CHAPTER 31
1288 Words
I'm Death, and I make all equal.
An accurate analogy, considering that Calla had a tendency to destroy those in her path.
She had no evidence to suspect that the analogy was meant for her. The killer could just as easily be referring to himself—a god living amongst men. An equalizer. A punisher.
But something about the murders felt familiar. Perhaps because, as she suspected, she had been the one to kill Tracy Smith, and each murder that had followed traced her pattern with eerie accuracy. If her theory was correct, this killer—this god, this equalizer, this punisher—had meant for these deaths to impact her in some way. A
scare tactic. A warning. A sign. She couldn't be sure.
She couldn't even be sure of her own motives. She would catch this killer, yes. But would it be for revenge. Or morbid self-indulgence?
Calla ran from the downtown station with newfound purpose, setting a brisk pace—
a tempo that she'd perfected only last year, Coach always reminding her to breathe,
Parker, breathe . So she did just that. Her breath came out in small puffs, her lungs
burning from the cold. She pulled her hands inside the sleeves of her maroon
pullover to keep them warm. In her right she held a key—Rachel's key. The one
she'd given her two years ago as an open invitation to come over whenever she felt
like escaping reality or venting about a particularly horrendous day in chemistry.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Cory's house wasn't much farther.
She had no idea if he was even home. But the interrogation she'd just endured had
awakened something. The fury that had been simmering in her core since Rachel's
death was growing larger, an inferno—now nearly impossible to contain. It felt like a
wild beast caged in her belly, clawing desperately against the lining of her stomach,
ripping her apart from the inside in a bid for freedom.
She didn't know how to banish the beast. She didn't know if she could.
Did she even want to?
She'd thought about waiting for Cooper outside of the station, to pick his brain for
anything and everything he'd learned. But that would be foolish. There were too
many eyes watching them there, too many questions that would be asked if they
were seen leaving together, sharing whispers. Calla needed to stay far away from
Cooper, at least for today.
Besides, there were other, far more important fish to fry. The interrogation had
given her just one lead, and that lead was Jessica Sneider.
What do you know about Rachel and Jessica's relationship? Detective Schuster had
asked her, sliding Rachel's phone—unmistakably hers, the case marbled with pink,
white and gold—across the table. She'd spent what felt like hours staring at the
series of texts pulled up on the screen, analyzing the furious exchange of words
between the two girls.
We got in a fight, Rachel had told her that fateful night, staring down at her
impossibly high heels. I'd rather avoid her if we can.
Motive. Jessica Sneider had motive.
She'd told the detective as much. Why lie? Jessica and Rachel had fought, yes. No,
she had no idea why—not until now. Yes, the two had been on the same cheer
squad since the fourth grade. And yes, Jessica had shared the spotlight of co-
captain with first Tracy Smith and then, upon her death, Rachel Smith.
And yes, Detective. Both girls are now, conveniently, dead. Step right up, Captain
Sneider.
Calla resisted the urge to take a right at Cherry Street. Instead she sprinted forward,
angling away from Jessica's house—and away from the murder she would
doubtless commit if she showed up at her front door. She fought temptation every
step of the way. But the closer she drew to Cory's neighborhood, the easier it
became. Her furious thoughts began to clear. Reason stepped in.
Reason and calculation.
She paused at the gate that led into Cory's neighborhood, bracing her hands on her knees to catch her breath. The neighborhood was relatively new, much of it still under construction. His house was the first on the left, a two-story brick building
that was made to look historic despite the fact that there was nothing historic about
it. There was even a little chimney peeking from the roof, though no smoke funneled
through. She wondered if it had ever been used, or if—much like the rest of the
house—it was just a quaint little lie.
Once she felt sure she didn't look like she'd just run a mile and a half, she slipped
through the opening between the two gates. Keeping her pace measured, she
approached his house and took the front steps two at a time. She took in one final,
steadying breath.
Breathe, Parker. Breathe.
She used the brass knocker to announce her arrival. Realizing she still had Rachel's
key in her hand, she quickly tucked it into her back pocket, out of sight.
Much to her relief, Cory answered the door. He wore grey sweatpants and nothing
else, his blonde hair disheveled and eyes heavy with sleep, as if he'd just woken
from an afternoon nap.
They stared at each other in surprise. Cory blushed, running his hands quickly
through his hair, trying to tame it. "Calla!"
"Hi." She cleared her throat, hoping the cold air had brought enough color to her
cheeks to pass as a blush. "I'm sorry. I really...I should have called." She took a
step back, half-turning back to the road. "I was just at the station, and...I don't
know. I'll call you tomorrow?"
"No, wait! Stay." Cory stepped aside, shivering in the cold air. "My dad told me it
was a busy day at the station, but I had no idea why. Are you okay?"
Calla accepted his offer and stepped over the threshold. She was greeted by an
empty living room, devoid of the usual homey decor that permeated houses. There
were no candles, no plants, no rugs on the cold wooden floors and no pictures on
the walls. A black couch and matching chair dominated the space, both facing a
stone fireplace and a massive HD television mounted above it, playing a nature
documentary in the background. There wasn't even a coffee table; just two small
end tables, mismatched, a lamp on one and a stack of magazines on the other.
"I'm...honestly? I'm not so great," Calla admitted, wrapping her arms around
herself. "Really, I can come back some other time if now isn't—"
"Calla." He closed the door behind him, leaning against it. He gave her a soft smile.
"It's okay, I swear. I'm just sorry you're going through all of this."
She shrugged, not meeting his gaze.
"Here. Wanna sit?" he padded over to the couch and shoved a blanket to the side,
making room.
"Sure. Thanks." She took a seat beside him, slipping off her tennis shoes and folding
her legs under her.
He turned toward her and then, realizing he was still shirtless, dug through the
blanket he'd tossed aside until he found a t-shirt buried within. As he pulled the shirt
over his head he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"
" Can I talk about it?" she asked jokingly. "You are a detective's son, after all. Isn't
that, like, a breach of some vague law written somewhere?"
"Not like my dad has to find out you talked to me about it," he said suggestively,
adjusting his shirt so it covered his abdomen.
A shame. One of the only interesting things about Cory was his body.
- Writer
