“What is this?” Chelsea asked, peeling a paper from the windshield.
Bex pulled one out as well. They were slighter bigger than standard size, and when she leaned into the light to read one, her heart stopped. She held her breath as she stared at the others, hoping they weren’t the same—but each one bore the same headline, the same inch-high, bold, red letters: MISSING. Under each heading there was a full-color picture.
“Oh my God.” Laney pulled one from the windshield, squinting at the photo. “Who is this? Bex, do you know who Melanie Harris is?”
“Or”—Chelsea snatched a poster from the roof—“Amanda Perkins?” She pulled another one. “Kelly Hughes? Who are these people? Why did someone plaster these all over your car?”
Chelsea and Laney were plucking off the sheets, uncovering new photos—Amy Eickler, Katrina Wendt, Isabel Doctoro.
Bex knew them all.
They were all her father’s victims.
“Oh no,” Chelsea said, her voice shaking. “This one is just a little girl.” She plucked off more of the pages to show a new smattering of posters below. They were all the same picture, all the same girl.
“Who is she? What’s her name?” Laney asked.
“Beth Anne Reimer,” Bex said, her voice a choked whisper.
? ? ?
Chelsea and Laney removed most of the posters. Bex tried to help, but her hands were shaking and her brain couldn’t seem to command her arms to do anything but flail around uselessly.
“Jeez, Bex, you’re white as a ghost. It’s okay. It’s probably just some stupid prank,” Chelsea said, rubbing her palms over Bex’s arms.
Laney frowned at the last of the fliers. “Some kind of disgustingly morbid prank. Get in, the car is mostly clear.”
Bex nodded, unable to pick the proper words from the ones that drove through her head. Who? And why? When her cell phone chirped, she dropped it twice before swiping to answer.
“Hey, Trevor.”
“So? Did you get it?”
Bex pressed her palm to her forehead, liking the cool feel against her hot skin. “Did I get what?”
“I left you something outside the theater. You couldn’t have missed it.”
Bex frowned. She felt her throat as it closed tighter and tighter. It was hard to breathe. She felt like she was already crying, but her eyes stayed dry and she was statue still.
“You did this?” Her voice was a faint whisper.
“You did this?” Beth Anne couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice. “I can’t believe you did this.”
Gran swelled with all the pride her ninety-eight-pound body could muster and dangled a key ring, two keys jangling together at the end. “You’re sixteen, Beth Anne. Did you think I’d forgotten?”
“No.” Beth Anne shook her head. “I didn’t think you’d forget but I-I… We can’t afford this, Gran.”
Gran scoffed. “It’s not exactly a Rolls Royce, dear.”
It was a Ford Escort and it was at least twenty years old. The paint was chipped off the roof but what remained had been lovingly shined up. The seats were covered by a funky leopard-print blanket that had been carefully folded and cut to fit. “The original interior was not in the best of shape but—”
“It’s beautiful, Gran. Thank you.”
Gran folded the keys into Beth Anne’s palm. “Well, go ahead. Take it for a spin.”
There were exactly three places that Beth Anne knew to drive to, the only three places in town she ever went: the library, the grocery store, and, when she could see from the street that it was blessedly empty, Deja Brew coffeehouse on Falls of Neuse Road. She’d tuck her feet underneath herself in one of their half-hidden wingback chairs and spend hours reading and sipping the bitter brew. It was one of those places where she thought she could blend in. She was wrong.
She remembered walking out to the parking lot just before closing. There must have been people in and out of the coffeehouse, but she had been so engrossed in her book that she had never noticed. Now, when she saw her car, Beth Anne wished she could crack open the book’s hard spine and climb in. Hers was the lone car in the lot. The one that Gran had scrimped and saved for, even though it was “not exactly a Rolls Royce.”
Someone had spray-painted the side.
The letters were huge, glaring red, and crudely written. Now the car bore the same stain that she did: MURDERER.
She had abandoned it then and there.
There was a rush of cold air over Bex’s cheeks as Laney swiped the phone from her. “Hello? Who is this?”
“It’s Trevor, Laney. Put Bex back on.”
“Did you say you did this? You did this to my car?”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
Bex turned to Laney and clawed for the phone. She wanted to smash it, to step on it, and then do the same with this life—smash it into a thousand obliterated pieces. She had thought Trevor liked her. She thought that he…
“I left flowers on your car for Bex. What are you talking about?”