut, not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.