Laney shrugged. “Need one?”
“No thanks.” Bex waved at the air. “I’m actually not entirely sure where I live yet. I know it’s that way.” She pointed in the general direction Denise had come from that morning. “Anyway, D…my mom”—Bex had trouble pushing out the words—“insisted on driving me today. First week and all that.”
“All right. See you later then!”
Laney stepped on the gas just in time for Bex to glance in the tiny backseat of the car. Monday’s newspaper was on the seat, the picture of Erin Malone, the body from the Dumpster, smiling out at Bex. Her breath hitched, the words on the postcard already seared in the back of her mind.
Daddy’s home.
Erin was a pretty blond, vibrant and happy from the looks of the newspaper picture, and she had been dumped in the trash like she wasn’t worth anything at all. Just like the rest of the Wife Collector’s victims, the little voice in Bex’s head taunted. She gritted her teeth and tried to edge out the thought.
A train of cars followed Laney’s out into the street, and Bex was left at the crescent-shaped mouth of the school driveway, waiting for Denise. She glanced at her phone and rocked on her heels. What if Denise had forgotten her? What if Denise had figured out who she was and wasn’t coming for her at all? A strange heat burned through Bex and she pushed up the sleeves of her hoodie, even as the fog turned to a cold wet mist.
Another few moments passed, and then there was a cacophony of honking and a stressed-looking Denise screeching into the driveway. She frantically rolled down the passenger-side window and pushed open the car door.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she said before Bex could reach the car. “We got absolutely swamped at the station. The news editor is out sick, and my editor’s water broke and—”
“It’s okay.” Bex smiled, pulling the door open farther. “You’re not really late. Everyone just takes off the second the bell rings, I guess.”
The look on Denise’s face softened and she grinned back. “I love that you haven’t learned teenage angst yet.”
Bex slid into the passenger seat, her temperature still rising, her heart still thundering in her chest. When her cell phone buzzed, it nearly sent her into a tizzy. Denise glanced at her, and Bex forced a nonchalant chuckle.
“Oh,” she muttered, when her heart no longer threatened to launch itself from her mouth. “It’s just Chelsea.” She flicked her thumb over the message.
Chng-o-plns. Bonfire 2night @ corollabeach. Still cant find that skank darla!!!!
? ? ?
Bex dropped her backpack in her closet when she got home from school. She glanced at it sitting there in the half dark among her shoes and new cleats. Even though the stupid postcard was buried inside under her books, her gym clothes, and a few notes from Chelsea and Laney, it still seemed menacing. Taunting.
She was pulling the closet door shut when Denise knocked on the door frame. “Hey, Bex,” she said. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.” Bex dropped into her desk chair while Denise took a spot on the bed. “You okay, hon? You seemed a little distracted on the drive home.”
Bex bit her lip. “Oh, yeah. It’s nothing. Just tired.”
“You know you can talk to me or Michael about anything, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. Thanks.”
There was a slow pause. Then, “So, do you have any plans for tonight?”
“Well, Laney and Trevor and them are going to have a bonfire. Someplace called Corolla Beach?” She couldn’t stop herself from shooting a glance toward the closet, toward the postcard. “But I don’t think I’m going. I’m kind of tired.”
“Oh no! You should totally go! Corolla Beach is beautiful!”
“It’ll be dark,” Bex said, laughing.
“The beach is beautiful at night. And high school bonfires are a tradition. But”—Denise held up her hands—“it’s totally up to you.”
“What’s going on in here?” Michael poked his head through Bex’s open door, eyes narrowed as he feigned a suspicious glare.
“I am just telling our daughter that bonfires at Corolla Beach are a high school tradition.”
“Aw, we used to bonfire on the beach too! Bunch of guys, bunch of girls, bunch of blankets…” His voice trailed off and then he shook his head emphatically. “No. No bonfires on the beach. Bonfires, blankets, bad. You know what’s fun? Hanging out with your parents and a gluten-free pizza. So fun. Right, Denise?”
“Don’t worry, Michael. Bex wasn’t going to go anyway.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Bex said, starting to smile. “You’ve suddenly made beach bonfires sound very appealing.”
Michael moved to protest, and Denise put a hand on his arm. “What if she promises to avoid blankets?”