Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 25

Vincent spun Calla in a circle, the two of them now at the center of an empty dance

floor, tacky multicolored lights bouncing over their bodies, their faces. They weren't

alone for long. Jessica and Mike—Greenwitch's most volatile couple, notorious for

their soap opera of a relationship—raced forward to join them. Jessica, her starlit

hair wound up in a knot at the base of her neck, rolled her eyes as Mike started

dancing, doing his best to embarrass her. Calla laughed again.

She'd laughed a lot tonight. The feeling was entirely new, and yet not exactly

unwelcome.

The dance floor filled quickly. Soon, Calla found herself surrounded by familiar

faces. Cooper. Rachel. Stephanie. The twins. Gareth. Astrid. Venus Upton. Cory. Ali

Marks and her longtime beau, Steven Lowry. Even Trevor Miles and Ryan made an

appearance, their dates—Hayley Singleton and Madison Chorde, a pair of juniors

that Calla had never particularly liked—clinging to their arms and otherwise not

engaging with the others.

Calla didn't exactly remember the order of events of that night. But she

remembered dancing. And laughing. She remembered Rachel pulling her aside so

that they could dance to their song. She remembered Cory twirling Stephanie in a

circle, though his eyes never left Calla's face. She remembered Astrid glaring at her

from across their circle of friends, her hand on Gareth's chest and his arms around

her waist. She remembered Ryan disappearing and reappearing at random intervals,

standing first with his date and then with Cory, the two laughing about some joke

Mike had cracked.

But mostly, she remembered Vincent.

The dynamic of the group ebbed and flowed as people danced and disappeared,

taking bathroom and water breaks as the music played on, ceaseless. But Vincent

remained a constant. His smile charmed her, and his eyes...well. His eyes were full

of the kind of mischief Calla thought she wouldn't mind getting into.

She thought it might have been the alcohol talking. After three cups, she felt

delightful. But she didn't think the alcohol changed the effect Vincent's hands had

on her waist, her hips, spinning her around and pulling her close.

Vincent downed his third cup and tugged on Calla's hand, leading her away from the

dance floor and toward the refreshment table. They were both sticky with sweat,

but Calla didn't mind. Her head buzzed pleasantly.

Vincent stopped by a tower of water bottles and leaned against the table, a stupid

grin on his face that made her grin back. He intertwined their fingers and pulled her

against him. She didn't resist.

Maybe that was a mistake. If he had killed Jacob, he would certainly be able kill her,

too. Especially in the state she was in. But she didn't think he wanted to kill her. The

look in his eyes told her he wanted something very different.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, his words a bit slurred. "Wanna get some

air?"

She nodded, letting him lead her outside of the gym. They passed beneath a

decorated archway that led out into the hall, framed with dozens of balloons. The

hall was dark and empty, the music muted, a distant vibration through the walls.

Calla felt relief almost instantaneously. The hall was far cooler than inside the gym;

she raised her arms, enjoying the air. "This was a great idea."

"Hmm." Vincent watched her. He reclined against the wall, his hands in his pockets.

His hair had fallen out somewhat, and the urge to touch it, to run her hands through

it, overwhelmed her.

As if reading her thoughts, he wrapped a hand around her waist and bent down; she

immediately twined her hands into his hair. This close to his face, she felt the

strangest urge. His lips, which she'd once fantasized about cutting into, now

seemed appealing for an entirely different reason.

He made the first move. His lips brushed hers, and the pleasant buzz in her head

grew. She responded almost instinctively, pressing her lips against his. It was all the

encouragement he needed. He pulled her against him, his hands flat against her

back. She leaned into him, giving in to the strange new desire coursing through her,

and gasped against his mouth.

Her gasp must have done something to him. He groaned, pulling her closer—if such

a thing were possible. He reached up to cup her neck with his hand. The other

followed the curve of her lower back. Heart hammering, she dug her fingers into his

hair and pulled with enough force to hurt.

He didn't complain. If anything, he held her harder.

Her body was on fire. She'd never been so happy to burn.

Someone cleared their throat. They leapt apart as if doused by a bucket of ice,

staring wildly at each other. And then they turned to see Ms. Esperanza, her eyes

like two pieces of granite.

Calla clapped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn't laugh. The situation suddenly

seemed utterly ridiculous.

