“Here goes nothing.”
The detective had given her a list of things to do and write—even the best time to post and what her subject line should say. Bex typed from the paper, focusing only on the letters and not the words they were making up. It was better that way; she wasn’t part of it then. She was just a receptionist, just typing a slew of letters that formed themselves into words that formed ideas without her. She had barely hit Post Topic when the first response pinged in. It was the same cheerful ping she got from every other website on the planet. Somehow she thought a notification from a serial killer page would have a more apropos tone, like a chain saw revving or a woman screaming. Bex’s stomach rolled into a tight knot.
1player1 has responded to your posting BLACK BEAR CUB. Would you like to accept?
Bex could feel the hot breath pumping through her nostrils and burning the tips of her lips. She didn’t want to accept. She didn’t want to accept any of this. The animated question mark throbbed. She clicked.
Hi BETHANNER (great name by the way, true fan, huh?!)!
There is another guy that usually posts here—his screen name is IMHIM_HESME. He knows all about the Wife Collector’s family life. More than I do. What exactly do you want to know about?
More messages popped up, one after another in a terrifying deluge. Some responded to Bex’s question, and most referenced Beth Anne—Bex—in horrible, stomach-sickening references. Bex felt their poison sink into her, making her eyes sting as tears rolled over her cheeks. To some of these “fans,” Beth Anne Reimer was a legend with “royal” blood.
They estimated that she was probably “as bad as her daddy, if not worse” and had not only the benefit of her father’s genes but his tutelage too. One responder stated that Beth Anne diligently visited her father every other weekend, knowing exactly where he was, and took notes. Another said she was probably in an institution. Still a third said that he emailed the Wife Collector’s daughter frequently and that they’d even had a fling.
Bex could feel the sick at the back of her throat as she scanned each message, trying to only find keywords, the things and patterns that Schuster had told her to look out for without actually reading the text.
Two hours later, Bex felt like a wrung-out dishrag. Her head throbbed, her throat felt raw, and it felt as though her tears had run divots down her cheeks. The messages had slowed to a trickle, and Michael and Denise had poked their heads in to say good night and warn her off the computer. Bex had nodded mutely and mumbled, “Almost done,” but kept clicking on each new response. She stopped when she got to the message from IMHIM_HESME. It was simple:
WHO ARE YOU?
It was an email response. Three silent words sent through cyberspace, but Bex felt like they were in her house, in her room, throbbing, growing, suffocating her. It felt like IMHIM_HESME was screaming at her, his breath hot, his hands talons, clawed, coming for her.
He was in the house.
No, Bex told herself, shaking her head. “He” is no one. A name. A jerk. Probably some ten-year-old kid from some country she had never heard of.
WHO ARE YOU?
The words burned Bex’s throat and she whirled in her chair, blinking at the darkness that blanketed her. At some point, the streetlights had gone on. At some point, the cars had stopped drifting up the street and the yellow lights in the neighborhood had clicked off one by one.
It was like Bex was the only one awake in the world. A warning gnawed at her. You brought him here. You have to make sure they’re safe.
She glanced at her phone, ready to text Trevor, Chelsea, and Laney—but what would she say? “Hey, guys, just want to make sure my potentially-a-serial-killer father hasn’t butchered you?”
She tried to laugh at her pitiful joke, but her heart pounded and that unrelenting voice kept saying, Not them… Bex thought of Michael and Denise, poking their heads in and wishing her good night before they ambled across the hall. She cocked her head, hoping for the comforting sound of the television turned down low or one of the Michael’s curtain-sucking snores.
There was only an overwhelming, deafening silence.
No.
Bex jumped out of her chair so fast it fell to the floor behind her, catching on the edge of the bed and sliding to the ground slowly, soundlessly. She picked her way across the heavy pile carpet, each creak and settle of the house sending a shock wave of angst down the back of her neck.
She could hear him breathing.
No! Bex scolded herself. That’s Michael. Or Denise.
But something about the computer in her bedroom, the screen glowing like a beacon, seemed like an open door inviting the Wife Collector and all his weird groupies into her world—into Michael and Denise’s home. Bex brought evil.