Twisted by Hannah Jayne(9)
“I appreciate your help, Mr. Howard, but I’d really like to get to class. I don’t want to fall any more behind.”
“Oh right, of course. Well”—he stood, gathering a sheaf of papers—“these are from your teachers. Some books you’ll need to pick up, some additional reading material for catching up, and I’ve included some helpful material about the area, about making friends. You’ll be sure to come and see me, should you need anything, right, Bex?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Bex shoved the papers in her backpack and made a mental note to avoid Mr. Howard at all costs.
? ? ?
The rest of the school week passed quickly and smoothly for Bex. For the first day or two people smiled at her and gave her the obligatory new-kid greeting when prompted by the teacher, but by midweek she was a regular kid. Not once did she feel the bitter burn of eyes on the back of her neck or hear the chafing whispers, “Stay away from her. She’s bad.” By Friday morning, Bex was actually looking forward to going to school. She knew where her classes were, had memorized her locker combination, and had been absorbed into Chelsea and Laney’s circle of friends.
“Ugh!” Chelsea was growling at her cell phone as she and Bex merged into the crowd in the hall. “I’ve texted Darla seventy times, and she hasn’t texted me back.”
“Darla? Your friend from Rhodes’s class? I thought you guys said she was sick. Maybe’s she napping or something, or her parents took her phone.”
Chelsea shot her a bemused look. “Darla’s not really sick. She tends to take the occasional mental health day. Or, in this case, week. And her parents? Mom’s a flight attendant and dad’s a pilot.”
“Sounds kind of romantic.”
“Darla says it’s more passive-aggressive than romantic since they work very hard not to ever be on the same schedule. Or in the same city.” She went back to her call. “Answer your phone, bitch!” Chelsea rolled her eyes when Darla’s nasal voice boomed out from the phone: You’ve reached Darla’s phone. Lucky you!
“Hey, Dar, it’s Chels. Again. If you don’t call me back, I’m officially kicking you off the squad and busting you down to mascot. So, if you don’t want to wear a giant devil’s head that smells like ass for the rest of your high school existence, you’ll call me.”
Bex spun the combination on her locker. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
Chelsea winked and pointed at Bex. “That’d be best. Anyway, tell your parents you have plans tonight.”
“I do?”
“Party at Darla’s house. She might not be answering the phone, but I know she’ll answer the door. I’ll shoot you the info. Bye!”
Bex was too stunned to wave. She hadn’t been in school—hadn’t even been Bex Andrews—for more than a few days, and already she had friends and a social life. She felt a slight tingle behind her ears. Could it really be this easy?
“See you later, Bex!” Laney passed her in the hall as Bex opened her locker.
“Bye!”
I can do this.
She pulled books from her locker and shoved them into her backpack, her hand hovering over the stack of papers from Mr. Howard. Bex had stashed them away on Monday and avoided them since. Just the thought of the man gave her the creeps, but she pawed the pages into her bag anyway, vowing to trash them at home. She slammed the metal locker door shut.
“Hey.” Zach was crouching next to her locker, picking something up. “You dropped this.”
He slid the postcard into Bex’s hand without making eye contact and kept walking.
“Thanks!” A tiny niggling feeling in her gut hoped that Zach would turn around and smile at her to give some indication that he was okay, that he didn’t somehow blame her for Trevor’s reaction. He had studiously avoided Bex and her whole group all week, and for some reason, it bothered her.
“Next time,” she muttered under her breath, glancing down at the postcard he’d handed her.
Bex had to blink several times to read the words. They couldn’t be right. They blurred and swarmed and re-formed again.
Greetings from the Research Triangle!
There was a cartoon picture of the state of North Carolina, a red line forming the Research Triangle of Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill. The same line could be drawn to mark the locations of most of the Wife Collector’s victims.
Bex shook her head. It was a coincidence. A joint ad for UNC and Duke, maybe something from Mr. Howard’s stack of brochures to familiarize herself with the area.
But the Research Triangle is almost 250 miles from here…
She flipped the card, hoping to see a preprinted message about applications for admissions or campus tours. She didn’t expect the hastily scrawled message:
DADDY’S HOME.
Six
The words throbbed in front of her eyes.
DADDY’S HOME.
They burned into her retinas, into her mind, and paralyzed her. All around Bex, lockers slammed and kids shuffled down the halls, the din of doors opening and closing and chatter and overhead announcements that the last bus was leaving all morphing into one crashing whoosh that swelled in her ears and slammed through her mind.
Daddy’s home.
Somehow, Bex turned. Somehow, she scanned the hall and the few students left. No one acknowledged her. No one snickered behind their hands or tried to hide a sinister smile, responsible for this sick joke.