Twisted by Hannah Jayne(47)

But Lauren just stared at her, eyes wide, intent, curious.

Bex took a step back. “I can’t… I’ve got… Excuse me.” She turned and pushed in the door to the girl’s bathroom, making it to the first stall just as she started to wretch. She was sweating, a burning stripe going from the back of her neck all the way down her spine as she vomited. Each time her stomach convulsed, a new wave of images shot through her mind—gruesome, haunting, slasher-movie scenes that made her sick all over again.

When there was nothing left to throw up, she grabbed a handful of toilet paper and blotted her eyes and nose as she cried a silent, body-racking sob for this strange girl Lauren and the mother that Bex’s father had snatched away. She cried for Lauren and for herself, and begged for forgiveness for thinking that the woman’s murder could be anything but her father’s fault.

You don’t know that! that inner voice told her.

He’s your flesh and blood, another one countered. Like father, like daughter.

Bex wasn’t sure how much time had passed but she’d cried everything out, her entire body feeling hollow and light. She splashed water on her face and pulled her hair over her eyes and cheeks, trying her best to hide the red splotches and smeared makeup. When she pushed back out into the hallway, it was blessedly silent.

“It’s Bex now, isn’t it?”

Lauren was still there, and Bex felt herself start to tremble.

“How did you know who I am?”

Lauren shrugged her thin shoulders. “I…know people. I went to the same juvenile detention center you did. I guess I kind of kept tabs…”

“I’m sorry,” Bex said.

“Me too,” Lauren said.

Bex started. “What are you sorry for?”

Lauren crossed in front of her. “I shouldn’t have just… I wasn’t even going to talk to you.” She looked at her shoes. “I really just wanted to see you, see what you looked like.”

Bex sucked in a slow breath. “Did you want to see if I looked like him?”

Lauren glanced at Bex, then stared at her shoes. “You do, kind of. I mean, the pictures.”

Bex nodded, unsure what to say. She really didn’t know what her father looked like, other than the pictures, and in them, she couldn’t see much more than a slight and passing resemblance: same hair color, similar expression.

“Do you mind if we sit down?” Lauren asked.

Bex wanted to say no, but something drew her. Whether she thought she owed Lauren something or not she wasn’t sure, but she pushed open the double doors and led her to a bench in the quad.

“Is it true that he gave you things—things that belonged to—”

“Yes.” Bex couldn’t bear to hear Lauren say the words. “I didn’t know…”

“Did he ever give you earrings?”

“No, but I never had pierced ears.”

Lauren pulled the sleeve of her cardigan up revealing a thin chain that looped around her wrist. On it was a five-petaled gold flower with a tiny pearl at the center. “This?”

Bex shook her head. “It’s really pretty though.”

“It was my mother’s. Her earrings. They only found the one. He took the other one.”

They were silent for a long while. Bex noticed that Lauren wouldn’t look at her. She stared straight ahead while they sat shoulder to shoulder, barely blinking, talking without a breath, but focused like there was something in front of her to see.

“I think I came here… I wanted to see if maybe you knew.”

Bex was walloped. Surprise, shame, anger, pain. She snapped her head to Lauren. “Knew what?”

Lauren swallowed and her voice was barely a whisper. “Why he did it.”

Bex knew she should argue. Set this girl straight. It was alleged that her father was a murderer, but it had never been proven. A sob lodged hard in her chest. She shook her head slowly, her breathing shallow and painful.

“My mom had one of those giant personalities. And your dad…” Lauren went to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s just a man, you know?”

Bex nodded again, although she didn’t really know. Her father was a distant memory. Her father was a two-dimensional picture in the newspaper, a man with a dark beard and a shaggy haircut. He was a gray man and a legend with a made-up name. He was the Wife Collector. Her father died a long time ago.

“I’d look at his pictures. I was obsessed with them.” She let out something between a snarl and a laugh. “I couldn’t believe it was him. I wanted him to be bigger. A monster maybe, with claws. Someone—something that couldn’t help what it was, so a real person wasn’t responsible for seeing my mother—hearing the way she would laugh out one high-pitched squeak before giggling without making a sound. The fact that she was a mother who read Horton Hears a Who! with a crazy voice and her arm in front of her nose like a trunk just because it made me laugh.

“I wanted your dad to be a monster who couldn’t understand that my mom was a woman and a person with an awesome chocolate-chip cookie recipe and a daughter because really, how could a person do that to another person?”

Bex didn’t have to look at Lauren to know that tears were pouring over her cheeks. That they were the kind of tears that took with them a tiny bit of Lauren’s hope and joy and heart.