Twisted by Hannah Jayne(4)
“Authorities are reporting that another girl was found early this morning, her body discarded among the trash bags behind this local eatery,” the newscaster said. A picture of a grinning blond, head pushed back, blue eyes rich and dark, appeared on the screen. “There has been no official identification, but authorities are speculating that this latest body might be that of seventeen-year-old Erin Malone of—”
Denise clicked the TV off. “We don’t need to see that before bed. Are you excited about your first day of school tomorrow, Bex? You’re barely three weeks into the school year, so the ‘new kid’ thing shouldn’t be that bad.”
Bex tried to tear her eyes away from the now-black screen. The girl in the photograph… There was something about her that Bex recognized, even though she had never heard of the girl or the restaurant where she was found. Maybe this story had made national news?
Ice shot through her veins when the shard of a memory fell into place: the girl with the scarf. All those years ago in Raleigh… This girl, this Erin Malone, was a dead ringer for the girl with the scarf.
The girl her father had supposedly murdered.
Bex pushed her bowl away.
“Are you okay? Michael, get her a glass of water. Bex, are you okay?”
“Yes.” She pushed the word over her teeth.
It couldn’t have been her father. Her father was gone. He didn’t…
Bex was instantly shot to another evening in another time. She was seven years old, and her father had just been released from police custody. She was waiting at home, but over the years, with television and film and time, her memory blurred into her being at the police station, to her hearing the officer say, “Don’t leave town,” to her seeing her father tip his hat just slightly, never a true yes or no.
She had been lying in her postage-stamp-sized bedroom then, half-asleep while the fan lazed overhead. She should have been able to hear him. She should have been able to sense what he was going to do. But she didn’t stir that night. Not when he cleared out his closet, not when he pulled the front door closed, not when he drove away and left his baby daughter to wake up in an empty house the morning after.
She had waited for him until the sun set again. Until the moon came up, until pink fingers of morning light cut through the blinds that second morning. Crowds lined up on the street, yelling about a murderer. And when the police finally came back, they only found Beth Anne.
He had left, and the murders had stopped.
Bex’s eyes flashed toward the screen again, toward Michael and Denise with their drawn faces looking worried in front of her. Until now?
She reeled. No. There was no way.
For the first few years after her father left, there was nothing. When she was ten, there were signs, though Bex could never be sure if they were from him or if she had made them up—mumbled wrong numbers or hang-ups in the middle of the night. Blank postcards with Beth Anne’s name written in a scrawl she never recognized. There was nothing concrete that said that he was out there, that he was innocent and missing her and thinking of her—except that the killing stopped.
Girls went missing from Raleigh and the Research Triangle in those other years, sure. And girls were murdered. But they didn’t have his signature. Their names were never splashed across newspaper pages in thick, black headlines or run along the bottom of the screen news tickers with phrases like,
Wife Collector Claims a New Bride.
Beth Anne tried to believe that meant that he was innocent, that the real killer had moved on. The police believed that meant he was guilty and that he had moved on. When she had the stomach for it, she checked the Internet, doing blanket searches for sensational murders with victims missing digits. When nothing came up, a stripe of relief shot down her back because her father was out there and women were still alive. But nobody wanted to hear that. Nobody wanted to believe that, because Jackson Reimer was allegedly the Wife Collector—and even if he wasn’t anymore, Beth Anne Reimer would always be the Wife Collector’s daughter.
Heat prickled the back of her neck, and Bex prayed that Michael and Denise couldn’t see the sheen of sweat that popped out on her upper lip. Guilt or fear or doubt sped up her heartbeat, and she gripped the edges of the table before shaking her head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. I-I guess I’m just a little nervous to start school. You know, new place, new people, and all.”
Michael set the water glass down in front of Bex. He tried to look cool, but Bex could see him and Denise exchange a glance.
Great. They already think I’m a nut job.
She downed the water in one gulp and tried to put the news clip—and her father—out of her mind. “I should probably just get to bed. Jet lag and all.”
Bex stood and climbed the stairs, feeling Michael and Denise looking curiously after her, probably wondering how a quick jaunt across the state could cause jet lag. But Bex wasn’t in the mood to argue. The image of the girl on the screen was burned into her mind—because I’ve seen it before, that little voice protested. No. Bex shook her head. My father is gone and this is—what? A coincidence?
Every molecule inside her went white-hot and willed her to run: run downstairs and flick the TV back on, listen to the news, to the solemn cadence of the anchorwoman’s voice. Listen for the one detail that hadn’t been mentioned…
Bex remembered another living room, the light from the TV flickering silver over her father’s face as he watched the news at their house on Flame Court. In her mind, she heard the chime—bum, bum, BUMMM!—of the Raleigh Super Eight news.