Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 32

"I guess not," she mused, secretly pleased.

She laid her hands in her lap, fiddling absentmindedly with the sleeves of her

pullover. Cory put one of his hands over hers in what she guessed to be a gesture of comfort. "I am sorry, Calla. We don't have to talk about it."

"I want to talk about it," she insisted, which was true. "Because no one else will.

Everyone's treating me like I'm made of glass. And then today, it's just...one damn

thing after another. First it's Jessica, and then it's the drug ring—"

"Back up." Cory held up his other hand. "Drug ring?"

"It's a lot to unpack," she warned him, wrapping her fingers around his. She glanced

down at their intertwined hands.

Play the part, she told herself. Just play the part.

He squeezed her fingers. "I'm listening. Pro-listener, remember?"

Calla smiled, but it quickly fell. She decided to start with a snippet of truth: "I

thought Rachel told me everything. Everything . But today, at the station..."

She hesitated, looking up at Cory through her lashes.

He gave her an encouraging nod, urging her to continue. His thumb traced circles

on the back of her hand, no doubt in an effort to be soothing. If anything, it was

distracting. And not in the exciting way that made her heart race and fire burn

through her veins.

"I was with Detective Schuster," she explained. "Before your dad came in. They had

Rachel's phone. And they were asking me...questions."

Cory pieced it together. He sat up straighter. "Questions about Jessica?"

"Yeah," she murmured. "Apparently she got into it with Rachel. I never knew."

A lie. But a very small one in comparison to the fibs she'd been tangled in as of

late. Calla had known about the fight; she just hadn't been clued in as to who the

fight had been about.

"What kind of fight was this?" Cory asked, putting two and two together. "You don't

think...?"

"That she could have killed Rachel?" Calla asked, looking up at him. "I don't know.

But the fight was pretty serious. Jessica found out about Astrid and Vincent..."

Calla trailed off, as if she'd just been caught saying more than she should have. Cory

smirked and sat back, keeping a resolute hold on her hand. "I already know about

that."

"Who doesn't?" Calla muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Gareth, apparently."

They both grinned at that. Calla shook her head. "Neither did Jess. And once she

found out...I guess it pissed her off, the whole me taking him to the dance thing,"

she explained, letting an ounce of guilt seep into her words. "I never should have

taken him."

Cory tried to hide a smile and failed. She pretended not to notice.

"Let me guess," he interjected, analyzing their intertwined fingers. "Jess defended

Astrid. And she got annoyed when Rachel told her to screw off?"

"That's a pretty good summary," Calla conceded. "Rach thought Jess was being a

hypocrite. Astrid's got a boyfriend. And Jess has cheated on Mike...thirteen

thousand times?"

Cory scoffed. "Give or take a few hundred, yeah."

Calla couldn't muster a smile. She envisioned Rachel bent over her phone, tears in

her eyes as she took Jessica's verbal abuse. She'd defended Calla every step of the

way, never faltering. Not even when things got ugly.

You're a b***h, Rach. And so is karma.

Jessica's last text. Rachel had allowed her the final say—a far more final say than

she'd bargained for. And now, Calla couldn't help but wonder.

Had her selfish decisions gotten Rachel killed?

"So," Cory started, his voice speculative as his amusement faded. "Is that what you

think happened? Jess killed her over some stupid girl fight?"

"I don't know," Calla admitted with a sigh. "But it's possible."

Possible. But not probable.

After all, what motive did Jessica possess to murder Jacob? Could she logically

take down someone twice her size? Calla seriously doubted it. Besides, Jessica had

a tendency for the dramatic. She'd drifted in and out of scuffles with those in her

closest circle for years.

Whatever the case, she'd managed to cast herself in a shadow of doubt. That alone

was enough to pique Calla's interest. The beast inside her purred, itching to be

released. To punish.

"Answer me this." Cory squeezed her hand, shaking her from her thoughts. "What

the hell does Jessica Sneider have to do with a drug ring?"

Calla could have laughed. She'd almost forgotten about the secondary reason for

her visit to the station.

"Right. The drug ring," she groaned, leaning back against the couch. The position

brought her closer to Cory—a slight but noticeable shift. Her knee now brushed his

thigh. "As if my day hasn't been screwed enough."

"Care to elaborate?" he hedged, an edge to his voice.

