Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 7

A cool breeze stirred Calla's hair, a warning that the warm weather would not last.

"Can you stay at my place tonight?"

"I'm sure." Calla kicked a pebble out of her path. The sun warmed her shoulders,

offsetting the chill in the air. She squinted up at the sky.

"Please," Rachel whispered, her voice breaking. Calla resisted the urge to sigh. "I

can't believe the funeral is tomorrow."

"Mom will be home in an hour," Calla lied. "I can head over then. You can do this,

Rach." She paused, then amended: " We can do this."

Her focus traveled down the road, to the battered red Honda in her driveway.

Rosalind had been home for over an hour now, but Rachel didn't need to know that.

She can survive for an hour without me, Calla reasoned. She had more pressing

matters to attend to than her best friend's tears.

Cold? Perhaps. Practical? Undoubtedly.

They said their goodbyes and Calla exhaled, quickening her pace. Each step brought

her closer to the old white farmhouse she called home. Everything about it

screamed domestication. It was an old, rundown piece

of crap, but she had a strange attachment to it.

It was the one place where she could close the door and shut out the world—and

with it, the mask she wore.

Calla barely had time to unsling the bag from her shoulders before Rosalind descended on her, a bag of groceries still in one hand. "There you are."

"Here I am." Calla took the groceries from her mother's arm. "Where else would I be?"

"Dead in a ditch," she said unceremoniously. She backtracked into the kitchen. "I

don't want you wandering around after school, especially now that practice is cancelled this week."

Another inconvenience to Calla's daily routine. Track practice gave her something to

do.

"I'm not wandering around. It's a ten minute walk." Calla gathered up the plastic bags from the counter and stowed them beneath the sink, saving them for rainy day.

Rosalind came up behind her and kissed the top of her head, playing absently with the ends of her hair. "How was Rachel?"

"Sad."

"Honey."

"The funeral is tomorrow." Calla's mind was a million miles away. She tried to force

herself back into the present, but her thoughts kept straying to her bedroom. "Rach

wants me to come over tonight."

Her mother sighed. Her hands fell from Calla's hair. "I suppose that's alright. How can I say no?"

"So you'll give me a ride?"

She smirked as she turned away, disappearing into the pantry. "Nice try."

Good. Calla typed out a quick text to Rachel, letting her know she'd need a ride after

dinner. I need all the time I can get.

And she wasted none of that time. Calla closed her bedroom door and got to work, heading straight for her closet.

She scanned the floor, staring at her discarded costume from the Halloween party just three short nights ago. She ran the thin material over her fingertips, but found nothing amiss. The tights were spotless. The skirt, wrinkled—but otherwise suitable.

She held each article of clothing up to her nose and took a deep breath.

Sweat. Maybe a hint of vodka. But no scent of iron. No whiff of earth.

Calla dropped the costume into her hamper and scanned the floor for her shoes.

She'd insisted on wearing boots that night. Rachel's boots, as a matter of fact.

They weren't in the closet.

Suspicious now, Calla exited the closet and fell to her knees. She peered under the

bed and froze.

A pair of muddy boots stared back at her.

She grabbed them and rushed into the bathroom. They were leather, and Calla had

no idea how the hell she was supposed to clean leather, but she did her best with a

washcloth and warm water. The mud fell away, dirtying the sink and filling the air

with the scent of warm earth. She scrubbed at every crease until the water ran clear

and the smell of leather overpowered the smell of grime.

What gives, Calla? She carried the boots into her bedroom and sat them on her

purple bedspread. Filthy boots...

And filthy hands.

Her eyes strayed to the open window. At the edge of her vision, a large oak tree—

technically on their property—

provided the only cover between her house and the apartment complex next door.

The field stood between them, dead grass stretching to the distant tree line.

"Calla!" her mother called. "Can you come set the table?"

She cursed, glaring at the boots on her bed.

Time. She needed more time.

"Calla." A warning.

"Sorry," she called, hurrying out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She brushed

past her mother, trying to channel the same melancholy she'd been working so hard

to perfect all day. "Was just packing a bag."

From the living room, Calla could hear the low hum of the local news station. She

pretended not to take much interest—pretended, and failed. Her hands were in the

sink, cleaning plates. But her eyes were on the TV, trying to make sense of what she

was seeing.

