She could see Michael sitting rigid in his chair, his coffee mug in midair, knuckles white on the handle.
“No, no, nothing like that.” Bex sniffled. “It was—” She turned, pointing to the news on the muted TV. “It was that.”
“Authorities aren’t saying much about the body found last night off Corolla, except to say it is that of a young woman, probably in her late teens to early twenties. There has been no comment on whether this young woman has any connection to Erin Malone, found just over a week ago, and police won’t confirm if this latest victim’s death will also be classified as a homicide. What we do know is that the body was found by three Kill Devil Hills area teens who, we understand, are not suspects.”
The news anchor was in a little square at the corner of the screen while footage of the previous night rolled in front of Bex’s eyes. She saw the clumps of sea grass, the fluttering, yellow “Crime Scene” tape, Officer Kelty, and the assembled police units.
“Oh my God, Bex, were you and the girls the ones who found her?” Denise stepped back but kept her arms around Bex.
“Yeah.”
Michael pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit. “Oh, honey. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “You must have been so scared. Why didn’t you call us to come get you? Or at least wake us up when you came in?”
Bex wagged her head mutely, but everything inside her wanted to spill, to finally confide the secrets she had been carrying ever since she could remember. She wanted to tell Michael and Denise that the dead girl wasn’t a woman but a teen like herself—a teen from her high school who her new friends knew. She wanted to tell them that she wasn’t scared of the body; she wasn’t scared about what had happened—she was scared about what it meant.
They continued to watch the news, Bex rapt but dismissing every word. She was sifting for a few in particular, the few that would confirm her wildest fear: a missing ring finger. The anchorwoman droned on, flashing back to cases in other years and in other states where teens had been found, adding a few details here and there: the body was unclothed, no confirmed method of death but rumors of asphyxiation and possible sexual assault.
Finally, the channel moved to a story about a platoon of local vets coming home, and Bex let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. There was no mention of a missing ring finger. It was the best she could hope for, she reasoned.
Eight
After breakfast, Bex went to her room and stretched out on her unmade bed, staring blankly at the ceiling and letting the hum of the bees in her head block out any rational thought. Denise and Michael took turns checking on her every hour or so. Stepping in and wringing her hands, Denise urged Bex to talk or eat. Michael popped his head in and cleared his throat, opening his mouth and shutting it again, then finally blurting out something innocuous like, “Can I get you anything?”
It hurt Bex to see them so worried about her. It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling and she had a hard time not remembering her grandmother, the way her hand tightened over Bex’s, the papery feel of Gran’s thin skin against her own fingers. She had only had her mother’s mother, Gran. Her father’s biological mother had left when her daddy was just six years old. After that, according to him, his dad had a series of wifely standins. Flitty blonds and brunettes who burned toast, resented their new beau’s boy, and eventually ran off when the next fleet of truckers hit town.
Bex had met Pa Reimer once and had no question why he ran women off. He had all the charm of a taxidermied snake and was only half as warm. There weren’t any pictures of Grandma Reimer—not even one. Her daddy said that was because she didn’t stay around long enough for “the film to develop,” but Gran said he had burned them all. She had seen one though, and Grandma Reimer then—young, with a wide, openmouthed smile—looked like a teenager with crooked teeth and her blond hair in pigtails. She looked a little like the waitress from the Black Bear Diner. The one who had curled her phone number into Bex’s daddy’s palm. The one the media called Victim #4.
The image of Darla—a cute blond who, from her pictures, had the same easy smile and young-bride looks that her father seemed to favor—flashed in Bex’s mind again, and she felt the bile itching the back of her throat. She ran to the bathroom and retched, her palms burning against the cool porcelain. When nothing came up, she flopped back onto her bed, the sweat growing cold on her forehead.
Bex must have dozed off because when she opened her eyes, graying twilight had replaced the sun, chilly air ruffling the curtains on her open windows. A Post-it note was stuck to her lampshade: M went to pick up a pizza. I’m out in the yard.—D