Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 21

"I hate her."

Cooper emphasized each word by banging on the inside of his locker, which really did nothing except...well, hurt his fist. He cradled his sore hand.

When had life become so complicated? He was stuck between a rock and a

psychopath, and he couldn't see any clear way out.

Did you ever stop to consider what it meant if I wasn't the one holding the knife?

No, he hadn't. But now the idea was there, haunting his every step, his every

breath. He couldn't even enjoy a snack in peace these days. Every bite reminded him of the sound of breaking bones.

His bones. The ones Calla would break once she decided his life was no longer

worth entertaining.

You just had to poke the bear. Didn't you, Coop?

He pulled out his Spanish II notebook with an angry sigh, ignoring the slip of paper that fluttered out of his locker. He trudged off to class.

His mood didn't improve when he noticed Vincent wasn't waiting for him in his

usual seat, a stupid grin on his face, ready to tell Cooper some graphic story about which girl he'd been with after the game.

He unpacked his things, taking some small comfort in the normalcy of it. It felt

good to take a breath and do something familiar. Something mindless.

And entirely unrelated to the murders plaguing their quaint town.

Ms. Esperanza passed out their in-class assignment, oblivious to the dark mood of the room. That, or she just didn't care. The sea of students, dressed respectfully in black, didn't deter her.

Cooper couldn't concentrate, but he blew through the assignment anyway, eager to

be done with it so he could sit in peace and spend the rest of class mulling over

what to do about Calla Parker. Not that it was ever peaceful thinking about her. It

was actually a very stressful activity he tried to avoid at all costs.

But there was no more avoiding Calla. Not anymore. Not now that he'd confronted

her outside of her own window.

Who do you think you are, Coop? You're a kid. Not a detective. Leave the police work to the police.

He really wished Vincent were here. He felt like he was about to explode from

stress.

The last thing Vincent had said to him on Sunday was that they needed to talk. Well, two could play at that game. Cooper had more than enough to talk about. As for Vincent, he probably just wanted to vent about Astrid...who was the absolute last

person on Cooper's mind. But if venting was what Vincent needed, where the hell

was he? As far as Cooper knew, he wasn't sick—

Jacob's a dead man walking.

Vincent's words from last Saturday. Cooper could still taste the fury in the air as his

friend confronted him, all but promising Jacob's head on a spike.

Before Cooper could process the implications of that thought, the bell rang,

releasing the class to their lunch break. His stomach tightened. He couldn't imagine

eating food. Not right now.

Not with his head full of horrible, horrible possibilities.

Don't jump to conclusions. He was kidding. Vincent would never kill someone.

Cooper shuffled to his locker, effectively avoiding the cafeteria. No one cast him so

much as a sideways glance. His infamy had dissipated overnight. He'd been at the

diner with his mom when they'd heard the news of the murder—an alibi that had

apparently banished any suspicions that he was a cold-blooded murderer.

He should have been relieved. But he wasn't.

Could his best friend really be capable of murder? He couldn't imagine it. He'd seen

the dead body circulating on social media. To think of Vincent inflicting that kind of

damage...

He took out his phone, typing furiously. He needed answers, and he needed them

now.

"You know what I find fascinating?"

Cooper nearly jumped out of his skin, an unintelligible curse slipping from his lips.

He turned. Calla watched him with a hint of amusement, a smile tugging at the

corners of her lips. How the hell did she always do that? Were psychopaths born

with some innate ability to creep around undetected?

His eyes narrowed. "You."

"Me. Who else?" She stepped forward. He took a step back—playing it safe.

"Are you stalking me now?" He swallowed audibly, and her smile cracked into a grin.

"Bold of you. Accusing me of being a stalker." Her eyes slid to the camera around

his neck. "And you didn't answer my question."

She wore black today in solidarity with the rest of the student body mourning Jacob

Stein's death. The fitted turtleneck clung to her throat, emphasizing her pale skin

and fiery hair. He watched as she reached up to brush a loose strand from her

cheek. Her movements were so sure, so confident.

Like a predator, she was perfectly evolved to blend into her environment. Her smile,

camouflage. Her laughter, a tactical distraction.

To anyone else, she might have looked angelic. Cooper couldn't exactly disagree.

Though the angel he had in mind was an angel of death. Vengeful and ferocious.

Cooper sucked in a deep breath. He really did not have time for her condescension.

Not today. Not when his gut writhed like a bag of worms, his mind miles away.

"Fine. What do you find so fascinating?"

She showed him the hand she'd been holding behind her back, producing a folded

piece of paper. "For such a neat freak, I never took you for a litter bug."

He stared at the paper in her hands. His mind drew a blank. "Should I know what

that is?"

"Probably not. You're pretty unobservant." She tossed the note, overestimating his

athletic ability. He tried and failed to catch it, and then bent over to pick it up with a

huff.

She rolled her eyes.

Ignoring her, he opened the scrap of paper. His stomach lurched and then went

still.

The edges were torn, the paper thick—as if from the pages of a book. The bottom

left half had been lost, but Cooper could clearly make out the excerpt circled in

violent red ink, as if to draw the eye.

I'm Death, and I make all equal.

But what truly made the otherwise worthless piece of trash distinct—and what left

his fingers trembling, so much so that the page itself began to quiver—had to be red

number six carved across the page, dominating the space.

Cooper tried to muster an ounce of his earlier bravado. "Is this your version of a

love letter?"

Calla crossed her arms and leaned against the lockers. Her soulless eyes never left

his face. "That fell out of your locker today."

