Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 83

He gritted his teeth and jerked his ankle through the door. The pain

momentarily blinded him, but he managed to fall back into the

door, gasping. Effectively shutting his best friend safely inside.

Cory reached over the back of the armchair and grabbed him by

the front of the shirt, pinning him to the door. He gritted his red

teeth and pressed the gun into his face. "Don't. Move ."

"Coop!" Vincent shouted, pounding his fists against the door.

Cooper swallowed his fear and the acid bite of bile. He pursed his

lips, refusing to close his eyes. If Cory pulled that trigger, he didn't

want to die in the dark. "Calla's not the one who's confused."

"You don't know her," Cory rasped, the flesh at his throat bobbing.

The gun trembled in his grip.

"And you do?" Cooper snapped. He knew that his odds of survival

weren't great. Baiting a serial killer wouldn't exactly help those

odds—but pleading wouldn't save him, either. "If you really know

what she is, then why were you stupid enough to kill her best

friend?"

" Cooper !" Vincent shouted again. Something heavier than a fist hit

the door, rattling Cooper's teeth.

Cory barely seemed to notice. His face twisted into something very

like desperation, his eyes wide and wild. "I know exactly what she

is. She's perfection. And this?" He waved the gun in the air,

encompassing the entire house—and the entire damnable town of

Greenwitch with it. "She's too good for this. Everyone in this town

is worthless. Calla knows that. So she did something about it."

Cooper swallowed, but his mouth was too dry. His tongue stuck to

the roof of his mouth. "You don't—" he started, breathless.

"Don't what? Don't know about Tracy?" A demented light filled

Cory's eyes. "Oh, I know. I saw. You should have seen her. She

was...she was..."

A force of nature.

Cooper slumped against the door, suddenly exhausted. He'd

known. He'd always known. Under that oak tree, staring at those

tufts of bloody fur.

You knew about Tracy Smith, too. And you. Did. Nothing.

"She was happy," Cory finished, breathless with awe. "For the first

time. Watching that girl die, it filled something empty inside of her.

You could see it. She was..."

Free. Cooper could see it perfectly.

"Killing Rachel didn't make her happy," Cooper interjected weakly,

trying to force down the despair that threatened to crush him.

Vincent slammed into the door again, and Cory's left eye twitched.

"You don't understand."

"You're selfish," Cooper continued, powering on. "You did it for

you. Stop hiding behind Calla and face it like a man, you creep ."

"You don't understand." The gun shook in Cooper's face, wobbling

badly enough that for one hopeful moment, he thought it might fly

right out of his hand.

"Understand what?" he exploded.

" I didn't kill that stupid b***h ."

Cory panted, planting his feet wide to steady himself. Blood

continued to trickle down his throat and into the front of his shirt,

soaking it.

"COOP!" Vincent screamed.

"Shut up," Cory rasped. "SHUT UP! You idiots. Look where she is

right now. Look where she is!" He leaned in close, the smell of

blood and rotten fruit wafting over him. "This is your fault. You're

no good for her. You make her weak—"

Something hard rammed into Cory from the side.

Cooper barely had time to process the flash of red hair. Or

anything, for that matter. He just knew he had to move.

He stumbled around the armchair, doing his best not to dislodge it.

He knew Vincent would be furious if they survived this, but Cooper

couldn't risk putting his life in danger. Not even to save his own.

It's not just Cory I need to worry about, either, he thought grimly, his

eyes tracking Calla as she struggled to regain her footing.

Something small and metallic flashed as it fell from the waistband

of her jeans, bouncing across the floor and landing at his feet.

He recognized it a moment later. Calla had brought a knife to a

gun fight.

Cory scrambled over the ground on his hands and knees, trying to

escape Calla's wrath. She panted as she used the bannister to

drag herself upright, her arms shaking. Blood ran down her face,

her throat. Cooper wondered how much of that blood belonged to

Cory.

She reached for something at her back, only to find it wasn't there.

Her eyes widened and she scanned the hall, frantic.

Cooper's eyes darted to the knife, and then he glanced across the

room, making eye contact with Cory. They'd both noticed the knife.

But it took Cooper precious seconds to realize the gun was gone,

knocked aside in Calla's hail mary assault.

"There," she whispered, connecting the dots before he could.

His eyes followed hers. The gun gleamed over by the bannister,

teetering dangerously close to the edge. But not quite close

enough. Cory would reach it first.

Then again, Cooper knew better than to underestimate Calla

Parker.

"Cooper!" Calla shouted, breaking the spell holding the three of

them in place.