She'd come to this dance to keep a close eye on Vincent. She just hadn't guessed

how close.

When he spoke, he seemed on the verge of hysterics, too. "Um. So. Dancing?"

"Yup." Calla took his hand and they ran for the gym. Ms. Esperanza's exasperated

sigh followed them.

Enveloped once again by the sound and vibration of the music, they turned to look

at each other—and burst out laughing. He twined his fingers with hers and she let

him, still giddy from the fire that burned so brightly from his touch.

"Well. That was fun," he murmured, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Maybe we

can get into more trouble later."

His words sent an electric thrill through her. The fire he ignited threatened to burn

her to ashes.

She met his questioning gaze and a smile curled her lips. "I mean, the rumors are

already spreading...why not?"

That amused him. He laughed as he wound his way through the crowd, off to get

another set of drinks. Smiling to herself, she wandered back over to their table,

hoping to find Rachel.

Instead, she found Cooper.

He sat at the table, his face slick with sweat, the sheen exacerbated by the glow of

his camera as he scrolled through a set of photographs. The first two buttons of his

shirt were undone, the collar crooked. She wasn't sure what he saw when he

glanced up at her, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Before he could ask the damning question— where have you been? —someone

tapped Calla on the shoulder, vying for her attention.

She turned to find Stephanie staring at her with wide, wild eyes.

"What?" Calla asked, doing her best to keep a straight face. She reached out to

caress Stephanie's cheek, fascinated by the texture of her skin. How might that

change, were she to make a cut? Just one, minuscule little cut—

"Have you seen Jess?" she asked, voice pitched high with panic. Calla imagined

every canine in the vicinity had to be in immense pain at that moment.

"Jess?" Calla rolled the name over her tongue, tasting it. "Hmm. Can't say I've seen

her. Is that why I've been having so much fun?"

"She's upset," Stephanie explained, grabbing Calla's fingers. She hadn't realized

she'd still been brushing her hand across the other girl's cheek. "I'm fine. Really. But

Jess...she looked really torn up about something. I need to find her."

Calla nodded. "You should do that."

She couldn't translate the look on Stephanie's face. Annoyance? Desperation?

I could turn that emotion into fear. So quickly. With one. Little. Cut.

But then Stephanie was gone. Calla blinked, staring into the crowd. And then she

turned around, swaying on the spot. Her eyes found Cooper, who watched her with

equally bleary eyes.

"That was weird," Calla announced. She went to sit beside him.

He grunted. Alcohol had not done favors for his well-honed paranoia in her

presence. "Where have you been?"

She shrugged and smiled. "Here and there."

"You guys made out, didn't you?"

She blinked, surprised by his guess. "How the hell did you know?"

"'Cause you look like it," he muttered. She frowned and reached for Rachel's purse,

rummaging around for a compact mirror.

She may have felt warm and wonderful, but there was no reason to look like a fool.

Not in front of these loathsome people.

"Where's Rachel?" she shouted, peering into the purse when she couldn't find what

she needed.

Cooper gestured vaguely toward the bathrooms. "I got caught up. Yearbook stuff."

"Surprise, surprise." Calla rolled her eyes. "If you know what's good for you, you'll

keep that camera away from me."

Cooper muttered under his breath, too low for Calla to make out. Something sharp

pricked her finger. She jerked her hand out of the bag with a curse, glaring at her

fingertip. A paper cut. She sucked at the wound and glowered at the purse,

searching for the culprit.

And then she saw it, under Rachel's ID: a folded piece of paper with jagged edges.

Ignoring the cut on her finger, she reached for it, uncomprehending.

Cooper's voice was urgent when he asked, "Calla? What's that?"

The warm haze that had gripped her over the last two hours vanished. Her eyes

were sharp and clear as she unfolded the piece of paper, already knowing what she

would find.

A block of words on the page. And written over those words, a red three.

"No," Cooper whispered, the music carrying his words far, far away. He bolted out of

his seat. "Calla—"

Gripping the paper in her fist, she sprinted for the bathrooms. Cooper followed a

few steps behind. Always a few steps behind.

Calla rounded the corner that led to the back hallway, where the bathrooms were.

She didn't make it far.

Rachel was on the floor. Her legs were twisted at an awkward angle, her eyes

glassy, locked on something far away. A splash of red coated her throat, ruining her

beautiful white dress.

