Twisted by Hannah Jayne(50)

Gran scoffed. “It’s not exactly a Rolls Royce, dear.”

It was a Ford Escort and it was at least twenty years old. The paint was chipped off the roof but what remained had been lovingly shined up. The seats were covered by a funky leopard-print blanket that had been carefully folded and cut to fit. “The original interior was not in the best of shape but—”

“It’s beautiful, Gran. Thank you.”

Gran folded the keys into Beth Anne’s palm. “Well, go ahead. Take it for a spin.”

There were exactly three places that Beth Anne knew to drive to, the only three places in town she ever went: the library, the grocery store, and, when she could see from the street that it was blessedly empty, Deja Brew coffeehouse on Falls of Neuse Road. She’d tuck her feet underneath herself in one of their half-hidden wingback chairs and spend hours reading and sipping the bitter brew. It was one of those places where she thought she could blend in. She was wrong.

She remembered walking out to the parking lot just before closing. There must have been people in and out of the coffeehouse, but she had been so engrossed in her book that she had never noticed. Now, when she saw her car, Beth Anne wished she could crack open the book’s hard spine and climb in. Hers was the lone car in the lot. The one that Gran had scrimped and saved for, even though it was “not exactly a Rolls Royce.”

Someone had spray-painted the side.

The letters were huge, glaring red, and crudely written. Now the car bore the same stain that she did: MURDERER.

She had abandoned it then and there.

There was a rush of cold air over Bex’s cheeks as Laney swiped the phone from her. “Hello? Who is this?”

“It’s Trevor, Laney. Put Bex back on.”

“Did you say you did this? You did this to my car?”

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

Bex turned to Laney and clawed for the phone. She wanted to smash it, to step on it, and then do the same with this life—smash it into a thousand obliterated pieces. She had thought Trevor liked her. She thought that he…

“I left flowers on your car for Bex. What are you talking about?”

Bex could see Laney’s jaw drop open just slightly. “So you didn’t plaster my car with Missing posters?”

“What? Who the hell would do that? Let me talk to Bex.”

Laney tried to hand the phone to Bex but she waved it away, numbly walking to the passenger’s side of the car and settling herself in. The sound of the seat belt clicking was reassuring, but for a second Bex thought about unbuckling it, sliding into the driver’s seat, and driving away. She wouldn’t go anywhere. She wouldn’t stop anywhere. She would drive into the surf, a tree—anything that would stop the pain that was coursing through her body, stinging with every beat of her heart.

Everywhere she went, she brought death and destruction. Even when she tried to get away, it found her, making its presence known. That was who she was. That was who she’d always be. Bex couldn’t end Beth Anne, but Beth Anne could end Bex. She pressed her index finger to the seat belt button and heard it click. She started to slide toward the driver’s seat…but Laney beat her there. She was shaking a slim bouquet of cellophane-wrapped flowers in front of Bex’s nose.

“Trevor left these, Bex. These flowers. There were no posters here when he left these. They were under all the paper on the windshield. It wasn’t Trevor.”

Chelsea slid into the backseat and Laney started the car, the purr of the engine sending a warm shimmy through Bex. They drove in static silence for blocks before Chelsea cleared her throat and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“How did you know the name of the little girl in the poster?”

Bex didn’t answer and Chelsea fell silent for a beat. Then, “I know who it was.” Chelsea snapped her fingers. “Zach.”

“Zach?” Laney asked.

“Yeah. Isn’t it obvious? He was at the movie, so he had the opportunity.”

Bex felt her breathing slightly regulate. “Zach? Why would he do something like this?”

“Because he’s Zach,” Chelsea exploded, eyes rolling. “He wants a story. He was probably behind us filming the whole thing. Like one of those hidden-camera pervy things. He probably just googled ‘kidnapping,’ found pictures on some creepy-assed ‘people who love weird crime shit’ sites, and slapped together a whole bunch of Missing posters. He knew we were going to the movies…”

“And there is only one Cineplex in this shoe-box town. It’s not like he’d have to drive around looking for us,” Laney reasoned.

Bex chewed her bottom lip. “I guess he’d know your car.”

“Asshole,” Laney fumed.

“Jerk,” Chelsea added.

But Bex just sank back in her seat. She wanted Zach to be the culprit and this whole stupid stunt to be a prank. But how did he know about the Wife Collector? How did he know to choose all his victims? And how did he get the picture of Beth Anne Reimer?





Twenty-Seven


“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.