Denise slowed in front of the high school on Monday morning, Bex’s eyes widening as she leaned forward, taking in the U-shaped drive that was now bumper-to-bumper cop cars. Her stomach fluttered but she sucked in a deep breath when Denise patted her shoulder.
“Are you going to be okay with this, hon?”
Bex licked her parched lips, not taking her eyes off the squad cars. “What do you think they want?”
Denise shrugged. “They might be asking questions, or maybe they’re here to answer them. Look, Bex, I know you didn’t know Darla, but if you want to stay home, I understand. All of this”—she waved her hands, and Bex wasn’t sure if Denise meant the cop cars or the events of the last two days or life in general—“is a lot to take in.”
Bex briefly considered going back home and tucking herself underneath her cheery mint-green comforter, then spending the day with Denise doing mom things—which were what, exactly? Bex didn’t know. The offer was almost tempting but at home, tucked in the drawer of her nightstand, was the white box with the silver heart necklace set neatly inside. It had taunted her all night—A kind offering? Some kind of joke?—and Bex didn’t want to be near it.
“No thanks, Denise.” She steeled herself and forced a smile that, when she caught her reflection in the rearview mirror, looked more like a bared-teeth grimace. “I’ll be okay.”
The vibe on campus was somber. Everyone seemed to move in slow motion. Where there were usually groups of chattering, joking teens, there were red-eyed mourners walking aimlessly and clutching the straps of their backpacks. Bex saw Trevor walking in from the student lot and detoured directly into the girls’ locker room, her heart thundering in her throat, her shoulders pressed against the cold brick wall. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to see the “Are you crazy?” look on his face after last night’s phone call.
“I heard Laney and Chelsea found her,” came a rough whisper from between the lockers.
White-hot heat started at the base of Bex’s spine.
“They practically stepped on her,” another female voice added. “They were with that new girl too. Beth or Rec or something.”
Bex’s heart thundered in her ears and she held her breath, straining to hear. Were they going to accuse her?
“I heard poor Darla had actually been missing for a week. No one even went looking for her.”
Tears pricked at the base of Bex’s lashes.
“It’s so sad. And now there’s some crazy psychopath on the loose.”
Bex was breathing hard, teeth gritted, trying to block out the images that came at her full speed. They were newspaper headlines, television snippets from another time, another world that wouldn’t leave her alone no matter how far away she was.
“…Isabel Doctoro had been missing for more than fourteen days before her body was found…”
“…need to find this psychopath…”
“No one knew to look for her.”
“Hello? Hell-ooh?”
Bex snapped out of her daymare and blinked at the two girls standing in front of her. They were both decked out in black-and-red Kill Devil Hills basketball sweats, with their long hair pulled back into slick ponytails topped with black-and-red hair bows. They were school spirit through and through, right up to their made-up lips, now tugged down into deep frowns.
“Were you listening to our conversation?”
“N-no,” Bex stammered. “I-I just walked in.”
The girl who hadn’t spoken—the one with the glossy, black hair and blue eyes that took up half her face—stepped in front of her friend, scrutinizing Bex. “Hey, aren’t you the new girl?”
Bex nodded, suddenly mute.
“You were with Chelsea and Laney when they found Darla.”
Again, Bex’s heart started to thud. Her stomach folded in on itself and she briefly glanced toward the bank of bathroom stalls to her left, wondering if she would make it there before vomiting.
“What was it like?” The dark-haired girl’s lips quirked up just the tiniest bit, her expression a macabre mix of interest and sheer fascination.
Bex shook her head, unable to form the words as images bombarded her—images that no child, no one at all, should have to see: graying faces, unseeing eyes; the photographs of bodies strewn across an overhead projector; beautiful girls, alive and vibrant on one side, their desperate, empty shells on the other, supposedly carved by her father’s hand.
“He was a butcher…”
“An animal…”
“These young women were nothing but things to him, things to take and use and ruin and then discard like so much trash…”
She saw Darla’s toes, half-buried in the sand.
The girls were still staring at Bex, the dark-haired one practically leering, leaning in to her. Bex stepped between them, silent, and pushed open the doors of the locker room, letting the warm, outside air wash over her cheeks.
She didn’t realize she was crying.
