Twisted

by Hannah Jayne

  “Killer!” A redheaded boy standing on the bottom step of the church porch cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: “Killer!”

  Another boy, one step down from the first, selected another rock, his arm reeling back for the throw.

  “She’ll kill you!” a third kid yelled.

  Sue looked at Beth Anne, eyes wide, and broke her hold to protect her head as a handful of pebbles rained down on them.

  “Hey, new girl.” A brunette Beth Anne had never seen before ran toward them. “Stay away from her. She’s a psycho. Her daddy murders mommies and eats them!”

  Another rock came sailing from the church, this one hitting Sue square in the chest. The girl looked at the dirty mark it left on her T-shirt and then at Beth Anne as if she was the one who put it there. And in a way, she was.

  “Come on!” The brown-haired girl snatched Sue’s wrist and pulled her up, tugging her into a run. “You can’t play with her,” the girl admonished. “No one can. She’s bad like her daddy.”

  The taunts of the kids—killer, murderer, psycho—still rang in Bex’s ears, still hung in her head. The postcard trembled between her fingers, the fading image she still held of her father sharpening in her mind. Pale complexion. Larger-than-life stature. Kind eyes.

  She shoved the postcard deep in her backpack, smashing her books on top of it.

  Bex Andrews didn’t have a father.

  It was only three o’clock, but the thick haze of gray fog made it look later and Bex shivered at the damp chill. School had let out less than ten minutes before, but the grounds were emptying at record speed as kids crossed the street en masse and a long line of SUVs and minivans snaked through the front lot, collecting kids and disappearing into traffic.

  “Bexy!”

  Bex whirled at the loud voice and waved at Laney who was hanging out the driver’s side window of a VW Bug painted a hideous fluorescent green that shone through the fog. Bex could see a spray of silk daisies wobbling on the dashboard and something with a crystal hanging from the rearview mirror. Even though Bex barely knew her, the whole car seemed to scream “Laney.” Chelsea was in the passenger’s seat, staring at her cell phone, when Bex jogged over.

  “Hey, you need a ride?” Laney asked.

  “Oh.” Bex was stunned, still certain that somehow the week had been a colossal joke that she was the unwitting butt of, that the postcard was simply the start of her old life chipping away at her new one.

  “You don’t even know where she lives,” Chelsea said, snapping her gum.

  Laney shrugged. “Need one?”

  “No thanks.” Bex waved at the air. “I’m actually not entirely sure where I live yet. I know it’s that way.” She pointed in the general direction Denise had come from that morning. “Anyway, D…my mom”—Bex had trouble pushing out the words—“insisted on driving me today. First week and all that.”

  “All right. See you later then!”

  Laney stepped on the gas just in time for Bex to glance in the tiny backseat of the car. Monday’s newspaper was on the seat, the picture of Erin Malone, the body from the Dumpster, smiling out at Bex. Her breath hitched, the words on the postcard already seared in the back of her mind.

  Daddy’s home.

  Erin was a pretty blond, vibrant and happy from the looks of the newspaper picture, and she had been dumped in the trash like she wasn’t worth anything at all. Just like the rest of the Wife Collector’s victims, the little voice in Bex’s head taunted. She gritted her teeth and tried to edge out the thought.

  A train of cars followed Laney’s out into the street, and Bex was left at the crescent-shaped mouth of the school driveway, waiting for Denise. She glanced at her phone and rocked on her heels. What if Denise had forgotten her? What if Denise had figured out who she was and wasn’t coming for her at all? A strange heat burned through Bex and she pushed up the sleeves of her hoodie, even as the fog turned to a cold wet mist.

  Another few moments passed, and then there was a cacophony of honking and a stressed-looking Denise screeching into the driveway. She frantically rolled down the passenger-side window and pushed open the car door.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she said before Bex could reach the car. “We got absolutely swamped at the station. The news editor is out sick, and my editor’s water broke and—”

  “It’s okay.” Bex smiled, pulling the door open farther. “You’re not really late. Everyone just takes off the second the bell rings, I guess.”

