“Okay, the movie sucked. Capital S. U. C. K,” Chelsea said as she, Bex, and Laney shuffled out of the Cineplex late that night. “I’m almost sorry I gave you that makeover.”
Bex blinked her heavily made-up eyes and smacked her lips together, tasting the waxy residue Chelsea’s borrowed Bombastic lip color had left. “It may have been a lousy movie, but I looked great watching it.”
“That’s what counts!”
“I bet he liked it.” Laney jutted her chin toward a crowd of kids in front of them, Zach taking up the rear. He turned and looked just as Bex did, their eyes locking, then falling away immediately.
“He left the theater, like, three times,” Laney said.
“Probably to go run and film himself saying that he loved the movie because it was ‘based on actual events.’”
“‘Inspired by,’” Bex corrected. “And I didn’t think it was that bad.”
A sly smile spread across Laney’s face. “Like you even saw the movie! Your eyes were glazed over the whole time in Trevor-loves-me-land.”
“Oh, let her be in love. We all could be serial-killer fodder in five minutes.”
The jovial conversation immediately died. Bex wondered if Laney and Chelsea were thinking about Darla. All she could think about was her father, the screaming headlines, the talking heads on the news.
“Um, we should get to the car,” Bex mumbled.
“Ladies…” A beat-up convertible BMW nearly ran over the girls’ feet as the driver slowed to leer.
“Screw you!” Laney yelled to his taillights.
“Do guys think that actually works?” Bex asked, thankful for the subject change. “Like, how many girls climb into a complete stranger’s car?”
“I don’t know,” Chelsea said, squinting in the direction the car had gone. “If he was cute…”
“Chels! That guy was, like, a hundred.”
“And he doesn’t seem all that picky.” Bex pointed to where the BMW had pulled to the curb, another group of high school girls drifting toward the passenger-side door and giggling.
“I didn’t mean that guy. And besides, if those girls get in that car, they deserve whatever they get. Herpes, scabies, whatever.”
Bex looked away, briefly wondering if the women who had gotten into her father’s car deserved what they got. The thought immediately made her blood run cold. No one deserves that kind of death! she screamed in her head. But then, that horrible voice: They deserved it. You know they did. You think like he does. His blood is yours…
Bex tried to shake the voices from her head.
Chelsea touched her arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just spaced for a minute there.”
“Guys?” Laney had stopped in front of them, pointing at her car. It was the only one left on that side of the lot, and it was covered in paper.
“Lane! Someone left you, like, a thousand love letters!” Chelsea started toward the car, but Bex hung back, certain the pages weren’t left for Laney.
“What is this?” Chelsea asked, peeling a paper from the windshield.
Bex pulled one out as well. They were slighter bigger than standard size, and when she leaned into the light to read one, her heart stopped. She held her breath as she stared at the others, hoping they weren’t the same—but each one bore the same headline, the same inch-high, bold, red letters: MISSING. Under each heading there was a full-color picture.
“Oh my God.” Laney pulled one from the windshield, squinting at the photo. “Who is this? Bex, do you know who Melanie Harris is?”
“Or”—Chelsea snatched a poster from the roof—“Amanda Perkins?” She pulled another one. “Kelly Hughes? Who are these people? Why did someone plaster these all over your car?”
Chelsea and Laney were plucking off the sheets, uncovering new photos—Amy Eickler, Katrina Wendt, Isabel Doctoro.
Bex knew them all.
They were all her father’s victims.
“Oh no,” Chelsea said, her voice shaking. “This one is just a little girl.” She plucked off more of the pages to show a new smattering of posters below. They were all the same picture, all the same girl.
“Who is she? What’s her name?” Laney asked.
“Beth Anne Reimer,” Bex said, her voice a choked whisper.
• • •
Chelsea and Laney removed most of the posters. Bex tried to help, but her hands were shaking and her brain couldn’t seem to command her arms to do anything but flail around uselessly.
“Jeez, Bex, you’re white as a ghost. It’s okay. It’s probably just some stupid prank,” Chelsea said, rubbing her palms over Bex’s arms.
Laney frowned at the last of the fliers. “Some kind of disgustingly morbid prank. Get in, the car is mostly clear.”
Bex nodded, unable to pick the proper words from the ones that drove through her head. Who? And why? When her cell phone chirped, she dropped it twice before swiping to answer.
“Hey, Trevor.”
“So? Did you get it?”
Bex pressed her palm to her forehead, liking the cool feel against her hot skin. “Did I get what?”
“I left you something outside the theater. You couldn’t have missed it.”
Bex frowned. She felt her throat as it closed tighter and tighter. It was hard to breathe. She felt like she was already crying, but her eyes stayed dry and she was statue still.
“You did this?” Her voice was a faint whisper.
