Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 80

Calla stepped inside and closed the door behind her for good

measure. She turned, half expecting to find Cory standing behind

her, a cartoonish grin on his face. But the foyer was empty. And so

was the living room beyond.

She walked into the kitchen. A familiar rack of knives sat at the

center of the island. An offering. She glanced at the spot where

they used to be, over by the stove.

Calla grabbed a knife and slipped it into the waistband of her

jeans. The cold steel pressed against the back, the tip digging into her skin. She savored the pain.

She turned toward the master staircase—and froze. Standing at the base of the stairs was a thin figure in a bubblegum pink ballerina

costume. Long black hair tumbled down her back. One dainty hand

gripped the mahogany bannister.

Tracy turned. She smiled back at Calla. Bruises had begun to form

at her throat. "Should we go upstairs?"

Calla glanced up at the third floor balcony. She could barely make

out the ceiling through the darkness. There was a good chance

she would find Cory up there... somewhere . The house was huge.

How many times had she played hide-and-go seek here, only to

find herself wandering for untold stretches of time?

When she looked back, Tracy was gone. Somewhere upstairs, she

heard delirious laughter.

Not. Real.

Calla gripped the bannister. Her hand ached.

She took the stairs two at a time. One foot in front of the other.

Again, that laugh. Calla clenched her teeth, the muscles in her jaw

fluttering.

Her feet hit the third floor landing. Almost an instant later, the

sound of shattering glass made her pause.

"Real?" Tracy's voice taunted her. "Or not real?"

"I hate you," Calla whispered. And then again, louder. "I hate you."

She hated a great many things, truth be told. She hated the

sweeping grandeur of the house, and the obnoxiously pristine

landscaping, and the smell of jasmine that constantly permeated

the air. She hated cats. And dogs, too.

But more than anything, she hated Tracy f*****g Smith.

"f**k you," she added for good measure. And then she strode

down the hall, her hand drifting to the knife at her back. She

paused midway down the hall. A heavy armchair had been shoved

in front of one of the doors. A barricade.

She stepped closer. Behind that door, she could hear the indistinct

sound of someone's voice.

Well. Here goes.

Calla shoved the chair aside, surprised at its weight. She heard

scrambling from inside and...was that more glass?

She opened the door. A small figure she knew all too well stood in

front of her, a shard of what looked like glass held between his

hands. She opened her mouth to say his name when he slashed at

her with the glass dagger.

Surprised and more than a little annoyed at the turn of events, she

tackled him by the midsection. He groaned when he hit the floor,

and the sound was so familiar—and so expected—she almost

laughed.

She didn't. Instead, she glared down at the boy beneath her.

Cooper Daniels blinked back up at her.

"I'm sorry," Cooper blurted for the fifth time in half as many

minutes.

"Cooper?" Calla asked, perched on the edge of the bed.

"Huh?"

"Shut the f**k up."

"Right. Got it."

She sighed, dropping her head into her hands.

Cooper sat to her right, fiddling with his makeshift weapon. His

hands were bound and bloody. A thin cut no longer than her thumb

ran across his left cheek. And his eyes...she wasn't sure if there

was medication strong enough to help the shadows under them

now.

I'm here to make good on our deal, she wanted to tell him. I'm here

to save your life, Cooper Daniels.

But she couldn't. And not just because she didn't know how to tell

him. The words didn't feel right here, in this room. Surrounded by

darkness and the smell of sweat and blood.

So there was that. And then there was the matter of Vincent

Townson.

"So you just..." Vincent stared at her profile, struggling for words as

he puzzled out how she'd gotten here. " Strolled through the front

door?"

She turned to look at him. She'd nearly jumped out of her skin

when he yanked her off of Cooper, only to embrace her with

enough force to drive the air from her lungs. His hands had roved

over her hair, her face, her arms. Searching for signs of injury.

Finding none—none except what she'd managed to inflict upon

herself in the last half hour.

"Why are you here?" he'd asked her, over and over. Fearing the

worst: that she'd been held hostage up until this point, and was

only here now as bait.

The truth of the matter was much more complicated than that. She

wasn't quite sure how to put into words why she'd come here. Not

even to herself. It went deeper than a promise. Calla could break a

hundred promises and never bat an eye.