Calla glanced up at him. And then she narrowed her eyes, taking in the uneasy set to

his mouth. "Have you already heard about this?"

"A drug ring ? Not so much. A drug dealer ..." He shrugged. "Why?"

"Your dad. That's why."

"Are you implying that my father is Pablo Escobar?"

Calla smacked his shoulder. "Be serious!"

He grinned. "I am. You're just being vague."

"Your dad asked me about drugs going around at the dance." She enunciated each

word carefully, just to spite him. "Asking me if I knew any dealers. Dealers, plural."

"Drug ring," Cory concluded, nodding once. "Right. Well. I don't know about all that.

But if you're asking me about a dealer..." He chewed his bottom lip before blurting

out a name: "Jacob Stein."

"No." Calla leaned back, genuinely surprised. "He dealt? Dealt what?"

The news jogged a not-so-distant memory. Cooper on the pavement. Jacob

towering over her, his face red with fury. And then that same face turning pale as a

sheet when her accusation came.

For all I know, you killed her, she'd sneered. Come to think of it, I don't remember

seeing you at the funeral. Guilty conscience, maybe?

What did you say? He'd asked, breathless. What do you know?

Dealing. Jacob hadn't been guilty of murder. But he had been out doing business.

Cory adjusted his hand so that their fingers fit together more comfortably. "Weed.

Some wax. He wasn't exactly Wolf of Wall Street material."

"Your dad told you all of this?" she asked, suspicious now. "My mom barely tells me

when she's heading to work."

She made a point to lean forward, their faces closer than before. She hoped she

wasn't being too obvious. But it was time to make her move. If Calla was going to

be in Cory's good graces—which she needed to be if she was going to use him to

get to his father and, hopefully, find even a shred of helpful evidence—she had to

put forward a little effort.

A risk. Maybe his father didn't have access to the information she needed. But the

potential reward far outweighed the what-ifs, especially since Cory's intel had, thus

far, been useful.

Cory seemed hyperaware of the change, thrilled by their proximity. He smiled down

at her. "He didn't tell me. Not exactly. He just leaves his office unlocked from time

to time."

"You sly fox." Calla grinned. "You're a thief. "

He pulled an affronted face. "I'm just an admirer of hard to obtain information,

thank you very much."

"Hard to obtain." Calla scoffed. "You're impossible."

He turned so that their noses were almost brushing. His eyes drifted down to her

lips.

Time to make your move, Calla.

"I really am sorry," she murmured.

"About what?" he whispered, his grip on her too tight, fearing she might turn away

and break the spell he was under—the same spell she was pretending to be under.

"About letting Stephanie ask you to the dance before I could." She shifted closer,

her hand moving to his chest. "Could we just...not talk about the heavy stuff

anymore? Just for a little while."

Cory took that as his sign. He leaned forward, perhaps too eagerly, and kissed her.

It wasn't the soft brushing of lips she'd experienced when Vincent had first kissed

her—easing into one another before the fire consumed them. This kiss was more

insistent, Cory's mouth hard against hers, demanding.

She let him take the lead. He grabbed the back of her neck with his free hand and

she leaned into his touch, allowing him to pull her closer. His erratic breathing filled

the room, his skin hot—too hot. She wanted to pull away but didn't, doing her best

to match his passion.

Inside, she felt nothing. Not so much as a spark.

He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. He leaned back so he could look at her, his

eyes alight with desire.

"I don't want to do anything you don't want to do," he murmured, his hand hovering

over her hip. Ready and willing to roam over every inch of her.

She smiled and leaned in to kiss him again. This kiss was softer, lingering. When she

pulled away he smiled back at her, opening his mouth to say something—

The lock on the front door clicked and they jumped apart, ending up on opposite

ends of the couch. They both looked up as Cory's father opened the door and

blinked at them, surprised.

"Oh. Hey, Calla." He said her name, but his eyes lingered on his son.

Cory cleared his throat. "We were just about to head out. She didn't have a lift home

from the station, so I told her I'd give her a ride."

Yes. Your son would be more than willing to give me a ride, Calla thought to herself,

suppressing the fit of giggles that threatened to overcome her.

