“A tragedy,” he said, his eyes holding hers.
Bex blinked several times, trying to ignore the cold sweat that had started at her hairline. “A tragedy. A real tragedy.” That word was used in the newspaper every time another one of her father’s victims was found. No matter the circumstances or the woman, the event was always classified as “a tragedy.” Bex realized now how empty that word was, being used to describe everything from a poor fashion choice to the end of someone’s life. Darla’s murder was more than a tragedy; it shouldn’t have happened.
“Yeah,” she said, stammering. She glanced down at the camera, remembering the intense burning of the red light that night on the beach. “So, did you get some good footage?”
Zach followed her eyes to his camera. “Of this? I mean, I got a few pictures but—”
“No, at the beach that night.”
Zach’s eyebrows went up. “What are you talking about? I wasn’t there.”
She pointed to his GoPro. “Yeah you were. I saw you. Or I saw that. The red light. You were filming from across the street when the cops came.”
“Look, I don’t know what you thought you saw or anything, but”—he grasped his camera protectively—“it wasn’t me. I’m not the only guy with a camera.” Zach walked away, and Bex stared after him.
“That dude is weird.”
Now it was Laney at Bex’s other shoulder.
“Zach?”
“Yeah.” Laney’s lip curled up in something like disgust. “I don’t know what it is, but something about him gives me the creeps. And he’s always staring through that stupid camera. Can’t be normal to live your life staring at other people, right?”
“I guess not.”
“By the way”—Laney thumbed over her shoulder toward the tree—“Darla would have hated this.”
“Too much?”
Laney chuckled. “Not enough.”
“Hey.” Chelsea approached them, staring down at her phone.
“You’re going to walk into a Mack truck staring at that thing, you know.”
Chelsea shrugged and slid her phone in her pocket. “I am perfectly aware of my surroundings at all times, thank you very much. Hey, Bex.” She took a step closer, squinted her eyes, then picked up the silver chain. “Ooh, something sweet from mi amour?”
“Ton amour,” Laney corrected.
Chelsea stopped when she got to the bauble. She held it up, and they all watched the silver heart slowly spin on the chain.
“Where did you get this?” Suddenly, there was a cold edge in Chelsea’s voice.
Bex slid the necklace from Chelsea’s fingertips and laid it flat against her chest. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I’m serious, Bex. Where did you get that necklace?”
“I don’t know. I figured one of you left it for me.”
“What do you mean ‘left it for’ you?”
“Someone left it on my doorstep. I thought it was Trevor at first, but he said it wasn’t him so I thought maybe one of you…”
Laney put her hand on Chelsea’s arm and the two shared a look.
Bex’s saliva soured in her mouth. Her breakfast sat like a cold rock at the pit of her gut. Images of television mean girls flashed in her mind, and she thought back to that first moment she’d met Chelsea and Laney, when she thought they would be horrible and mean to her. Maybe they weren’t her friends. Maybe they had been playing a part. Maybe they knew who she was all along.
She swallowed even though her throat was bone dry. “It’s not from you guys? It was wrapped up in a box, and there was no note or anything.” She could feel the tears starting and tried to steel herself, to will herself not to cry.
“That necklace was Darla’s. She wore it every day. She never took it off.”
Bex was reeling. Chelsea, Laney, the tree, the school—everything blurred out of focus and became fish-eyed. Bex took off running, clawing at the bauble around her neck. With every step the thin chain seemed to tighten, the once-delicate links like barbed wire digging into her skin. She lost her breath and felt the pressure on her chest, against her windpipe. She coughed, gagged.
She pushed the bathroom door open and made it to a stall just in time to vomit. She was crying, her shoulders shaking, her lips bitter and trembling. When she turned around, she saw her reflection in the mirror: eyes wet and blackened by dripping mascara. Cheeks hollow and pale. A hair color she didn’t recognize. And around her neck the heart sat, now edged in blood from the scratches from her own clawing fingernails.
She thought of her father, the way he must have looked down at his prey, at their milky, sightless eyes, their lips, the pinkness of life giving way to deathly blue. He must have looked at them and thought of her. She imagined his fingertips brushing aside Darla’s blond hair, his rough fingers working the delicate clasp on the necklace.
Bex gripped the pendant and broke the chain.
Twenty-Eight