Bex slipped her cell phone out of her backpack when she got home. She had thirteen missed calls between Michael and Denise, plus missed calls from Trevor, Chelsea, and Laney. Then, there were the texts:
Denise: Where are u?
Trevor: U OK? U bolted.
Chelsea: ????
Laney: T tore out after U. TruLuv <3 <3 ;)
Denise: Pls check in
Trevor: W8D 4u
Bex deleted them all, her thumb hovering over the garbage-can icon when she got to the last text. There was no name attached to it, just a phone number: 919–555–0800.
Something dark and black hung on the edge of her periphery, weighing down her shoulders and slicing through her gut.
She remembered rolling the numbers on her Gran’s old-fashioned rotary phone, her nine-year-old finger dipping into the hole over the number nine. She remembered swiping the wheel, the way it sounded as it clicked back into place. She poked her finger into the number-one slot, flicking the wheel a short half inch. Then back to nine again. She could see herself dialing the rest of the numbers, but she couldn’t remember what they were. What she did remember was the fuzzy sound of the phone ringing against her ear, then the flat voice of the woman who answered: “North Carolina Central Court House. Holding department.”
Bex glanced down at the number on her phone, at the little smiley “You have a new text!” bubble. She swiped it.
919–555–0800: Hello.
That was it.
Hello.
The numbers and the word blurred in front of her. The soft green of the chevron stripes on her comforter fell away, the mint-colored walls turning a deep, mossy green before they went gray as cinder blocks, like the walls of a cell. The message was innocuous. The number was terrifying. The area code, 919, was Raleigh.
Did he know? Does my father know who I am now? Where I am? He couldn’t still be in Raleigh…
An involuntary and sudden lump formed in Bex’s throat. Had her father been nearby her whole life but never bothered to contact her?
If he was in Raleigh, he couldn’t have killed Darla…right?
Who…
Bex pinched her eyes closed, and in a moment of strength, she highlighted the number and hit Dial on her phone.
It rang.
Once, twice.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, the thuds as loud as Mel’s story, as loud as “The Tell-Tale Heart.”
Three, four.
Thud, thud.
Simultaneously, the chimes started on the phone and her heart stopped beating.
“Bex, hon, dinner’s ready.”
Denise was standing in the doorway, head cocked, wearing heavy shoes that had thud-thud-thudded up the stairs.
“You have reached a number that has been disconnected. If you think you have reached this number in error…”
Sick itched at the back of Bex’s throat, and sweat stung as it dripped into her eyes.
“Oh, honey!” Denise was at her side, gathering her up and pressing a cool palm to Bex’s forehead. “You look sick, and you’re all warm and clammy. How do you feel?”
Denise pried the phone from Bex’s hand and dropped it on the bed. Bex stared at the phone’s lit-up face, her eyes drawn to the icon of the red telephone hanging up, text blaring out Call Dropped. Denise seemed to follow her gaze and picked up the phone. “I’m sorry. Cell service is so bad out here. Probably for the best.” She slid the phone onto Bex’s dresser. “You should just get some rest. I’ll have Michael bring you up something to eat.”
• • •
It was pitch-black in her room when Bex woke up. She was still dressed from school, her backpack on the floor where she had left it, her cell phone on the dresser where Denise had set it. There was a half-empty bowl of chicken noodle soup on the nightstand, and Bex’s head was pounding like a like a bass drum. She pulled the ponytail holder from her hair and massaged the throbbing spot on her head, lost in the dark haze of just waking up. It took her a second to remember what had happened, for the day to come crashing back on her.
She grabbed her phone, nestled deep in bed, and texted her friends, thinking a blanket text would be the least painful.
Bex: Srry I bailed, guyz. Sick. Barf. Gross.
Chelsea texted back immediately.
Chelsea: Nice 1, barf breath. T’ll B all over that!
Bex rolled her eyes but checked her phone, hoping that Trevor wouldn’t respond with anything that referenced her barf breath.
Chelsea pinged again.
Chelsea: Y u up?
Bex glanced at the clock.
Bex: 2am?! LOL Just woke up. U?
Chelsea: Cnt sleep
Bex: Y?
Chelsea: Thnkin. Darla. No1 missed her 4 a week.
Bex: U did. U called everyday.
Chelsea: Didn’t do anything tho. Her parents didn’t kno she was missing. Scary. Do u think ur parents miss u?
Bex paused, about to respond, when another text from Chelsea broke through.
Chelsea: I mean ur real parents.
The breath caught in Bex’s throat and she felt her lungs collapsing, constricting. What did Chelsea know? Her eyes were watering, and she could hear the sad wheezing as she clawed at her chest and tried to breathe.
The Wife Collector.
Her father.
Do U think ur parents miss you?
Her mother.
What did Chelsea know?
The scream was out of her mouth before she knew it.
“Bex, Bex!” Michael flicked on the light and Bex cringed from it, the brightness burning her retinas. He and Denise flew to her bedside, eyes wide, concerned.
“Relax! Relax, look at me.” Denise kneeled in front of her, her hands on Bex’s, squeezing. “Keep your eyes focused on me. Try to breathe slowly.”
Bex felt as if she were breathing through a pinhole. The tears were streaming down her face and her lungs screamed, sending a searing heat up the back of her throat.
I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die.
An image burned in front of her eyes—another headline, another victim:
Amanda Perkins: Wife Collector’s 6th Victim?
Bex was seven when she learned the word “asphyxiated.”
Hands on her throat. Her windpipe narrowing, closing. The searing heat, the struggle to breathe, to live.
This is what it feels like. This is what it felt like for Amanda Perkins.
Bex’s lungs swelled with air and she sputtered, coughed. Denise and Michael were staring at her anxiously, Denise on her knees, still holding Bex’s hands.
“What happened?” Bex squeaked, her throat feeling raw and dry.
“Michael, get Bex some water.” Denise focused on Bex. “I think you may have had an asthma attack. Do you have asthma, Bex?”
Michael returned with the glass, and Bex sucked down every last drop before shaking her head. “No, not that I know of. That’s never happened to me before. I mean, not that I can remember.”
“It wasn’t listed in any of the medical reports, was it, hon?” Michael asked and Denise shook her head.
“I don’t think so.”
Nausea rolled through Bex’s stomach. “You have my medical records?”
A smile quirked the edges of Denise’s lips. “Of course we do, honey. Your caseworker sent them over before you arrived so we could enroll you in school. We needed your vaccination records and all that, because we wanted to be sure that you’d have everything you needed once you”—she paused and bit her bottom lip—“came home.”
Bex was worried that her caseworker hadn’t changed the names on her reports—was worried until she heard the pull in Denise’s voice when she looked at Bex, eyes soft, and said, “home.”
She was Bex Andrews and this was her home.
She was just Bex Andrews.