"You can go turn that up," her mother offered quietly. "I know you and Rachel must

be wound up about this mess."

Calla needed no further encouragement. She darted into the living room and

grabbed the remote, cranking up the volume. She wasn't sure why the news channel

had been left running, but she had a feeling it had something to do with her

obsessive need to check for fresh reports three times a day.

Sheriff Marks peered out at her from the screen. Dark circles weighed his eyes

down, and the little hair he had left was unkempt, sticking up in the back like a stray stalk of corn.

Christ. The man had seen better days.

Calla hovered in the space between the living and dining room, unable to peel her eyes away from the screen.

"We want to assure the citizens of Greenwitch County that we are doing all that we can at this time." The sheriff rubbed at his forehead, pulling his hair as he did so. No

wonder he looked such a hot mess. "We have not, at this time, identified any

suspects in Tracy Smith's murder. The weapon—a knife from the Smith's kitchen—

has not been found."

An odd feeling began to stir in her gut.

"The department would like to ask the citizens of Greenwitch to report any unusual

behavior," Sheriff Marks went on. "We will not rest until we have the killer in

custody."

The reporters in the crowd exploded with questions. Sheriff Marks winced. And

Calla, who had no time for the useless blather that was sure to follow the official

report, turned off the TV.

She padded back into the kitchen and began rifling through the silverware, her mind

elsewhere.

Filthy boots. Filthy hands.

Mud and blood.

Calla's fingers brushed the butter knives, and she froze.

She glanced over her shoulder. Her mother was occupied, slicing meticulously through a red onion.

"One sec," Calla muttered, dropping a set of silverware and a pile of napkins on the dining room table before rushing over to the front door. "I forgot something in the

car. Is it unlocked?"

"Hmm-hmm," Rosalind hummed, distracted.

Calla slipped out of the front door, her stomach twisting into uneasy knots. She knew there was a chance she would be seen. But there were a hundred yards

between her backyard and the apartment complex.

She doubted anyone would bother spying long enough to catch what she was up to.

Hurry, Calla. Time is ticking.

She circled the house, her sights set on the oak tree at the edge of their property.

Beneath its branches, the ground was soft and wet. Her shoes sank into the earth,

and a horrible certainty stole over her.

She glanced down at her sneakers. The soles were already coated with a layer of mud.

At the base of the tree, near one of the larger roots, the earth had been disturbed. It wouldn't be enough to notice. Not at a distance, anyway. But Calla knew what to

look for.

A patch of leaves covered the worst of the damage. Taking care to avoid a deep

patch of mud, she crouched over the plot of upturned earth and flicked aside fallen

leaves. Clods of mud—thick and unappealing—lay scattered, as if someone had dug

through the ground and not done a very good job of covering their tracks.

Calla closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, allowing the cool air to penetrate her

lungs.

And then she began to dig.

* * * * *

Calla stared down at her hands, thinking of knives and blood.

A bead of sweat rolled down her back. She bit back a huff and shifted, trying to get

comfortable. A hard task from her spot in the first row of the overcrowded church.

She forced herself to stop, to focus—to sit still. She needed to channel thoughts of

grief.

That's all it takes, she thought, casting her eyes downward, pretending to be

overcome with emotion and not overcome with an oncoming heat stroke. Make

them believe. You're one of them.

Even from a young age Calla had understood the importance of looking normal—

since it soon became apparent that she wasn't. Not at all.

She still remembered her mother's worried looks when she would do something that

fell into the not-so-normal category, even as young as six years old. Like that time

she squeezed a puppy a little too tight—and laughed a little too hard when it

squealed in pain. Or when she hit Jessica Sneider for taking her toy in kindergarten.

She hadn't meant to scratch her, but when the blood welled, Calla watched on,

fascinated, while Jessica cried and screamed.

Rachel had been the only little girl who wasn't afraid to play with Calla after that.

And Calla quickly learned from her how to change her behavior, how to make her

mother smile and laugh and forget about her daughter's dark days. She watched

Rachel closely, mimicking the way she grinned, the way she laughed, the way she

played. And soon Calla was grinning and laughing and playing, and the other kids

warmed up to her again, no longer afraid.