Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 52

Calla stood in the Smith's driveway, staring up at the modestly sized mansion with

her hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie. Her breath coiled in the air above

her, disappearing into the grey sky above.

She hadn't been here since the night of the winter gala. She hadn't planned on

coming back, either. But here she was, staring up at the empty windows on the

second story that looked into Rachel's room. The curtains had been drawn, blocking

out the rest of the world.

She reached into her front pocket and felt nothing. A spark of anger flitted through

her and then was gone.

Idling in front of the house was the Smith's white Escalade, exhaust curling from the

rear. The trunk stood open and a faint dinging came from within. Beside the car

were five suitcases.

The front door to the house stood open. Tony Smith carried a backpack in one hand

and a tote in the other. Calla expected to see grief in his face, in part because that's

the man she'd seen at the funeral, eyes rimmed with red and watery with the threat

of tears.

But he was beyond that now. He stared at the car vacantly, an empty vessel long

abandoned.

Patricia Smith stood by the car, gazing up at the house with the same blank look in

her eyes. Neither one of them had spotted Calla, who announced her presence by

walking toward the car, the gravel crunching underneath her boots.

Patricia turned, a look of surprise animating her face for a moment before even that

was wiped away. She gave Calla an empty smile and walked forward to sweep her

in an embrace. She was frailer than Calla remembered, her spine digging into Calla's

hands.

She leaned back. Her eyes—Rachel's eyes—had sunken deep into her skull, casting

dark shadows on the rest of her face. "You came."

They'd never discussed Calla's visit. Hell, she hadn't so much as picked up the

phone to warn them she was on her way over. She still didn't know what had driven

her here. It had been a three mile walk across town, skirting the main roads in favor

of winding back ways, her lungs burning with cold.

She was supposed to be getting ready for the movies later. It's not like she was

thrilled to be spending her night surrounded by people she hated, Jessica and Astrid

chief among them. But it was the official we survived the first week of school

celebration—which was really just a horrible irony, considering how their classmates

were dropping like flies. Stephanie was going to be there, and Ryan, and Calla had a

lot of work to do before she figured out who her next target should be.

And yet, here she was.

She hadn't even known where she was going when she'd left the house. But maybe

that was a lie. She had, after all, dug around her nightstand for the spare key Rachel

had given her.

The key that was now missing.

Not missing, a voice whispered. Stolen. But why?

Calla gave the older woman a thin smile. "I figured...it was time."

She'd known. By some unspoken law, Rachel's mother had known Calla would

come. Known she had to come.

The slamming of a door made them both turn. Tony had loaded the suitcases and

shut the trunk, drifting around to the driver's seat with barely a word. He didn't so

much as turn to call to his wife. He just climbed into the car and shut the door,

staring ahead with his hands on the steering wheel.

Patricia turned back to Calla, her eyes like two black holes. She pursed her lips.

"We're going to visit my brother out in Florida for a few weeks."

We're leaving, was what she didn't say. We're leaving and we're never coming back.

Because she left, and she's never coming back.

"I understand," Calla offered, her voice barely a murmur. She couldn't take her eyes

off of Tony, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel so tight she thought he

might break it.

"Here." Patricia dug into the front pocket of her jeans, producing a little golden key—

a replica of the one she'd possessed until very recently. "I want you to have this.

You can...look after the place while we're away."

She offered Calla the key, who stared at it blankly.

Take it.

She glanced up at the older woman. "I...I can't—"

"I insist," Patricia said, her voice nearly frantic. She grabbed Calla's hand, startling

her, and shoved the key into her palm. "Please. Take it. Rachel would want

you...she'd want you to have it. What's ours has always been yours."

"It's your home ," Calla said weakly, staring down at the key in her hand. Patricia

withdrew, shoving her hands behind her back.

"No. Not anymore." She gave Calla a weak smile. The corners of her mouth

twitched, as if the cool, empty facade she wore now was close to cracking. "We

have to leave. You're welcome here any time. If you ever need her. We...left her

room untouched. It might bring you comfort."

As if that empty house would make Calla feel any closer to a dead girl. But why else

had she come here, if not for that reason?

Because something is wrong, the voice whispered again. The key is gone. Why is the

key gone, Calla?

"I..." Patricia reached out and brushed a stray hair behind Calla's ear. The smooth

glass behind her eyes cracked, showing a flash of grief so profound it nearly took

Calla's breath away. But then it was gone. The woman leaned forward to give Calla

one more brief hug. "We've got to go."

She released Calla and turned, jogging back to the car. She slammed the passenger

door behind her and Tony put the car in drive. As he swung around to pass Calla,

their eyes met for a brief flash.

His were filled with regret. Calla had barely raised her hand in farewell before they

were halfway down the drive, kicking up gravel as they sped away.

Calla stared back up at the house, which seemed drastically emptier than before.

Gripping the key in her hand, she marched up to the front door. It swung open on

silent hinges, welcoming her to what had, in just the last few moments, become a

tomb.

She didn't linger in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, despite the fact that she

was parched from her walk. She didn't linger at all. She headed straight for the

grand staircase, her hand trailing on the ornate railing. Her boots clattered against

the marble, echoing throughout the house.

At the end of the hall, she found Rachel's room.

The door swung open with a slight creak, as if it hadn't been touched in some time

—which, Calla supposed, it hadn't. She stepped inside, closing the door softly

behind her.

The bed had been made, the sheets smooth and untouched. The silky pink

bedspread invited Calla to sit, to lay, to laugh and gossip and share secrets with a

girl who was no longer here. She imagined if she closed her eyes, even just for a

moment, she would open them and find Rachel sitting in her usual spot, sprawled

out in the center of her king-sized bed, lying on her back with her arms spread wide.