• • •
No one had followed her, but Bex couldn’t shake the image of Darla or of the girls pressing into her in the locker room, sucking her air, wanting Bex to tell them what she knew.
The thought made her stomach lurch.
When she saw Chelsea and Laney coming out of their classroom up ahead, she cut down the nearest hall. She didn’t want to talk to them.
“Are you waiting to see someone?”
“What?” Bex blinked and noticed the woman in the hall.
She was standing in front of Bex, smiling lightly and holding a clipboard to her chest. She was dressed in a nondescript navy-blue pantsuit, her graying hair pulled back in a severe bun.
“Did you want to see one of the grief counselors? You don’t have to sign in. It can be completely anonymous.”
Bex glanced through the windows, her eyes scanning the library. It was slightly dim and seemed blessedly quiet, an easy escape from people asking her questions.
“Do I have to talk?”
“No.” The woman shook her head. “You don’t have to talk about the event.”
Bex briefly wondered when they stopped calling it a murder and started calling it an “event.”
“You can just take some quiet time in the library if you feel that’s what you need.”
Bex nodded, stepping inside. Another woman, this one slightly taller and without a clipboard, made a beeline for her.
“Hi, I’m Renee. Can I help you?”
Bex opened her mouth but her tongue felt weighted.
“Why don’t you come over here and sit? We can chat awhile.”
Renee led Bex to a tiny office and began chattering in calm, soothing tones as she poured Bex a glass of water and sat down across from her.
“How are you doing today?”
Bex was silent for a beat. “I didn’t know her.”
She knew that Renee was trying not to look judgmental or surprised, but her eyebrows rose.
“Are you talking about Darla?”
“I didn’t know her. I…” Bex’s fingers found the straps of her backpack, and she worked the thick, woven material back and forth. “I’m new here.”
Renee sat back in her chair. “You didn’t have to know her to be upset. It’s okay to have a lot of feelings. The circumstances are tragic and rather terrifying.”
“Circumstances?” Bex looked up.
“You know that Darla was murdered.”
Her blond hair was fanned out on the sand, a few strands bouncing up on the wisp of ocean breeze.
“I know.”
“We don’t know exactly what happened to her yet, but someone out there does. Do you want to talk about that? Is the uncertainty bothering you?”
Bex blinked. “Are you a real doctor?”
Renee seemed slightly taken aback. “I assure you, I’m qualified to help. And yes, I’m a real doctor. I’m a psychiatrist, which means I have my MD.”
Bex licked her lips, which suddenly seemed Sahara dry and cracked. “So you know about mental…diseases.”
Renee seemed to reset her professional smile. “What can I help you with?”
“The person who”—again, Bex couldn’t say the word—“hurt Darla. He…he had to be crazy, right? Sick?”
“Well, there are a lot of reasons people kill, and yes, mental disease can be one of them. Psychopaths do exist.”
“Is that…” Bex shifted in her chair but kept her eyes on Renee’s shoulder. “Is psychopath—psycho—”
“Psychopathy.”
“I mean, you don’t catch it. The psychopathy. Either you are or you aren’t, right? It’s just in you?”
Renee nodded carefully and Bex was spurred on.
“Is it hereditary? Can it be passed along?”
Renee cleared her throat. “Well, some psychiatric diseases are, in fact, inherited, but that doesn’t mean that if someone did something while suffering a—we call them breaks, psychotic breaks—if someone did something during a psychotic break, that doesn’t mean you would do the same thing, even if you inherited the same psychopathy.”
Bex lost her breath. “Not me. I didn’t do anything.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you… What’s your name? I didn’t mean you in particular. I meant the global”—she made air quotes—“you.”
Bex could feel her temperature ratcheting up, could feel pressure at her temples. Her saliva soured in her mouth. “But it’s possible.”
“Theoretically. Are you worried about something, honey?”
Bex stood quickly and slung her backpack over one shoulder. “No, no, I’m fine, thanks.”
Renee stood too. “We can continue to talk. Are there other questions you have?”
“No, I’m good.”
Renee may have still been talking, but Bex didn’t hear. Her blood was pulsing with Renee’s answer, with the possibility that if her father was a psychopath, there was a chance that Bex was one too. She walked straight through the library, eyes focused directly ahead, not stopping when she saw Zach at the door to Renee’s office, not thinking about the shocked look on his face.