Cooper made a noise behind her—something caught between a sob and a shout—

while Calla walked forward, barely daring to breathe.

She sank to her knees just beyond the gathering pool of blood. Ignoring the babble

of voices at her back, she grabbed Rachel's hand, the other crushing the morbid

note in an iron fist.

Her skin felt clammy, but still warm. Calla knew she would be cold soon.

She stared into Rachel's eyes. They were a darker shade of brown than she

remembered. The girl behind those eyes—with all of her warmth and light—had

disappeared.

You deserve to be happy, she'd told her, just hours before.

Something warm touched her kneecaps. Her eyes wandered down, barely

processing the blood—Rachel's blood. And beyond it sat

something else.

A bloody beer bottle. Broken. The jagged edges were sharp. Sharp enough to use as

a weapon.

Calla looked away. She ran her thumb against the back of Rachel's hand, a mindless

gesture of comfort. The panic from before had vanished. She felt nothing now.

A vast abyss of nothing.

She blocked out the sporadic screaming as students began to congregate at the

edge of the hall. She blocked out everything. She ignored it all. All except for the

feeling of Rachel's cooling hand in hers.

You deserve to be happy. I mean it, Rach.

Calla cried no tears. But kneeling there on the hard floor, staring at her dead best

friend, she felt a part of her die, too.

Ryan Kane gazed at Cooper, eyes wide with alarm.

Alarm and annoyance.

Cooper heaved a sigh and tapped the screen, scrolling through the rest of the

photographs he'd managed to snap Friday night—before his date had been found

murdered. Forgotten at the party, just like her cousin before her.

He stopped at a picture of Gareth and Astrid, locked in what could only be a heated

argument. Cooper frowned at the red flush across Gareth's cheeks. Astrid stared

resolutely at his chest, her jaw stiff.

He turned off the camera. He'd seen enough of that night to last a lifetime.

Cooper's eyes slid to the end of his twin bed. Nestled between his feet were his

phone—an unsent text to Calla staring back at him—and a crumpled piece of paper.

He still had no idea why he'd kept that page. The thing had all but guaranteed his

death, the sixth victim in what was shaping up to be a brutal m******e. He should

want nothing to do with it. How many times had he balled it in his fist, only to

smooth it out again, panicked that he'd damaged the evidence somehow? How

many times had he tossed it in the trash, once and for all...only to fish it out, too

frightened to throw it away?

Terrified to keep it. Terrified to lose it.

Cooper sat up. He grabbed the page and stuffed it in the front pocket of his

sweatpants. Taking his phone, he deleted the message he'd typed. He tried to find

new words. Better words. Something profound but ambiguous—he couldn't send

Calla damning texts that would come back to bite them.

His thumb hovered over the send button.

Just do it. Send it, Coop. She has to crawl out of her hole at some point.

Procrastinating, he leaned across the bed and peered out of his miniscule window.

Calla's house sat a hundred yards away. Quiet. Unsuspecting.

He sighed and deleted the message.

Rachel's dead. Calla's AWOL. And the killer is still at large.

A miracle. He'd need a miracle to survive this.

His eyes flashed back to the window.

Or a psychopath.

Restless, Cooper rolled out of bed and threw on a hoodie. He headed into the living

room, determined to move, to be productive. But he couldn't stop thinking about

that night. The taste of alcohol burning down his throat. The almost giddy high he'd

felt as he'd danced, his hands on Rachel's waist. And then later, the way her lips felt

against his. A stolen kiss.

And now she was...gone. Whatever future he'd had with Rachel had died with her.

He still didn't know how to feel. Maybe he'd never figure it out.

He stepped out into an empty living room; he'd forgotten his mom was pulling a

double at work. More dejected than before, when he'd been hoping for a shred of

companionship, he plopped down on the couch and turned on the TV. A replay of

the sheriff's earlier announcement was on, commentary from reporters scrolling by

below. A headline popped up on the screen, filling Cooper with a sense of

foreboding.

GREENWITCH SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE

He raked a hand through his hair, finding comfort in the familiar gesture. He couldn't

watch the news all day. His life had become depressing enough without the

constant reminder of death and despair. So he fished his phone out of his pocket

and pulled up his search history, clicking on the first link. A generic, softback copy

of Grimm's Fairy Tales popped up. Only $15.99. A steal.