“You did this?” Beth Anne couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice. “I can’t believe you did this.”
Gran swelled with all the pride her ninety-eight-pound body could muster and dangled a key ring, two keys jangling together at the end. “You’re sixteen, Beth Anne. Did you think I’d forgotten?”
“No.” Beth Anne shook her head. “I didn’t think you’d forget but I-I… We can’t afford this, Gran.”
Gran scoffed. “It’s not exactly a Rolls Royce, dear.”
It was a Ford Escort and it was at least twenty years old. The paint was chipped off the roof but what remained had been lovingly shined up. The seats were covered by a funky leopard-print blanket that had been carefully folded and cut to fit. “The original interior was not in the best of shape but—”
“It’s beautiful, Gran. Thank you.”
Gran folded the keys into Beth Anne’s palm. “Well, go ahead. Take it for a spin.”
There were exactly three places that Beth Anne knew to drive to, the only three places in town she ever went: the library, the grocery store, and, when she could see from the street that it was blessedly empty, Deja Brew coffeehouse on Falls of Neuse Road. She’d tuck her feet underneath herself in one of their half-hidden wingback chairs and spend hours reading and sipping the bitter brew. It was one of those places where she thought she could blend in. She was wrong.
She remembered walking out to the parking lot just before closing. There must have been people in and out of the coffeehouse, but she had been so engrossed in her book that she had never noticed. Now, when she saw her car, Beth Anne wished she could crack open the book’s hard spine and climb in. Hers was the lone car in the lot. The one that Gran had scrimped and saved for, even though it was “not exactly a Rolls Royce.”
Someone had spray-painted the side.
The letters were huge, glaring red, and crudely written. Now the car bore the same stain that she did: MURDERER.
She had abandoned it then and there.
There was a rush of cold air over Bex’s cheeks as Laney swiped the phone from her. “Hello? Who is this?”
“It’s Trevor, Laney. Put Bex back on.”
“Did you say you did this? You did this to my car?”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
Bex turned to Laney and clawed for the phone. She wanted to smash it, to step on it, and then do the same with this life—smash it into a thousand obliterated pieces. She had thought Trevor liked her. She thought that he…
“I left flowers on your car for Bex. What are you talking about?”
Bex could see Laney’s jaw drop open just slightly. “So you didn’t plaster my car with Missing posters?”
“What? Who the hell would do that? Let me talk to Bex.”
Laney tried to hand the phone to Bex but she waved it away, numbly walking to the passenger’s side of the car and settling herself in. The sound of the seat belt clicking was reassuring, but for a second Bex thought about unbuckling it, sliding into the driver’s seat, and driving away. She wouldn’t go anywhere. She wouldn’t stop anywhere. She would drive into the surf, a tree—anything that would stop the pain that was coursing through her body, stinging with every beat of her heart.
Everywhere she went, she brought death and destruction. Even when she tried to get away, it found her, making its presence known. That was who she was. That was who she’d always be. Bex couldn’t end Beth Anne, but Beth Anne could end Bex. She pressed her index finger to the seat belt button and heard it click. She started to slide toward the driver’s seat…but Laney beat her there. She was shaking a slim bouquet of cellophane-wrapped flowers in front of Bex’s nose.
“Trevor left these, Bex. These flowers. There were no posters here when he left these. They were under all the paper on the windshield. It wasn’t Trevor.”
Chelsea slid into the backseat and Laney started the car, the purr of the engine sending a warm shimmy through Bex. They drove in static silence for blocks before Chelsea cleared her throat and spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“How did you know the name of the little girl in the poster?”
Bex didn’t answer and Chelsea fell silent for a beat. Then, “I know who it was.” Chelsea snapped her fingers. “Zach.”
“Zach?” Laney asked.
“Yeah. Isn’t it obvious? He was at the movie, so he had the opportunity.”
Bex felt her breathing slightly regulate. “Zach? Why would he do something like this?”
“Because he’s Zach,” Chelsea exploded, eyes rolling. “He wants a story. He was probably behind us filming the whole thing. Like one of those hidden-camera pervy things. He probably just googled ‘kidnapping,’ found pictures on some creepy-assed ‘people who love weird crime shit’ sites, and slapped together a whole bunch of Missing posters. He knew we were going to the movies…”
“And there is only one Cineplex in this shoe-box town. It’s not like he’d have to drive around looking for us,” Laney reasoned.
Bex chewed her bottom lip. “I guess he’d know your car.”
“Asshole,” Laney fumed.
“Jerk,” Chelsea added.
But Bex just sank back in her seat. She wanted Zach to be the culprit and this whole stupid stunt to be a prank. But how did he know about the Wife Collector? How did he know to choose all his victims? And how did he get the picture of Beth Anne Reimer?