"Good," his father finally said, smiling kindly—the same crooked smile that Cory

usually wore. "It's getting dark outside. You shouldn't be walking home alone." The

last part he said for her benefit. He headed for the stairs, a leather bag on his

shoulder.

I wonder what's in that bag...

"I'll go warm up the car," Cory murmured, clearly disappointed by the interruption.

She stood and slipped on her shoes, glancing up at him. An idea struck her. "Mind if

I use the bathroom before we leave?"

"'Course. Upstairs, second door on the left."

This is why she'd come over. To get close to Cory, yes. But also to get a job done.

Greenwitch wasn't exactly a functional, well-manned city. The force was

understaffed, underfunded, and underprepared for a serial killer wreaking havoc on

the town. The dark circles under the eyes of every detective and officer were

testament to that.

Men like Gerald Michaels were good at their job because they loved it. And men

who loved their jobs often took their work home with them.

He leaves his office unlocked from time to time.

Calla hurried up the stairs, heart hammering in her chest. She hoped to get a better

look at where his father might work when he wasn't at the station. Maybe she could

pay Cory a visit next week under the pretense of returning his jacket...when his

father wasn't returning home from a busy day at the office.

There were four rooms upstairs. The first was Cory's bedroom, his door left ajar—

she spotted his backpack at the foot of the bed—and the second must have been

the bathroom. She was about to slip inside when the door at the end of the hallway

opened. Cory's father smiled at her as he passed and disappeared back down the

stairs, calling for Cory. Something about dinner plans.

She seized the opportunity the moment it presented itself, making a split decision.

She had only minutes, if that. But she had to act.

She darted into the room Cory's father had just vacated. It was definitely an office.

A desk was pushed against one wall, a bookshelf on the other. A rolling chair had

been shoved to the side. The only window in the room was curtained off, closing out

the rest of the world.

Calla hurried over to the desk. It was relatively empty, clear of any loose papers. A

look inside the drawers produced disappointing results; they were filled with random

odds and ends, spare pencils and pens and batteries. The largest drawer held a

variety of folders, but the information was personal—birth certificates and awards

and insurance papers.

Nothing related to the murders.

On a whim, she rifled through the contents of the leather bag she'd seen Cory's

father with. He'd thrown it carelessly on the desk, as if in a hurry to be rid of it. This,

at least, was more promising than the rest of her findings. She discovered a variety

of reports, all related to Rachel's murder. Most were testimony from witnesses, far

too long to sift through at any length. She skimmed each one before moving on to

the next, looking for something that could help her now , not later.

She hated that she was using her bare hands. She could practically see her

fingerprints, a dirty stain that polluted everything she touched. But that couldn't be

helped. She hadn't come that prepared.

One relatively thin report—perhaps four or five pages—caught her eye, an image

clipped to the upper right hand corner. She recognized the broken, bloody bottle

immediately. Without pausing to read the report itself, she took out her phone and

took a picture. She would have to dissect everything later.

Knowing she was almost out of time, she shoved the stack of papers back inside

the bag, hesitating when her fingers touched the edge of an envelope. She huffed an

impatient sigh and glanced behind her.

One quick look.

The envelope's seal had already been broken. She reached inside and rifled through

a stack of photographs, intrigued. Two images in particular gave her pause. She

pulled out the glossy photographs and held them up to the light.

She'd found the missing pages. Jacob Stein's death notes, as Cooper had so aptly

called them.

Running short on time, Calla snapped more pictures of the evidence. She tucked the

photographs back where they belonged, taking care to leave everything as she'd

found it. Thorough as ever, she slipped out of the office and into the bathroom,

flushing the toilet quickly before proceeding down the stairs. She transformed her

blank expression into one of sheepishness, walking over to the kitchen counter

where Cory sat, his father at the sink.

"I'm ready," she announced.

Cory stood, grabbing his wallet off the counter. "Cool. I'll be right back, Dad."

His father waved a hand. "Alright. Drive safe. It was good to see you, Calla." He

paused, as if remembering the events from earlier that day. "And thank you for

coming over to the station today. I know how hard it is to keep talking about what

happened that night."

It was uncanny, how similar he looked to his son. Besides the grey creeping in

around his hairline and the laugh lines fanning out from his eyes, he was the spitting

image of Cory. Charming blue eyes and all.

She shrugged. "Just...catch whoever killed her."

So long as you never catch me.