"You put it there?"

"We've been over this. I didn't kill Jacob. And I didn't put that page in your locker."

It had taken Cooper a trip to the library to figure out that the last note

had been torn from the pages of a book. She'd already put it together.

"Then..." He grasped for the right words.

She shrugged. "The killer left that." Her barbed smile returned. "For you."

The words left him cold. Cold to the bone.

"So," Calla continued, as if this news were not life-altering. "Are you going to keep

feeding me lines of bullshit, or are you going to tell me about what, exactly, you saw

that night?"

She wanted to know about the page. Not this page, but the page from that night—

arguably the worst night of his life. Of course she wanted to know about the page.

Of course she didn't care about his well-being.

He looked at her. The mush in his gut solidified, turning into

something harder. Something very like fear.

And even that didn't do it justice. He couldn't quite describe the way he felt in her

presence. It was as if she were some colossal planet, and he was one of her many,

insignificant moons—wheeling blindly through the stars, lost in her gravitational pull.

Completely and totally at her mercy.

"Why do you care," he whispered, dodging her question. He needed time to think.

He had to weigh the pros and cons of this—of telling his psychopathic neighbor

what he knew. What would she do with the information? Would she lord it over his head?

She's not the only one with cards to play, he thought, using his free hand to clutch the

camera at his neck. His safety line.

Calla appraised him with a look of such indifference that he recoiled. "Care?"

He swallowed audibly. Her eyes roved over him as if she'd heard the sound. Heard

it, and was disgusted by his bodily noises. "About that night. About what I saw. Why

do you care?"

Don't you already know everything about that night, Calla? Your hands were around her

throat.

Her eyes bored into him. And then: "Curiosity."

Killed the cat.

Cooper wasn't buying it. His hand convulsed around the torn page in his hand, which

did nothing for his unease. If anything, holding his death sentence made him feel

worse.

"Let's...just take this to the police," he started slowly, trying desperately to find

a way out of his current predicament. "We can go after school. I'll go with you or I

can go alone and we can figure this out."

She considered her words carefully before she spoke. "That's not how this game

works."

He felt small at that moment. Incredibly small. "This is my life."

"And it's mine, too." There was no apology in her voice. "I'm not the one making the

rules here, Coop. There's somebody else running the show. And if the police catch

whoever this is...they'll catch me, too. They'll put it together." She frowned. "I can't

let that happen."

It was as close to a confession as he would ever get. Tracy

had not been murdered by some psychopath behind the curtain.

She'd been murdered by the one standing in front of him.

Cooper lowered his voice despite the eerie emptiness of the halls. "I don't care if

they catch you. I'm going to the station after school."

She didn't seem surprised by his answer. That gave him pause.

She tapped one foot against the lockers, thoughtful. "If you insist..." She sighed.

"Guess that means I have to tell Cory."

He wanted to turn and walk away, preferably in some dramatic fashion that involved

flipping her the bird as he went. But she was calm.

And what the hell did Cory Michaels have to do with any of this?

Cooper really didn't want to take the bait. He knew she was dangling it in front of his

face for a reason, waiting for him to bite.

But what choice did he have? He spit the words out: "Tell Cory what?"

She smiled, smug. "About Vincent. And his...threats."

His blood ran cold. All of his fears from earlier—the terrible possibilities running

through his head—came swarming back, overwhelming him. "Threats?"

She can't know about that. He thought back to the day Vincent stood at the

threshold to his apartment, murder in his eyes. She wasn't there. And Vincent isn't

dumb enough to run his mouth at school, not with a murderer running around.

"Threats," she confirmed, causing his stomach to drop again with unease.

"Hypothetical threats. But if I tell Cory that I heard something suspicious..."

Another shrug.

Cooper's unease was quickly replaced by fury. "Vincent didn't hurt—"

Calla interrupted him with a sharp look. "You've considered the possibility, though. I

can tell by the look on your face. You're afraid." She c****d her head to one side,

giving him a languid smile. "Let me paint you a picture. Jacob hurts you. Vincent

hurts him back. He's big enough to get the job done. They play on the same team—

that's how he managed to corner Jacob after the game. Anyone would believe it.

Hell. I believe it. Don't you?"

Cooper couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Her words sucked him in, filling him with

dread.

"And Tracy?" Calla tsked . "Poor girl. Astrid probably used Vincent to get her out of

the picture. He's always been a people-pleaser."

Cooper struggled to find a rebuttal.

"Gerald Michaels will listen to his son," she continued. "And Cory will listen to me."

"It's a lie," he accused her. "Vincent didn't hurt anyone."

"So you say," she murmured, less jubilant now. Her eyes narrowed, sharpening her

features. "It makes sense. Vincent has more than enough motive. Maybe it wouldn't

be a lie." The barbed smile returned. "Besides. I lie every day. To everyone. About

everything. Don't you remember?"

Cooper slid to the floor, clutching his camera in one hand and his death sentence in

the other. If he could have suspicions about Vincent—his best friend, his brother—

then it followed that the rest of Greenwitch might believe it. People were scared.

They needed someone to blame.

Calla had painted a grim picture, indeed.

Cooper couldn't let Vincent go down for this. Once he became a suspect, it would

start a domino effect that could potentially ruin his life. College football prospects.

His relationship with his father, volatile as it already was. To suffer all of that,

especially if he was innocent...

He looked up at Calla. She stood over him, waiting patiently for his response. But

the look in her eyes was sure. She knew what he was going to say.