CHAPTER 9
1445 Words
She stared back at him. And the longer she stared, the more she began to wonder.
Does he know I killed her?
She very much doubted that. But did he suspect?
She took a step toward him. She wanted to ask what he saw when he looked at her.
She wanted to ask a great many things, in truth. About the knife in the backyard.
About the pictures on that camera of his. About the dead girl on the third floor.
About the skinned cat under the oak tree.
But then he turned. And just like that, he was gone.
* * * * *
One week. Three days. Twelve hours.
Somewhere in the Greenwitch Cemetery, Tracy Smith was rotting away six feet
below the ground.
"How can the knife just vanish? " Rachel seethed, throwing a sweater she never worn onto the bed. It landed on Calla's left calf, a blanket of soft cashmere.
Calla kept her eyes glued to her biology textbook, refusing the urge to look at Rachel, who currently stood in her enormous closet, no doubt glaring at a rack of
designer labels. Calla couldn't look. If she did, she would see those leather boots.
The ones she'd returned the night before the funeral, freshly
washed and free of grime—and now sitting in Rachel's closet, perched amongst
high heels and strappy sandals. She'd left them spotless, but the damn things tormented her anyway, a silent accusation that followed her throughout the room.
"Maybe the killer was running low on steak knives," Calla deadpanned from Rachel's
bed.
"Ha-ha. Funny."
"Sorry." Calla rolled over, finally tearing her eyes away from the textbook. An animal.
She was supposed to be choosing which animal she wanted to dissect for her biology project with Cooper. Instead, she was stuck here in Rachel's room, listening
to her friend rage at the idiocy of small town law enforcement.
As if it was their fault the killer had left behind an immaculate crime scene.
"And of course now I'm days behind in algebra." Rachel abandoned the closet and
plopped down on the bed beside her. "I'm doomed."
"Since when do you do your algebra homework, anyway?" Calla flipped the page and
analyzed an infographic on frog dissection.
Frogs? Boring.
"Put that away." Rachel flipped the textbook onto the floor. It landed with a dull
thud.
Calla sighed. "Rachel." She rolled over and propped herself up on one hand, using
the other to brush back Rachel's thick black hair. "You've got to chill. Call that freshman you know. Matthew? Matt? And tell him you've got twenty bucks and a
carton of cigarettes calling his name, all for the quick and easy price of some stupid
algebra homework."
Rachel slowly relaxed into the plush comforter. "He's grounded. No cell phone."
"Then find someone in our grade. That brainiac. Tyler?"
"Avoiding me like the plague."
"Why?"
She twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. "He wanted to go to the winter
gala with me. You know, for helping me out with chemistry."
"I'm assuming 'go to the winter gala with you'," Calla made a point to draw air
quotes with her fingers, "means a make out session behind the bleachers?"
"If it was just the make out session, I might have said yes," she admitted.
Calla groaned. "What is wrong with men?"
"Please. We're not dealing with men."
They shared a laugh, the weight of Tracy's death lifting from their shoulders. Rachel
looked like she used to, full of laughter. Full of hope.
And then the moment was gone. Rachel settled back into the covers, staring up at
the ceiling.
"Tracy would know what to do." She hesitated, as if unwilling to say anything more.
Her next words were so quiet, Calla wondered if they were meant for her at all. "I'm
already starting to forget what her laugh sounded like."
She didn't know what to say to that. So instead, she said nothing.
"Her laugh, Calla." Rachel turned so that Calla was forced to stare at the back of her
head. "It's been a week. And the memories, they...they aren't enough to keep her here."
Calla picked at a stray thread on her jeans. She had nothing profound to add to the
conversation—or at least, nothing that wouldn't sound like a confession.
She decided to keep her response simple. "I'm sorry, Rach."
"Everyone's sorry. So f*****g sorry."
A few seconds passed. Rachel's thin shoulders began to shake.
I'm sorry I killed her, Calla wanted to say. I don't know why I did it. I don't even remember doing it.
She waited for a wave of guilt to crash over her, to slam into her with the force of a
thousand hurricanes. Or maybe she would feel anger—at herself, for what she'd
done, for the awkward, shitty situation she'd put herself in. Surely she could feel that
much. Rage was one emotion that came quite easily to her.
But there was nothing. The remorse never came. Even as the urge to apologize, over and over again, lingered.
Calla scooted forward until she was close enough to wrap her arm around Rachel, her face in her hair. She inhaled the smell of strawberry shampoo.
The sobs came harder then, and far uglier. But Calla didn't move. Couldn't move.
They stayed like that for a very long time.
Cooper stared down at the photograph he'd printed out just this morning.
It's not an obsession, he told himself, running his thumb over the glossy surface. It's
a theory.
That's what he told himself, anyway. Whether or not snapping pictures of his
neighbor digging holes in her backyard classified as an obsession, well...
He'd cross that bridge when he got to it.
In the photo, Calla squatted at the base of the oak tree in her backyard, her fingers
buried deep in mud and filth. Cooper hadn't caught what, exactly, she'd dug up. He
had his mom's casserole to thank for that. But he knew it had to be something. And
that something probably had insidious implications.
Armed with that disturbing knowledge, Cooper pocketed the photograph and
stepped out of his rundown '98 Mustang, the door creaking as he slammed it shut.
Three cars down, Jessica Sneider shot him a look, as if personally offended by the
unappealing sound. Her baby blue Volkswagen was in pristine condition, putting his
ride to shame.
He refused to acknowledge her pointed stare. Instead he trekked across the parking
lot, head held high.
Until someone slammed into him from behind.
That same person caught him by his shirt before he could eat pavement. Startled,
Cooper whirled around—and came face to face with Vincent's smug smile.
"You asshat." Cooper tried and failed to punch his arm. Vincent danced out of
reach. "Keep your disgusting stench away from me."
"I showered," Vincent argued, offended.
"Before or after your morning workout?" Cooper asked, skeptical.
Vincent sniffed himself.
"I knew it." Cooper rolled his eyes and kept walking. He knew Vincent would follow.
"Lose any brain cells at practice yesterday?"
"I think I felt a couple rattle loose. They'll be missed." Vincent saluted a handful of
guys lingering in the parking lot. Gareth, who had his arm slung around Astrid's slim
waist, grinned and waved him over. Vincent shook his head and made a maybe later gesture.
As the duo entered the school, Cooper hesitated, his shoulder on the glass door.
Calla stood just inside the threshold, arm-in-arm with Rachel. Tracy's cousin
glanced his way; her gaze lingered, a question in her eyes.
Calla followed her gaze. She and Cooper locked eyes.
"Dude," Vincent complained, slinging an arm around Cooper's shoulder and dragging
him inside. He steered him away from the girls and down the hall, toward the
sophomore lockers. "Enough is enough. Pick an option and run with it."
"What are my options? What are you talking about?" Cooper asked, suspicious.
"Calla Parker. Obviously." Vincent flourished his right hand. "In this hand, you have
Option A. You bang her."
"Jesus Christ."
"And then you have Option B." He flourished his left hand, which dangled over
Cooper's shoulder. "You kill her and hide the body." He wiggled his fingers and gave
Cooper a long look. "You're already a wanted man, so this...I do not recommend."
"Look." Cooper ducked out from under his arm. "I don't know what you're talking
about. And I don't want to bang Calla Parker."
"Option B it is," Vincent said happily.
"No. No. " Cooper jabbed in the combination to his locker. "No one is banging
anybody."
"Really?" 'Cause you keep looking at her like you want to—"
- Writer