She could live in a world without Cooper Daniels.

But it boiled down to one simple fact: she did not want to live in

that world. Because she knew what that world looked like. To walk through life as she

was, with not a single soul to notice...it would drive her mad. If she hadn't gone mad already. Her eyes roved to the corner by the

window, but Tracy was nowhere to be found.

Is that why I'm seeing her? she wondered, her eyes darting back to

Vincent's concerned face. Because I want someone to see who I

really am?

Perhaps that's what it all boiled down to. Intimacy. The kind she

couldn't get from Vincent. The kind that came from another person

glimpsing into the heart of who you were. Cooper had seen who

she really was the day he found that cat. And he'd carried that part

of her around with him ever since.

"I know it's a trap," she muttered, absorbing the details of his face.

Even through the darkness, she could make out the line of his jaw.

The curve of his lips. "I just don't know where he is."

They both froze at the mention of he. Calla glanced over her

shoulder at Cooper, who winced as he picked at his mutilated

hand. Her eyes narrowed at the crude six that Cory had carved

there.

Cooper noticed. He held up his hands and gave her a flat smile.

"Why?" she asked bluntly. Before he could answer, she grabbed his

hands. She turned them over and analyzed his palms. The cuts

there were deep—deeper than her own.

"I don't know," he answered weakly. "To get your attention, I

guess."

They stared at one another. Vincent couldn't see her face, not from

this angle. But he could see Cooper.

"What?" he asked, alarmed. "What is it?"

Instead of answering, Calla deflected by asking another question.

"I wonder why he wanted me here so badly?"

Her finger traced the edges of Cooper's wound, following the

jagged line. He winced at her touch, his eyes nervously darting

from her face to his hand.

"Maybe you're number seven?" Vincent hedged.

"It would explain why he let me get this far," she mused, her

fingers gliding closer and closer to Cooper's open wound. "There's

no way he didn't notice me moving around the house. I came in

through the front door. What good serial killer leaves the front

door unlocked?"

Vincent shifted, unsettled by her line of questioning. Cooper just

stared at her, his eyes wide with warning, as if to say hello, have

you forgotten Vincent is sitting right next to you?

Her vision pulsed. From the other corner of the room, Tracy

giggled.

"I was wondering where you'd gone," Calla muttered. Tracy's

laughter dug into her skull, worsening the headache forming

between her eyes.

"Calla!" Cooper snapped her name to disguise a yelp. She'd

pressed her finger into the gash on his hand. She watched as he

swallowed a moan. "Do you know why he wants you here?"

The question was meant to distract her. She released his hands

and he pulled back, his forehead gleaming with sweat. She stared

at him, startled. And then she looked down at her hands. Blood

coated her fingertips.

She quickly wiped them on her jeans, just as Vincent leaned over.

His voice was laced with concern when he asked, "Dude, how's

that hand holding up?"

"Fine," Cooper answered, a little too quickly. He tried to catch her

eye but she ignored him, her eyes fixated on the stain now

smearing her jeans. "Calla? Any theories?"

She blinked—both to clear her head and to work through the pain

currently drilling into her skull. Tracy hovered at the edge of her

vision. Blood had begun seeping into the front of her costume.

"Any theories?" Tracy cooed, mocking Cooper.

"Actually," Calla whispered into the darkness. "I do have a theory."

Vincent placed his bound hands against her knee, his fingers

nearly brushing the blood she'd wiped there. Very close.

"What? What is it?"

It's just like Cooper said, she thought, staring at the ground

between her feet. The headache was getting worse. Much worse.

"He wants to get my attention," she whispered, her voice pitched

low.

Vincent's grip tightened on her kneecap.

"Who the hell cares?" Cooper interjected, steering the conversation back into safer waters. His voice was strained. "We need to get out of here."

"Out?" Tracy's high-pitched laughter sucked the air from the room.

"Oh. They still think they're getting out of here?"

Calla's nostrils flared. And then she winced as pain lanced

through the spot between her eyes, blinding her momentarily.

"Calla?" Vincent grabbed her by the shoulder, holding her upright.

She felt his lips by her ear. "Hey. Are you alright?"

She sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to stand. Dark

spots danced across her vision, absorbing what little light was left

in the room. "I'm fine."