Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 43

"What's up?" Cooper asked, reaching for his bag in the backseat.

Vincent looked back down, picking at a nonexistent crumb on his jeans. "Nothin'."

"That was super convincing. You shoulda signed up for drama class this semester."

Cooper settled his bag in his lap and sighed. "Seriously. What's up?"

Vincent fidgeted uncomfortably in his bulky letterman jacket. "You talk to Calla

lately?"

Cooper paused. He really had no idea of where this line of questioning was going.

How the hell was he supposed to proceed?

"Yeah," he said cautiously. "I mean, we were all just at that party a couple days ago

—"

"Not just the party." Vincent frowned in frustration. "I mean, like...do you guys talk ?"

Cooper stared at his friend, bewildered. "Not really. I went over to her place once

over break to ask her about Rachel, but that was...awkward."

We talked about murder and death and how one of our childhood friends is likely a psychotic, vengeful serial killer. And, oh. Before I forget. Calla is going to kill the killer.

Ha-ha! It's the little ironies. Anyway, did you catch the game last night?

"Oh." Vincent stared ahead, an unreadable look on his face.

Cooper opened his door and stepped out into the cold air, zipping up his jacket and

throwing his backpack over his shoulder. After a moment Vincent followed his lead,

shouldering his athletic bag, that same distant look on his face.

"At least it's only a half day," Cooper commented as they walked up to the school.

His attempt to change the subject fell flat. Vincent trudged alongside him, his eyes

facing forward.

Once they were in the school building they parted ways, heading for their respective

homeroom classes. Vincent's sudden gloom bothered Cooper immensely, and it

followed him into homeroom. He threw his bag on the floor and sulked, running his

fingers through his hair in absentminded one-two-three patterns.

By the end of homeroom, Cooper had his spring semester schedule in hand. He

walked back to his locker slowly, going over the schedule again and again, trying to

commit it to memory. Around him, friends desperately sought each other out,

comparing schedules and either celebrating or bemoaning at the outcome. Cooper

pulled out his phone to ask Vincent what his schedule was like, but he hesitated,

remembering the look on his face from earlier.

Where the hell had the curiosity about Calla Parker come from? Vincent had only

ever expressed interest in her as a means to an end—a distraction. She looked good

in a pair of tight jeans, and she had a sense of humor. And that was that.

Now, Vincent wanted to know if they talked. Another complication.

Another layer to Cooper's ever-growing list of concerns.

He sighed when he turned the corner and saw his locker,. Or rather, who stood

beside his locker.

Calla smirked at him as he approached. He scowled back at her.

"What," he said through gritted teeth, putting in his locker combination.

She leaned against the locker next to his and produced a sheet of paper, waving it in his direction. "What's your schedule like?"

"With any luck? The total opposite of yours."

She rolled her eyes and, faster than he could blink, snatched the schedule from his hand. She scanned the page with a look of intense concentration.

"Excellent," she announced, shoving the paper into his chest. He caught it with a

huff and opened his mouth to protest, but she was already gone, walking down the

hall as if they'd never spoken at all.

He watched her go, horrified. He looked between the schedule in his hand and her

retreating figure, a sense of dread bubbling in his chest.

"Excellent?" he called, his voice lost in the cacophony of lockers opening and

closing. A hundred other conversations drowned out his voice, carrying it away.

Calla didn't so much as look back over her shoulder. In an instant she was gone, her

red hair disappearing around the corner.

Cooper shoved his backpack in his locker and groaned, banging his head against the

metal. If Calla thought anything about his schedule was excellent, his semester was

sure to be a major dumpster fire.

I'm going to bald prematurely, he decided, trekking dejectedly into his pre-cal class.

The room felt too full. Most of his classmates were juniors; their eyes slid over him

like an unsightly grease stain. A small cluster of sophomores sat in the back,

familiar territory. He took the last open seat, ignoring Venus Upton's distasteful

sneer.

It was only once he'd taken his seat that he realized who sat in front of him. The

thin shoulders didn't immediately give him away. But the shock of white hair,

combined with the thick-rimmed glasses, certainly told him everything he needed to

know.

Tom Sahein.

I need to get into the yearbook lab, he remembered, ignoring the teacher's feeble

attempts to bring the restless class to order. See what he's seen. It has to be good.

Useful, somehow.

And if not...

Cooper's eyes fell to the camera strap around Tom's neck.

I'll do what I have to do.

Rather than give in, their teacher—Mr. Hyndale—slugged onward, booting up the

screen so that he could broadcast a copy of the syllabus. Most of the juniors kept

chatting under their breath. Cooper tried to focus. But try as he might, his mind was

elsewhere, sifting through an array of disturbing images. They played like a highlight

reel in his head, walking him through the most horrific moments of the last three

months.

Tracy's bloody ballerina costume; Calla's black eyes boring into him, her hands

twisting around his neck, her breath in his ear as she promised to kill him; Rachel's

lips brushing against his, her hands a soft caress in his hair; and Rachel again, this

time sprawled out on the linoleum floor, surrounded by a pool of blood growing at

an alarming rate.

A new image, one that didn't immediately fit the others, flitted through his mind's

eye: Tom Sahein's furious face, his glasses askew as he bolted for the front door,

ditching the memorial party hours before anyone else had even thought to leave.

Cooper had almost forgotten about the boy's sudden departure. He'd watched from

over Ryan's shoulder as Stephanie drew the freshman aside, her hand a vice around

his upper arm. Tom's face had grown progressively darker the longer she spoke, a

vein throbbing at his temple. And then he'd shaken her off and made his escape,

startling Venus and a handful of others on his way out.

Yearbook drama. It had to be yearbook drama.

The bell startled him from his thoughts. Tom practically sprinted for the door, his

bag in hand as he fled. Cooper stood a second too late, disgruntled. And then he

followed everyone else out into the hall.

In English II, Cooper felt a wash of relief. Vincent had already claimed a seat in the

back of the class. He caught Cooper's eye and brightened, but then hesitated, as if remembering their conversation from earlier.