  The look on Denise’s face softened and she grinned back. “I love that you haven’t learned teenage angst yet.”

  Bex slid into the passenger seat, her temperature still rising, her heart still thundering in her chest. When her cell phone buzzed, it nearly sent her into a tizzy. Denise glanced at her, and Bex forced a nonchalant chuckle.

  “Oh,” she muttered, when her heart no longer threatened to launch itself from her mouth. “It’s just Chelsea.” She flicked her thumb over the message.

  Chng-o-plns. Bonfire 2night @ corollabeach. Still cant find that skank darla!!!!

  • • •

  Bex dropped her backpack in her closet when she got home from school. She glanced at it sitting there in the half dark among her shoes and new cleats. Even though the stupid postcard was buried inside under her books, her gym clothes, and a few notes from Chelsea and Laney, it still seemed menacing. Taunting.

  She was pulling the closet door shut when Denise knocked on the door frame. “Hey, Bex,” she said. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah.” Bex dropped into her desk chair while Denise took a spot on the bed. “You okay, hon? You seemed a little distracted on the drive home.”

  Bex bit her lip. “Oh, yeah. It’s nothing. Just tired.”

  “You know you can talk to me or Michael about anything, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course. Thanks.”

  There was a slow pause. Then, “So, do you have any plans for tonight?”

  “Well, Laney and Trevor and them are going to have a bonfire. Someplace called Corolla Beach?” She couldn’t stop herself from shooting a glance toward the closet, toward the postcard. “But I don’t think I’m going. I’m kind of tired.”

  “Oh no! You should totally go! Corolla Beach is beautiful!”

  “It’ll be dark,” Bex said, laughing.

  “The beach is beautiful at night. And high school bonfires are a tradition. But”—Denise held up her hands—“it’s totally up to you.”

  “What’s going on in here?” Michael poked his head through Bex’s open door, eyes narrowed as he feigned a suspicious glare.

  “I am just telling our daughter that bonfires at Corolla Beach are a high school tradition.”

  “Aw, we used to bonfire on the beach too! Bunch of guys, bunch of girls, bunch of blankets…” His voice trailed off and then he shook his head emphatically. “No. No bonfires on the beach. Bonfires, blankets, bad. You know what’s fun? Hanging out with your parents and a gluten-free pizza. So fun. Right, Denise?”

  “Don’t worry, Michael. Bex wasn’t going to go anyway.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Bex said, starting to smile. “You’ve suddenly made beach bonfires sound very appealing.”

  Michael moved to protest, and Denise put a hand on his arm. “What if she promises to avoid blankets?”

  • • •

  The drive to Corolla Beach took nearly forty-five minutes and Bex, Laney, and Chelsea laughed the entire way. Trevor and his friends had left ahead of them, tasked with finding wood and building the bonfire. As Laney navigated the last few winding miles toward the beach, Chelsea turned down the radio and leaned over the backseat.

  “Okay, Bex. We have to tell you something about Corolla Beach.”

  “Let me guess. It’s not really a beach? Or, wait, it’s a nude beach?” She waggled her eyebrows but sincerely hoped that wasn�
�t the case.

  “No.” Laney laughed from the driver’s seat. “And, Chelsea, way to make it sound so ominous. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  Chelsea gaped. “It’s totally a big deal. Someone died there.”

  Bex felt the smile drop from her lips, her blood running cold. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

  “A girl drowned there when we were freshman.”

  Bex could finally breathe again—not that drowning made anything better, but it wasn’t murder. It wasn’t anything like what her father had done.

  Allegedly. The voice, nearly a breathless whisper, was at the back of her mind again. She clenched her teeth against the unwanted intrusion. Innocent men don’t run, Bex’s mind ticked. She tried to push her father and his crimes—alleged or otherwise—out of her thoughts.

  “That’s awful,” Bex said.

  “Yeah. And someone tried to murder a young couple there last summer.”

  Bex bit her lip. “And we’re going there, why?”

