Twisted by Hannah Jayne(15)

Bex had met Pa Reimer once and had no question why he ran women off. He had all the charm of a taxidermied snake and was only half as warm. There weren’t any pictures of Grandma Reimer—not even one. Her daddy said that was because she didn’t stay around long enough for “the film to develop,” but Gran said he had burned them all. She had seen one though, and Grandma Reimer then—young, with a wide, openmouthed smile—looked like a teenager with crooked teeth and her blond hair in pigtails. She looked a little like the waitress from the Black Bear Diner. The one who had curled her phone number into Bex’s daddy’s palm. The one the media called Victim #4.

The image of Darla—a cute blond who, from her pictures, had the same easy smile and young-bride looks that her father seemed to favor—flashed in Bex’s mind again, and she felt the bile itching the back of her throat. She ran to the bathroom and retched, her palms burning against the cool porcelain. When nothing came up, she flopped back onto her bed, the sweat growing cold on her forehead.

Bex must have dozed off because when she opened her eyes, graying twilight had replaced the sun, chilly air ruffling the curtains on her open windows. A Post-it note was stuck to her lampshade: M went to pick up a pizza. I’m out in the yard.—D

She plucked the note off the shade, stretched, wandered down the stairs, and pulled open the front door.

“Hey.” Denise called from the kitchen. She dropped her shoes at the back door and closed the distance between them. “You’re up.”

Bex started. “I was about to go looking for you.”

Denise wiped her brow, leaving a smudge of brown-black dirt on her cheek. “I was working out back. How do you feel about rock gardens? It’s become increasingly obvious that plants aren’t my thing. Everything is dead.”

Bex swallowed and Denise looked pained, springing forward. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Bex batted at the air. “No, it’s okay.” She went to close the door she was still holding open, then paused.

A tiny, gift-wrapped box sat on the doormat outside. She pointed. “What’s that?”

Denise came to look over her shoulder. “No idea. Pick it up.”

“Is this some kind of feel-better gift from you and Michael or something? Because I appreciate it but—”

Denise stepped around Bex and stooped, picking up the box herself. “No. Is that what we’re supposed to do?” She looked worried. “I read online that we’re supposed to create a place of openness and comfort for you, and possibly explain our feelings about death to create an open dialogue. Michael thought we should get you a kitten.”

“No.” Bex held up her hands. “I don’t need any of those things. At least not a gift or a kitten. And you guys have already made me feel comfortable.” She offered a small smile.

Michael drove up and parked in the driveway, appearing on the front walk with a pizza box raised over his head. He looked from Bex to Denise, slight confusion in his eyes.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. There was just this”—Denise held up the box—“on the front porch. Oh…” She plucked out a tiny, white envelope that had been tucked under the bow. “It says ‘Bex.’”

Michael frowned. “Were we supposed—”

“No.” Denise tried to hand Bex the box, but she just stared at it, at the curlicues on the wrapping paper, the ends of the ribbon spilling over the box.

“Here.”

“I don’t… Who’s it from?” Bex wanted to know.

“There is a card,” Michael told her. “You should read it. But can we move this little shindig inside? Pizza is getting cold.”

Bex followed them into the kitchen, sliding her finger under the flap of the envelope. “There’s nothing inside.”

“No card?”

Bex shrugged, turning over the envelope as proof. “Nothing.”

“Open the box,” Michael urged.

Bex did as she was told, the wrapping paper uncovering a smooth, white jewelry box. She pulled open the top and her breath caught. Nestled on a cloud of cotton was a dainty silver necklace with a tiny open heart hanging from it.

“That’s beautiful!” Denise murmured. “Honey, don’t you think that’s beautiful?”

Michael looked up from the pizza slice that was halfway to his mouth. He nodded and offered some pizza-garbled approximation of the word “beautiful.”

“Put it on!” Denise clapped. “Here”—she turned Bex around—“I’ll do it for you. Oh! It’s so nice on you!”

Bex glanced at her reflection in the hall mirror, her fingers going to the silver heart charm. It had weight to it and hung perfectly, the silver standing out prettily against her new beachy sun-kissed skin.

“I wonder who gave it to me.”

Denise dropped a pile of napkins on the table and handed Bex three plates. “Didn’t you talk about a guy?”

Heat flushed Bex’s cheeks.

“He’s not, like, my boyfriend or anything really. He’s just a guy.”

She thought of the haunted look on Trevor’s face as he came running toward her. He was calling her name. Not Chelsea’s or Laney’s—hers. He’d called her his girlfriend. She blushed again. “We hardly know each other. Why would he leave me a necklace? We haven’t even gone on an actual date yet!”