Page 130 of Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

Bible would do most of the talking. What would Andrea do?

She walked to the desk. The notebook was no longer blank. She had written down some observations about her short time alone with Dean Wexler. Bible had his hopscotch, but Andrea had her triggers. The goal tonight was to make Wexler feel out of control. That was when he would make his first mistake. Andrea had three previous examples of Wexler’s façade dropping, and they had all happened inside of his old Ford truck.

The first time was when Andrea had said Emily Vaughn’s name. Without warning, Wexler had slammed on the brakes, almost sending Andrea’s head into the dash.

He had hit the brakes a second time when Andrea had pointed out that, though Wexler had left teaching, he had still found a way to surround himself with vulnerable young women.

The third incident was both more straightforward and more complicated. Wexler had told Andrea that he took shits bigger than her. Andrea had basically told him to get his head out of his ass.

That was when Wexler had escalated. He’d grabbed Andrea’s wrist to silence her.

She tapped her pen on the notepad. Wexler’s triggers were easy to spot. He didn’t want to hear Emily’s name. He didn’t like being called a predator. And he sure as hell didn’t like being called out on his bullshit.

Andrea didn’t know where this information got her to. Were they hopscotch boxes or were they the rocks? She put down the pen. She walked back to the window and peered out at the desolate road again. She crossed her arms. She put her back to the window. She let her eyes close.

There was a fine line between prodding Wexler’s ego and bringing out his rage. Andrea wasn’t worried about his violence. She could handle herself, though she doubted Bible would let it get that far. The problem was, if she pushed Wexler too hard or in the wrong direction, she’d end up ruining everything. On the other hand, if she didn’t push hard enough, Wexler might think that Andrea was afraid. If his behavior had proven anything it was that Dean Wexler liked it when women were afraid.

Andrea opened her eyes. The clock told her that only two more minutes had passed. Eighty-eight more minutes of pacing and looking out the window would not get her any closer to a strategy. She knew how to piss off Wexler, but she did not know how to get information out of him. Melody Brickel had said that Wexler was a cheap copy of Clayton Morrow. Andrea knew of only one person on earth who had faced down Clayton Morrow and lived to talk about it.

She picked up the desk telephone and dialed the number before she could change her mind.

Her mother answered on the fourth ring. “Darling? Are you okay? What time is it?”

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m sorry I—” Something occurred to her. “Did the Caller ID come up?”

Laura took a long pause before answering. “I know you’re in Longbill Beach.”

Andrea muttered a curse. She was supposed to help trick Dean Wexler into confessing, but she hadn’t been clever enough to turn off the location services on her iPhone. “So you’ve been lying this whole time?”

“You mean the same way you’ve been lying to me?”

Fair.

“Darling, are you okay?”

Andrea rested her head in her hand. She could feel the thick threads stitching together the cut in her forehead. Her nose was throbbing. Her throat ached. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“Well, I’m not sorry I lied to you. It was fun listening to your voice squeak.”

Also fair.

Laura asked, “Why are you calling from your motel room? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Andrea suppressed a cough. “Don’t worry, I haven’t flung myself over any cliffs lately.”

“I believe it’s flinged.”

Andrea opened her mouth, then closed it. This was not the first time they had argued over past participles. The last two years had been riddled with petty disagreements. Andrea decided to finally take the razor out of her mouth.

“Mom, I need your help.”

“Of course,” Laura said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” she insisted. “Can you—would you mind—telling me some things about him?”

Laura didn’t ask for a proper noun. Clayton Morrow was the Voldemort of their lives. “What do you want to know?”

“I—” Andrea wasn’t sure where to start. In the past, she had always shut down whenever Laura brought up her father. The only way she could get through this was to remind herself that, over forty years ago, Dean Wexler had studied from the book of Clay Morrow. “What do you remember about him? I mean, when you first met him.”