  “Oh”—Chelsea spun back to sit forward in her seat—“that guy got caught. Or died. Or something. It’s not like he’s still out there lurrrrrking in the night, looking for his next kill.” She pounced on Laney, who screamed and swerved the car, its headlights cutting yellow streaks over the dunes and beach grass.

  “Chels!” Laney caught Bex’s eye in the rearview mirror. “And by the way, she’s totally lying.”

  “I am not,” Chelsea whined, turning her attention back to Bex. “They say the guy who murdered the young couple had a hook for a hand.”

  Bex giggled, then heard the tires spin over the sand, trying to gain traction. The girls all jerked when it finally did, the car righting itself on the road with a clunk.

  “Why are you trying to kill us?” Laney asked, trying to maintain her anger over her laughter.

  But Chelsea wasn’t listening.

  She was leaning forward in her seat, hands flat on the dashboard. “Aim that way again,” she said, pointing toward the area where they were nearly beached.

  “Why?” Bex asked, picking up the towels and chips that had flopped off the seat when the car lurched.

  “I thought I saw something.”

  Laney slowed the car but didn’t stop. “What are you talking about? What did you see?”

  Chelsea blew out a sharp sigh. “If I knew what it was, I wouldn’t have asked you to light it up, now would I?”

  Heat began to prick on Bex’s ears. “You guys, this is a little too horror movie for me,” she said with a nervous giggle. “Can we just get to the beach?”

  Chelsea spun to face her. “You just want to get your freak on with Trevor. Like we haven’t noticed him puppy dogging you all week. Turn around, Lane, just for two seconds.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” Laney said, turning anyway.

  “Could be pirate treasure. Give me the booty!” Chelsea screamed in the worst pirate accent Bex had ever heard. “See? There!” She bounced on the seat as she pointed.

  Laney and Bex leaned forward, squinting. “Oh my God, someone’s out there.”

  Bex cocked her head. “Is it two people? Are they having sex?”

  Laney stopped the car and slammed on the horn, the headlights fully illuminating a pair of bare feet in the sand. She honked two more times, and Bex’s stomach started to fall as a memory nibbled at her periphery.

  It was a pretrial hearing in one of those cavernous courtrooms that was supposed to be closed to the public. But it was packed nonetheless.

  “Counselor,” one of the attorneys—Beth Anne couldn’t keep their names straight—raised his hand as he stood. She remembered thinking how strange it was that a grown man, a grown man in a suit even, still had to raise his hand when he wanted to speak. “I’d like to request that the defendant’s daughter be excused before viewing the crime scene photographs. She’s only a child—”

  “No!” A stocky man from the prosecution’s side of the room jumped up. “She should have to sit here and see what her father done! What he done to my little girl!”

  The judge slammed his gavel hard and yelled something. The courtroom started to murmur and Beth Anne heard it again: “She’s just a little girl! She had nothing to do with anything!”

  Kasey, the advocate assigned to her by the court, wiggled through the crowd and held her hand out. Someone pushed Beth Anne forward, her hand finding Kasey’s—but not soon enough. There was already a photo on the screen: the soles of two bare feet, blotched and purpling, peeking out from underneath a blood-speckled sheet. A little, yellow tented number was placed next to them, the words Vic: Hayley Davison, 19; Exh 1 printed in black Sharpie across it.

  Chelsea and Laney kicked open their car doors, but Bex wanted to stop them. She wanted to scream at them to get back inside, to start the car and go to Corolla Beach, but she couldn’t move. Everything fell into silent slow motion. The sand kicking up behind Chelsea’s flip-flops. Laney’s hair fanning out behind her as she beckoned for Bex.

  Woodenly, Bex pushed the seat forward and slipped out of Laney’s door. She heard nothing as she stepped onto the sand, still warm from the sun. Laney and Chelsea had turned back by then, their mouths open, their faces tortured. Chelsea was yelling at Bex, pointing at the phone in her hand. Bex didn’t react, and Chelsea finally snatched it from her. Laney’s face was red, mascara running down her cheeks with the tears.

