Bex heard the words but couldn’t process them. Didn’t they know who she was, why this had happened?
No, because you’re Bex Andrews now. Beth Anne stayed in Raleigh. The Wife Collector stayed in Raleigh. You’re normal now. You have to be normal.
She cleared her throat and made the effort to look into Denise’s eyes. “I’m really sorry, you guys. I just—I kind of freaked out, I guess.”
“We can dig that.”
Both Bex and Denise shot Michael looks.
“What? I’m just trying to say that we understand. Man!”
Denise turned back to Bex. “We’re not going to punish you this time, but skipping school is not okay and not letting us know where you are is definitely not okay. If you want to talk about this—about anything—we’re here for you. Okay, Bex?”
Bex nodded.
“And if you don’t think you can talk to us, there are always the grief counselors, or Michael or I can find you someone else for you to talk to.”
Bex nodded again, the lump in her throat too big to allow her to speak.
Denise squeezed Bex’s knee. “We love you, honey.”
“I love you too.” It was barely a whisper, but one of the truest things Bex had ever said.
Eleven
Bex slipped her cell phone out of her backpack when she got home. She had thirteen missed calls between Michael and Denise, plus missed calls from Trevor, Chelsea, and Laney. Then, there were the texts: Denise: Where are u?
Trevor: U OK? U bolted.
Chelsea: ????
Laney: T tore out after U. TruLuv <3 <3 ;) Denise: Pls check in
Trevor: W8D 4u
Bex deleted them all, her thumb hovering over the garbage-can icon when she got to the last text. There was no name attached to it, just a phone number: 919–555–0800.
Something dark and black hung on the edge of her periphery, weighing down her shoulders and slicing through her gut.
She remembered rolling the numbers on her Gran’s old-fashioned rotary phone, her nine-year-old finger dipping into the hole over the number nine. She remembered swiping the wheel, the way it sounded as it clicked back into place. She poked her finger into the number-one slot, flicking the wheel a short half inch. Then back to nine again. She could see herself dialing the rest of the numbers, but she couldn’t remember what they were. What she did remember was the fuzzy sound of the phone ringing against her ear, then the flat voice of the woman who answered: “North Carolina Central Court House. Holding department.”
Bex glanced down at the number on her phone, at the little smiley “You have a new text!” bubble. She swiped it.
919–555–0800: Hello.
That was it.
Hello.
The numbers and the word blurred in front of her. The soft green of the chevron stripes on her comforter fell away, the mint-colored walls turning a deep, mossy green before they went gray as cinder blocks, like the walls of a cell. The message was innocuous. The number was terrifying. The area code, 919, was Raleigh.
Did he know? Does my father know who I am now? Where I am? He couldn’t still be in Raleigh…
An involuntary and sudden lump formed in Bex’s throat. Had her father been nearby her whole life but never bothered to contact her?
If he was in Raleigh, he couldn’t have killed Darla…right?
Who…
Bex pinched her eyes closed, and in a moment of strength, she highlighted the number and hit Dial on her phone.
It rang.
Once, twice.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, the thuds as loud as Mel’s story, as loud as “The Tell-Tale Heart.”
Three, four.
Thud, thud.
Simultaneously, the chimes started on the phone and her heart stopped beating.
“Bex, hon, dinner’s ready.”
Denise was standing in the doorway, head cocked, wearing heavy shoes that had thud-thud-thudded up the stairs.
“You have reached a number that has been disconnected. If you think you have reached this number in error…”
Sick itched at the back of Bex’s throat, and sweat stung as it dripped into her eyes.
“Oh, honey!” Denise was at her side, gathering her up and pressing a cool palm to Bex’s forehead. “You look sick, and you’re all warm and clammy. How do you feel?”
Denise pried the phone from Bex’s hand and dropped it on the bed. Bex stared at the phone’s lit-up face, her eyes drawn to the icon of the red telephone hanging up, text blaring out Call Dropped. Denise seemed to follow her gaze and picked up the phone. “I’m sorry. Cell service is so bad out here. Probably for the best.” She slid the phone onto Bex’s dresser. “You should just get some rest. I’ll have Michael bring you up something to eat.”