Twisted by Hannah Jayne(17)
“Hello? Hell-ooh?”
Bex snapped out of her daymare and blinked at the two girls standing in front of her. They were both decked out in black-and-red Kill Devil Hills basketball sweats, with their long hair pulled back into slick ponytails topped with black-and-red hair bows. They were school spirit through and through, right up to their made-up lips, now tugged down into deep frowns.
“Were you listening to our conversation?”
“N-no,” Bex stammered. “I-I just walked in.”
The girl who hadn’t spoken—the one with the glossy, black hair and blue eyes that took up half her face—stepped in front of her friend, scrutinizing Bex. “Hey, aren’t you the new girl?”
Bex nodded, suddenly mute.
“You were with Chelsea and Laney when they found Darla.”
Again, Bex’s heart started to thud. Her stomach folded in on itself and she briefly glanced toward the bank of bathroom stalls to her left, wondering if she would make it there before vomiting.
“What was it like?” The dark-haired girl’s lips quirked up just the tiniest bit, her expression a macabre mix of interest and sheer fascination.
Bex shook her head, unable to form the words as images bombarded her—images that no child, no one at all, should have to see: graying faces, unseeing eyes; the photographs of bodies strewn across an overhead projector; beautiful girls, alive and vibrant on one side, their desperate, empty shells on the other, supposedly carved by her father’s hand.
“He was a butcher…”
“An animal…”
“These young women were nothing but things to him, things to take and use and ruin and then discard like so much trash…”
She saw Darla’s toes, half-buried in the sand.
The girls were still staring at Bex, the dark-haired one practically leering, leaning in to her. Bex stepped between them, silent, and pushed open the doors of the locker room, letting the warm, outside air wash over her cheeks.
She didn’t realize she was crying.
? ? ?
No one had followed her, but Bex couldn’t shake the image of Darla or of the girls pressing into her in the locker room, sucking her air, wanting Bex to tell them what she knew.
The thought made her stomach lurch.
When she saw Chelsea and Laney coming out of their classroom up ahead, she cut down the nearest hall. She didn’t want to talk to them.
“Are you waiting to see someone?”
“What?” Bex blinked and noticed the woman in the hall.
She was standing in front of Bex, smiling lightly and holding a clipboard to her chest. She was dressed in a nondescript navy-blue pantsuit, her graying hair pulled back in a severe bun.
“Did you want to see one of the grief counselors? You don’t have to sign in. It can be completely anonymous.”
Bex glanced through the windows, her eyes scanning the library. It was slightly dim and seemed blessedly quiet, an easy escape from people asking her questions.
“Do I have to talk?”
“No.” The woman shook her head. “You don’t have to talk about the event.”
Bex briefly wondered when they stopped calling it a murder and started calling it an “event.”
“You can just take some quiet time in the library if you feel that’s what you need.”
Bex nodded, stepping inside. Another woman, this one slightly taller and without a clipboard, made a beeline for her.
“Hi, I’m Renee. Can I help you?”
Bex opened her mouth but her tongue felt weighted.
“Why don’t you come over here and sit? We can chat awhile.”
Renee led Bex to a tiny office and began chattering in calm, soothing tones as she poured Bex a glass of water and sat down across from her.
“How are you doing today?”
Bex was silent for a beat. “I didn’t know her.”
She knew that Renee was trying not to look judgmental or surprised, but her eyebrows rose.
“Are you talking about Darla?”
“I didn’t know her. I…” Bex’s fingers found the straps of her backpack, and she worked the thick, woven material back and forth. “I’m new here.”
Renee sat back in her chair. “You didn’t have to know her to be upset. It’s okay to have a lot of feelings. The circumstances are tragic and rather terrifying.”
“Circumstances?” Bex looked up.
“You know that Darla was murdered.”
Her blond hair was fanned out on the sand, a few strands bouncing up on the wisp of ocean breeze.
“I know.”
“We don’t know exactly what happened to her yet, but someone out there does. Do you want to talk about that? Is the uncertainty bothering you?”
Bex blinked. “Are you a real doctor?”
Renee seemed slightly taken aback. “I assure you, I’m qualified to help. And yes, I’m a real doctor. I’m a psychiatrist, which means I have my MD.”
Bex licked her lips, which suddenly seemed Sahara dry and cracked. “So you know about mental…diseases.”
Renee seemed to reset her professional smile. “What can I help you with?”
“The person who”—again, Bex couldn’t say the word—“hurt Darla. He…he had to be crazy, right? Sick?”