Trevor nodded solemnly. “Well, obviously.”
Bex stared at the toes of her Converse sneakers tapping against the bleacher floor. She shot Trevor a sidelong glance, taking in the slant of his nose, the way his chin poked out just slightly. Behind him, Kill Devil Hills High looked like any other high school anywhere in the world: kids were milling around, and there were streamers and GO BIG RED! posters plastered all over the exterior wall of the gym. There was nothing different about the scene, and Bex was a part of it. For the first time she could remember, she was part of something normal. And she was about to ruin it. As much as she wanted to shrug off her father and Detective Schuster and just kiss Trevor and go to prom and forget about anything else, there was one other poster on the gym wall that gnawed at her: the grinning picture of Darla, the letters R.I.P. emblazoned across the front of her cheerleading uniform.
“You know—do you remember when we were kids, there was a serial killer out in Raleigh?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You mean the Wife Collector? He’s, like, local legend there.”
Bex kept her eyes on her toes. “He’s real. Everything he did… It was real.”
“Okay…” Trevor drew out the word.
“The man they accused of being the Wife Collector had a daughter, you know. A young daughter.” Bex’s heart slammed against her rib cage. She tried to keep her breathing steady and even, but it was like her insides wanted to implode.
Bex couldn’t bring herself to look up. She was sure that if she did, Trevor would be gone, a trail of smoke and laughter behind him as he ran to tell Chelsea and Laney and the rest of the school that Bex Andrews was a lying freak. She didn’t want to see the hate and disgust on his face, the way his lip would curl if he spat on her or slapped her. If the Wife Collector was her father, what did that make Bex?
Trevor was silent for a beat that seemed to stretch on for a year.
“I think I remember reading that. Talk about a kid who’s going to need some serious therapy.”
A stabbing pain arched through Bex. “You mean because she’s probably psycho too.”
Trevor shrugged, considering. “Not necessarily. But if you found out your dad was a murderer, don’t you think that’d mess you up, even a little?” He held her eyes and she wasn’t sure if he was asking her or challenging her. She wanted to sputter out the whole truth, who she was, because even if Trevor ran from her, it would be better than the lie she was living. If she was truly the Wife Collector’s daughter, it would always be a stain on her soul. Therapy couldn’t fix her. She would never be normal. But either way, she was the daughter of the man who was accused of committing those crimes.
“I guess.”
“So?” Trevor’s sneaker slid toward her, then lightly kicked her toe. She glanced up and he reached out to lightly stroke her cheek. “You’re not the kind of girl who needs a ton of therapy, baby.”
Bex wanted to cry. Or run. She’d thought that telling Trevor the truth might peel the weight from her shoulders and maybe he would understand. Except she knew that everything she feared about the way people thought of her as Beth Anne Reimer—messed up, in need of help—was true. She may be Bex Andrews now, but she was still the accused Wife Collector’s daughter. Tears played at the edges of her eyes, and Bex was far too tired to try to stop them when they overflowed and rolled down her cheeks.
“Why are you crying?” Trevor jammed his hands in his pockets and fished out a brown Starbucks napkin. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Bex, are you scared of something? Are you scared of that killer coming here?”
She silently shook her head, took the napkin, and blew her nose. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why I started to talk about it.”
“I’d like to believe it’s because you trust me.” His hand found hers. “And hopefully because you know that I love you.”
The air was sucked out of Bex’s lungs. She stared at Trevor, stunned. He squeezed her hands.
“Bex?”
“Did you just—?”
No. She had heard wrong. Trevor didn’t love her. No one did. She was unlovable. She was the daughter of an alleged murderer, and that blood—that horrifying blood—flowed through her veins, so no one could love her. No one should. No one could ever know—not Trevor, not Chelsea or Laney, not Michael or Denise. Even her own father didn’t love her to fight for her.
“Did I just say that I love you?” Trevor nodded. “Yeah, I did. I do.”
Bex knew she should talk. Acknowledge him somehow. Tell him that she loved him too, because she really thought she did. But all she could do was open her mouth, then close it again dumbly. She was the child of a murderer, and this good, decent guy didn’t know that and now he thought he loved her. He said he loved her. But he didn’t really know her.