On instinct, Cooper lunged for the knife. He expected Calla to go

for the gun. Hoping—praying, really—that she could reach it in

time.

But he'd miscalculated the distance. Cory's stride outdistanced

Calla's. A conclusion that she had already come to. She darted to

Cooper's side as Cory grabbed the gun and turned, aiming—

He pulled the trigger.

Calla stumbled back into Cooper. He tried to catch her, but his

bound hands and broken ankle complicated matters. They both

fell, and they fell hard. Calla landed half on top of him, her fingers

digging into the carpet. From this angle, he could only see her

profile.

"Calla?" he asked, leaning forward, her back pressed against his

chest. He grabbed her by the shoulder. "Calla, what's—?"

"Ow," she whispered.

He pulled away and looked at his hands. His fingers were slick

with blood.

Behind the door, Vincent had gone silent.

Cory stared at them from across the hall, his eyes wide with

horror. He dropped the gun and it clattered against the railing

before slipping over the side and crashing to the ground far below.

The gun. But what about...?

Alarmed, Cooper scanned the floor. He'd dropped the knife. Of

course he'd dropped the knife.

"Cooper," Calla murmured, slumping against him for support. Her

eyes were locked on a spot over by the wall.

He glanced over. A flash of silver winked back at him.

Calla shifted in his arms, trying to right herself, and hissed. A

sheen of sweat had gathered on her forehead. She closed her

eyes, as if blocking out a voice only she could hear.

"Cooper," she repeated through clenched teeth. "Go. Now. "

His words to her, repeated back to him. Funny, how the tables had

turned. And not quite funny at all.

Get the knife.

Cooper wiggled out from underneath her, trying to ignore the panic

threatening to suffocate him. He couldn't think about Calla. He

couldn't think about her blood on his fingers. He scrambled to his

feet, holding back tears as his ankle gave out.

This is your fault.

He limped over to the knife. Ignoring the pain. Ignoring Cory's

panicked murmurs behind him. Ignoring Calla's labored breathing.

You're no good for her.

He fumbled for the knife in the darkness. His fingers brushed the

handle—surprisingly warm. He clutched it like a lifeline, grasping it

with both hands.

You make her weak.

Cooper shuffled forward, holding the knife in front of him. His

breath came out labored, uneven. Cory knelt beside Calla, who, for

her part, sat perfectly still. She watched the psychotic murderer

holding her with carefully composed indifference. Cory pressed his

hands over the bullet wound, his eyes wide and frantic. The skin at

his throat dangled into the open air, swinging freely.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he murmured, talking to himself. Calla's eyes

shifted to Cooper. They were hard. Cold.

Do it, they whispered.

"Please. Please, " Cory begged. "It was an accident.

Rachel...I have to tell you about Rachel."

Her eyes narrowed when Cooper hesitated, the knife hovering over

Cory's back. He didn't seem to notice. His universe had shrunk to

the size of the hole in Calla's shoulder.

"Calla," he whispered, tearful. "I didn't kill—"

"Do it," she hissed.

Cooper closed his eyes and drove the knife into Cory's back.

Cory's back arched, twisting away from the blade in his spine. He

choked and twisted, his bloody hands scrabbling at his back.

Trying to reach the knife. To save himself.

Calla struggled to her feet, backing away from Cory. A look of

revulsion twisted her mouth.

"Calla," Cory gasped, crawling over to the bannister. He repeated

her name over and over. A mantra.

A prayer.

Cooper sank to his knees. His fingers began to tremble. Tears

stung his eyes.

Murderer.

"Coop."

Filth.

"Cooper."

Monster.

" Coop ." Calla knelt in front of him. Her flinty eyes assessed him.

"Monster," he whispered aloud.

She pursed her lips. And then she stood, watching Cory haul

himself upright, crawling up the bannister. He draped himself over

the edge of the railing, the knife sticking out of his back like the

quill of a porcupine. He convulsed as blood dribbled out of his

mouth.

"Monster," Cooper repeated softly.

Who, Coop? Them? Or you?

Calla glanced back at him. And then she strode forward, her sights

set on Cory. Without hesitating, she grabbed the knife in his back

and twisted. He screamed and thrashed, his legs buckling. He

leaned forward, trying to get away from the pain.

Calla moved, faster than a striking snake. She gripped the belt loop

of his jeans and pushed, using the momentum of his panicked

frenzy to send him over the edge. Cooper didn't watch Cory fall.

Instead, he stared at Calla's face.

Watching that girl die, it filled something empty inside of her. You

could see it. She was...

He closed his eyes, flinching at the sound of Cory's body hitting

the floor far below.

She was happy.