Twisted by Hannah Jayne(67)
Bex cocked her head. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Trevor.”
He shrugged. “Like your locker number or ATM code? I figure that’s more of a second semester of dating thing.”
“I’m serious.”
The smile dropped from Trevor’s lips. “You are? Are you an ex-con? An undercover cop? Really a man? Because all those things are okay with me. Well, most of them are. If you’re a dude, I probably won’t take you to prom, but we can still hang out and catch a few games together.”
Bex shoved her hands in her back pockets and smiled. “Is there anything you’re not cool about?”
“Narwhals,” he deadpanned. “They don’t get the respect they deserve.”
Bex rolled her eyes as she and Trevor strolled away from the school and toward the football field, where they slid onto the lowest bench on the bleachers. Trevor took both of her hands in his, his eyes soft.
“Seriously, you can tell me whatever you want, Bex. Or you don’t have to tell me anything. I mean, I want to know everything about you. But only if you’re cool with that. There’s nothing you can say that’s going to make me think less of you.”
“Unless it’s something derogatory about narwhals.”
Trevor nodded solemnly. “Well, obviously.”
Bex stared at the toes of her Converse sneakers tapping against the bleacher floor. She shot Trevor a sidelong glance, taking in the slant of his nose, the way his chin poked out just slightly. Behind him, Kill Devil Hills High looked like any other high school anywhere in the world: kids were milling around, and there were streamers and GO BIG RED! posters plastered all over the exterior wall of the gym. There was nothing different about the scene, and Bex was a part of it. For the first time she could remember, she was part of something normal. And she was about to ruin it. As much as she wanted to shrug off her father and Detective Schuster and just kiss Trevor and go to prom and forget about anything else, there was one other poster on the gym wall that gnawed at her: the grinning picture of Darla, the letters R.I.P. emblazoned across the front of her cheerleading uniform.
“You know—do you remember when we were kids, there was a serial killer out in Raleigh?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You mean the Wife Collector? He’s, like, local legend there.”
Bex kept her eyes on her toes. “He’s real. Everything he did… It was real.”
“Okay…” Trevor drew out the word.
“The man they accused of being the Wife Collector had a daughter, you know. A young daughter.” Bex’s heart slammed against her rib cage. She tried to keep her breathing steady and even, but it was like her insides wanted to implode.
Bex couldn’t bring herself to look up. She was sure that if she did, Trevor would be gone, a trail of smoke and laughter behind him as he ran to tell Chelsea and Laney and the rest of the school that Bex Andrews was a lying freak. She didn’t want to see the hate and disgust on his face, the way his lip would curl if he spat on her or slapped her. If the Wife Collector was her father, what did that make Bex?
Trevor was silent for a beat that seemed to stretch on for a year.
“I think I remember reading that. Talk about a kid who’s going to need some serious therapy.”
A stabbing pain arched through Bex. “You mean because she’s probably psycho too.”
Trevor shrugged, considering. “Not necessarily. But if you found out your dad was a murderer, don’t you think that’d mess you up, even a little?” He held her eyes and she wasn’t sure if he was asking her or challenging her. She wanted to sputter out the whole truth, who she was, because even if Trevor ran from her, it would be better than the lie she was living. If she was truly the Wife Collector’s daughter, it would always be a stain on her soul. Therapy couldn’t fix her. She would never be normal. But either way, she was the daughter of the man who was accused of committing those crimes.
“I guess.”
“So?” Trevor’s sneaker slid toward her, then lightly kicked her toe. She glanced up and he reached out to lightly stroke her cheek. “You’re not the kind of girl who needs a ton of therapy, baby.”
Bex wanted to cry. Or run. She’d thought that telling Trevor the truth might peel the weight from her shoulders and maybe he would understand. Except she knew that everything she feared about the way people thought of her as Beth Anne Reimer—messed up, in need of help—was true. She may be Bex Andrews now, but she was still the accused Wife Collector’s daughter. Tears played at the edges of her eyes, and Bex was far too tired to try to stop them when they overflowed and rolled down her cheeks.
“Why are you crying?” Trevor jammed his hands in his pockets and fished out a brown Starbucks napkin. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Bex, are you scared of something? Are you scared of that killer coming here?”
She silently shook her head, took the napkin, and blew her nose. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why I started to talk about it.”
“I’d like to believe it’s because you trust me.” His hand found hers. “And hopefully because you know that I love you.”
The air was sucked out of Bex’s lungs. She stared at Trevor, stunned. He squeezed her hands.
“Bex?”