  Bex stopped, the bare feet mere inches from her own.

  They belonged to a woman—no, a teenager—lying facedown in the sand. Her hair was spread in a graceful blond halo, the edges disappearing into a clump of sea grass. Her head was turned, lips blue and slightly parted, eyes open as though she were staring down the beach. Her right arm was laid gently at her side, fingers curling over her palm. Her left arm was arched over her head, her fingers half-buried in the sand. Bex didn’t need to see them to know that the ring finger was missing, because that was his calling card.

  The Wife Collector.

  Her father.

  Daddy’s home.

  Seven

  No, Bex thought.

  It couldn’t be. Her father had been gone—on the run—for ten years now. The murders had stopped.

  But what if he’s started up again? the tiny voice in the back of her head asked.

  “No.” She shook her head. “No.” She didn’t realize that she had said it out loud until Laney turned to her. She was trembling.

  “Darla,” Laney murmured, her index finger shaking as she tried to point. “It’s Darla.”

  Bex didn’t know how long it took for the police to come. The three girls waited in Laney’s car, the silence deafening until Chelsea said, “I’ve never seen a dead body before.”

  Neither had Bex, in person.

  “Not a body,” Laney said, her voice a breathy whisper. “Darla.”

  The police came in a flood of red and blue lights. No sirens, just lights that bled across the sand, lending the evening an even more morose and eerie feeling. When the police got out of their squad cars, it was like the clock started again—radios cackling, the steady hum of cars continuing to arrive, waves crashing in the near distance. Everything was happening.

  “Bex!”

  Bex snapped to the voice, and Trevor launched himself from the driver’s seat of his car, cutting through the sea grass toward her. One of the officers stepped in front of him.

  “We’re going to need you to stay back, son.”

  “But they’re my friends,” Trevor said, his hands falling listlessly at his sides. “And that’s my girlfriend.”

  Bex should have felt something—an exhilarated zing, a delicious anxiety, even a pop of irrational fear. She had eaten lunch with Trevor exactly five times and shared an ice cream cone and her history notes—and now he was calling her his girlfriend. She had always wanted to have a boyfriend, to be norm
al, one of the gang. Now that it had happened, all she could feel was numb. The bees were buzzing in her head, pricking hot spots down her spine.

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening…

  One of the cops—his name badge read Officer Kelty—shuffled the three girls away from Trevor and into the shadow of his black GMC.

  “We’re going to need to ask you ladies some questions.” He jutted his chin toward Laney and Chelsea. “You two hang back right here for a second. I’m going to talk to…” He raised his eyebrows but Bex didn’t say anything.

  “Her name is Bex,” Chelsea put in. “Bex Andrews.”

  That’s not right, Bex thought. That’s not my name…

  As Officer Kelty gently steered her to a slightly more private area, she steeled herself, repeating that she was Bex Andrews and that what was happening now had nothing to do with her father. But still that little voice persisted.

  “So, Bex, can you tell me why you and your friends were out here tonight?”

  The temperature seemed to drop by ten degrees and a crisp wind sped across the dunes, picking up grains of sand and re-dispersing them. Bex zipped her hoodie up to her neck.

  “Bonfire. We were going to have a bonfire.”

  Kelty nodded, his eyes never leaving the tiny notepad he wrote in. “And how was it that you came upon the body?”

  Bex heard herself relating the story but her eyes were flitting over the police officer. He was young—twenty, twenty-five at best, and clean-shaven—and when he looked at her, he smiled, his eyes warm. He was nothing like the officers she had met before, the ones from her old life who took away her father. Those two stood out in her memory, hard and almost gray, with sinister smiles and gnarled, bony hands that reached for her to steal away everything that was important to her.

  “I’m really sorry you had to see this,” Officer Kelty was saying. “But if you remember anything else, even if it doesn’t seem important, please call.”

  He handed Bex his card and then beckoned for Chelsea. Bex stared at his embossed name, at the gold, foil police star right next to it on the card. She had lied to a police officer. She said she was Bex Andrews.