Kelty nodded, his eyes never leaving the tiny notepad he wrote in. “And how was it that you came upon the body?”
Bex heard herself relating the story but her eyes were flitting over the police officer. He was young—twenty, twenty-five at best, and clean-shaven—and when he looked at her, he smiled, his eyes warm. He was nothing like the officers she had met before, the ones from her old life who took away her father. Those two stood out in her memory, hard and almost gray, with sinister smiles and gnarled, bony hands that reached for her to steal away everything that was important to her.
“I’m really sorry you had to see this,” Officer Kelty was saying. “But if you remember anything else, even if it doesn’t seem important, please call.”
He handed Bex his card and then beckoned for Chelsea. Bex stared at his embossed name, at the gold, foil police star right next to it on the card. She had lied to a police officer. She said she was Bex Andrews.
I am Bex Andrews, she reminded herself. I am.
Behind her, Bex could hear the snapping of the crime scene photographer’s camera. Each flash, each snap of the shutter sickened her more, and she felt the bitter salivation that starts before being sick. She pinched her eyes shut, trying to block out any memories.
“Bex!”
Her head snapped toward the voice. It was Trevor. Every other sound melted away, and all she could hear were his sneakers pounding the pavement as he came toward her. Was he going to accuse her now, call her a murderer, tell her it ran in her blood?
Sick. Twisted. A monster. A demon. The devil’s spawn.
When she was Beth Anne Reimer, she had pretended the words didn’t bother her because she could see the way they tore at her grandmother, pricking her skin and leaving tiny scars well after they’d gone.
“They’re just angry, Beth Anne,” Gran would tell her, her hand tightening around Beth Anne’s. “They are blinded by their grief. ‘Bless those who curse you.’ They know not what they say.”
But Beth Anne had seen the hatred in their eyes—so Bex steeled herself for the barrage from Trevor.
“Hold it, miss.” Another officer stepped out from behind one of the parked cars, his hand splayed out, stop-sign fashion.
“This is a crime scene. You’re going to have to come around this way, please.”
It was then that Bex noticed the yellow “Crime Scene” tape strung around the perimeter. She was inside the tape and Trevor was outside. The barrier seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere, a physical reminder that she could only move so far away from her old life. Normalcy would always be just beyond her reach.
Trevor’s eyes shot from Bex to the officer. “But she’s my friend. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”
The officer cut his eyes to Bex, who nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“I can take you home.”
Bex looked over her shoulder. Chelsea was talking to Officer Kelty, and Laney was leaning up against her car, her arms wrapped around herself, eyes glossy and unfocused as tears slid down her cheeks.
“Thanks, Trevor, but I think I’m going to stay here and ride back with Laney and Chelsea. They were good friends of Darla’s.” Her voice rose at the end of the sentence. She was assuming since she didn’t know much about Darla’s relationship with either Chelsea or Laney, except for the fact that she sat between them in ethics.
“Yeah.” Trevor cleared his throat. “They were best friends. Um, I guess I’ll just talk to you later.”
He hugged her over the “Crime Scene” tape, and Bex was stunned. No yelling. No accusations. No god-awful names.
Because you’re Bex Andrews now, the tiny voice inside chided.
Bex watched Trevor get back in his car and turn it around, his headlights casting a glow over the whole horrible scene. They also caught the edge of a car pulled off the road half a football field away. Someone was out there. Someone was watching. Bex started when she saw the glint of a tiny, red light in the blanket of blackness.
Like the red light on a video camera when it was recording.
? ? ?
The sunlight streamed over Bex and she rolled over, loving the soft warmth on her face. It took her a full minute to remember what had happened the previous night, and when she did, her blood ran cold and goose bumps shot up on her flesh.
“Bex!” Denise called from downstairs. “Wake up, sleepyhead! We’ve got pancakes!”
“And I didn’t cook them,” Michael joined in. “So they’re good!”
She kicked off the covers and trudged downstairs, the sweet scent of maple syrup meeting her halfway down.
“Hey, sweetheart. How was the bonfire?”
Suddenly the smell of syrup was overwhelming, the heat from the griddle suffocating. Bex shook her head, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “It was awful,” she managed, surprised at the tears that started to fall. “Awful.”
“Oh, honey!” Denise gathered her up in a one-armed, one-spatula hug.
“Was it the boys? Did they do something?”