Joy swelled through her. She wanted to scream at all the talking heads that had accused her father, that said he was unfeeling and unable to form attachments. He wasn’t a sociopath. He wasn’t a serial killer. He was her dad. Bex wanted to tell him everything, but caution dulled the sharp edges of her glee.
“Can I ask you something?” Bex stared straight ahead, her father’s breathing a steady in-out, in-out, heavy in her ear.
“Anything, Bethy.”
“There were…signs.”
“Signs?”
She could hear her father shift on his end of the phone. She tried to imagine where he was. She could hear the faint whooshing of cars or waves, but Bex couldn’t tell if that was on her end or his. There was nothing else, no telltale squeak of furniture or din of coffeehouse chatter.
“When I first got here to school, there was something in my locker.” She swallowed. “A postcard.” She pressed her eyes closed, and even though she hadn’t looked at the card since, the cheery greeting, the ominous scrawl on the back was forever burned in her mind. “It said, ‘Daddy’s Home.’”
There was a long, pregnant pause, and Bex counted the seconds. “Did you put it there?”
“No, sweetheart, I didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, Bethy.”
“And there were Missing posters.”
“Were those in your locker too?”
Bex pressed her palm to her forehead. “No, they were on my friend’s car. Hundreds of them. They were all…” She took a deep breath. “The victims.”
“Victims?”
She gritted her teeth. “The Wife Collector’s victims.”
Her father cleared his throat. “I didn’t do that.”
“Who would? And why would someone?”
“I can’t explain everything right now. There’s not enough time. I can’t stay here.”
A sob lodged in Bex’s chest. “You just… I just found you. You can’t just go.”
“It’s not safe right now. I’ll make contact with you. I promise I will.”
“Dad, I—”
“Look, Bethy, I’ve got to go.” A siren wailed long and low in the distance. “I’ll call you again soon, okay? I’ve got to go.”
He hung up the phone and Bex stood there, her phone pressed to her ear, listening to the dull silence. Finally she hung up, wondering why she felt so empty inside.
Bex walked through the next day in a daze, checking her cell phone call log to make sure that the previous night’s phone call had actually happened, that she hadn’t imagined it.
She remembered talking to Laney and Chelsea but couldn’t say what it was about. She remembered sitting down and having lunch with Trevor, then kissing him good-bye when she slid into Denise’s car.
“Good day today?”
Bex nodded, her hand still on her cell phone.
Denise was silent until they were nearly home. “Is something going on, Bex?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve been holed up in your room. You barely talk when you do come downstairs, and it’s been like pulling teeth to even get you to go out with your friends the last few days.”
Anger swelled in Bex’s chest. Denise wasn’t her mother. Denise had no idea what she was going through, what she had gone through. Her father did.
“We’re going to talk to your teachers at Back to School Night. I hope they’re not going to tell me you’ve been out of it in class too.”
Bex shook her head, then forced the words out of her mouth. “No. I’m doing okay. I’m just distracted. Schoolwork and—”
“You’ve played the schoolwork card a few too many times, hon. And the distraction one. You need to let us know what’s going on with you. Is it something with Laney and Chelsea? With Trevor?”
Bex gritted her teeth, feeling annoyed and violated. What right did Denise have…?
“I’m fine,” Bex said.
Denise pulled into the garage and Bex slung her backpack over her shoulder, deliberately lingering a few extra minutes in the kitchen so Denise would get off her back. She unwrapped a granola bar and sat at the table while she ate, and she and Denise at a frosty standoff.
“Can I go upstairs now?”
“You can go upstairs whenever you want. I’m just worried about you, Bexy.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she said, pushing past her foster mom.
Bex padded up the stairs, not bothering to check the readout when her cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Detective Schuster. I’m just checking in—”
“No,” she said, “he hasn’t made contact.” Bex hung up without waiting for Schuster to respond. She threw her cell phone onto her bed and dumped her backpack, then opened up her laptop. She had no new messages. She stared at the bright screen and her empty mailbox until she drifted off to sleep.
? ? ?
“Beth Anne! Beth Anne!”
She knew that voice, remembered that voice. It was far off in her dreams, in her memory, coming from somewhere deep. “Dad?” she heard herself murmur.
“Yeah, Beth Anne, it’s me. It’s your daddy. Now I’m going to put my hand over your mouth here. Don’t you scream, okay? Don’t you scream.”
“Why would you—”
Bex felt fingers on her cheeks pressing carefully but firmly. A thumb on the bone just under her eye socket. The heavy, far-off scent of tobacco and old sweat was overwhelming.
“Now don’t scream.”