The detective paused on his end, and Bex could hear him suck in a long, slow breath. “I know this is hard, Bex. But this is so, so important. Especially now. He knows that the world is looking for him. He’s going to need help. He’s going to be looking for someone who will sympathize with him. Your dad’s smart. You could very well be our only hope of catching him before…”
Bex knew what he was going to say: before he kills again. He had to say it, had to pin her with it because all she wanted to do was tuck her head in the sand and fall into a dreamless sleep that would last until the whole ordeal was over. But saying no was as good as becoming a monster herself.
“Let me think about it,” she whispered.
Twenty-Five
Bex stayed after school to make up the geography test she’d missed when Michael and Denise let her sleep in. When she finished, she slipped the paper into her teacher’s wire basket, said good-bye, and stepped out into the hallway. It was completely deserted. The floors looked like they had just been cleaned, and the smell of chlorine and industrial cleaning products stung Bex’s nose.
Her footsteps echoed throughout the hall, as did the footsteps of the person behind her. Bex casually glanced over her shoulder, then stopped.
It was the girl from the funeral, the girl who had waved to her.
Tension pulled Bex’s shoulders up to her earlobes. “Can I help you with something?”
Clearly startled, the girl blinked her deep-brown eyes.
“I-I…” The girl swallowed and blinked again. She straightened. “I’m the girl whose mother was killed by your father.”
Someone had sucked all the air out of the room and Bex couldn’t move, her mouth open, eyes wide. In her mind’s eye, she doubled over herself, oofing from the sucker punch to the gut.
“Wh-what did you say?”
“I’m Lauren.” The girl looked as uncomfortable as Bex felt, taking a step and then stepping back, offering a hand, then pulling it away. “I just…”
“Oh. Oh,” was all Bex could say as a million things crashed over her: Apology. Grief. Guilt. Blame.
Blame?
Your mother shouldn’t have made my father kill her.
The thought—a fleeting one that was in as quickly as it was out—made Bex sick to her stomach.
“I just wanted to…see you…I guess,” Lauren was saying, the fabric of her skirt swooshing into a colorless blur.
“My father… He never… It was alleged…”
But Lauren just stared at her, eyes wide, intent, curious.
Bex took a step back. “I can’t… I’ve got… Excuse me.” She turned and pushed in the door to the girl’s bathroom, making it to the first stall just as she started to wretch. She was sweating, a burning stripe going from the back of her neck all the way down her spine as she vomited. Each time her stomach convulsed, a new wave of images shot through her mind—gruesome, haunting, slasher-movie scenes that made her sick all over again.
When there was nothing left to throw up, she grabbed a handful of toilet paper and blotted her eyes and nose as she cried a silent, body-racking sob for this strange girl Lauren and the mother that Bex’s father had snatched away. She cried for Lauren and for herself, and begged for forgiveness for thinking that the woman’s murder could be anything but her father’s fault.
You don’t know that! that inner voice told her.
He’s your flesh and blood, another one countered. Like father, like daughter.
Bex wasn’t sure how much time had passed but she’d cried everything out, her entire body feeling hollow and light. She splashed water on her face and pulled her hair over her eyes and cheeks, trying her best to hide the red splotches and smeared makeup. When she pushed back out into the hallway, it was blessedly silent.
“It’s Bex now, isn’t it?”
Lauren was still there, and Bex felt herself start to tremble.
“How did you know who I am?”
Lauren shrugged her thin shoulders. “I…know people. I went to the same juvenile detention center you did. I guess I kind of kept tabs…”
“I’m sorry,” Bex said.
“Me too,” Lauren said.
Bex started. “What are you sorry for?”
Lauren crossed in front of her. “I shouldn’t have just… I wasn’t even going to talk to you.” She looked at her shoes. “I really just wanted to see you, see what you looked like.”
Bex sucked in a slow breath. “Did you want to see if I looked like him?”
Lauren glanced at Bex, then stared at her shoes. “You do, kind of. I mean, the pictures.”
Bex nodded, unsure what to say. She really didn’t know what her father looked like, other than the pictures, and in them, she couldn’t see much more than a slight and passing resemblance: same hair color, similar expression.
“Do you mind if we sit down?” Lauren asked.
Bex wanted to say no, but something drew her. Whether she thought she owed Lauren something or not she wasn’t sure, but she pushed open the double doors and led her to a bench in the quad.
“Is it true that he gave you things—things that belonged to—”
“Yes.” Bex couldn’t bear to hear Lauren say the words. “I didn’t know…”
“Did he ever give you earrings?”