Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 28

She felt some small relief when Cooper frowned. He understood the significance of those minute differences—perhaps she wouldn't have to do all the heavy lifting in

this hunt, after all. "If the other notes were torn from a book..."

"Like I said." Calla began walking again, the front door only steps away. She dug

around her purse until she felt the key again, finding comfort in its rigid edge.

"It's...odd."

"Odd," Cooper agreed. "And no note left at the actual crime scene. Did you notice?"

"I did," she murmured, studiously rearranging her expression into one of grief. She sucked in a deep breath as they entered the school. Warm bodies immediately

surrounded them.

Yes. I noticed. And I don't like it.

The church was stiflingly hot despite the December chill outside.

Calla sat in the front pew, away from the gathering crowd piling through the door.

Patricia Smith, Rachel's mother, clutched Calla's hand tightly, holding it like a

lifeline. Tony, Rachel's father, sat on her other side, eyes rimmed red. He tore at a

damp tissue until a little pile sat at his feet. Once his hands were empty he stared at

them, eyes glazed with the kind of shock that she knew all too well.

Rachel's aunt and uncle—Raymond and Alicia Smith, Tracy's parents—stared ahead

at the casket, their faces twisted in grief, as if they were reliving their own

daughter's death over again. Calla had only ever seen the Smith family in one room

on a handful of occasions. They didn't often intermingle, despite the close

relationship of their daughters. It was no secret that the Smith brothers were

distant, if not estranged. Some whispered about a falling out over Patricia, who had

initially been Raymond's first love.

How and why Tony had ended up with the woman, Calla had no clue. She'd never

asked. And Rachel, for her part, didn't seem to know, either.

Calla squeezed Patricia's hand, ignoring the way her fingers were beginning to ache.

The woman's grip was surprisingly strong. But Calla made no protests, made no move to pull her hand away.

She needed to experience this. She needed Patricia's grief to fuel the fury bubbling inside her. Perhaps she could feel enough grief for the both of them.

The preacher stood and began his sermon, speaking of God's will and His eternal

kingdom. Calla stared at the blown-up portraits of Rachel. There were three of

them. The first was her as a little girl. In it, her white shoes and matching dress

were covered in mud, but she was smiling at the camera, showcasing a gap-toothed

grin.

The second was her school picture from earlier this year—the one she absolutely

loathed. If she were here she'd be furious, pointing an accusing finger at Calla to

ask her why the hell she'd allowed it to make it into the ceremony. Calla almost

smiled at the thought.

Almost.

The third picture was of the two of them. They both had their arms wrapped around

each other, laughing hysterically at something someone off-camera had said. This

one was from their first day of high school, standing out in the parking lot.

Rachel had loved this picture best. She would often scroll through her phone and

stumble across it, and always she would poke Calla and say, "I love this one."

Calla stared. They both looked so happy. She wondered what she'd been thinking in

that moment. Had the camera caught something genuine—a brief flash of

amusement, of affection for the friend she held onto? Or had Calla been rehearsing

the usual lines in her head, telling herself to smile with her eyes and laugh from her

belly?

Somewhere behind her, she could feel Cooper's eyes on the back of her head. He

was probably analyzing that same portrait—happy and laughing—and comparing it

to the picture of Calla he had in his head.

She doubted the two looked anything alike.

The service was short. A quick prayer signaled the end of the sermon, and guests

hurried to the front to share their condolences with the family. Patricia let go of

Calla's hand to greet the sea of shell-shocked faces.

Calla did not stand alone for long. Jessica approached her first and foremost, as if

to prove a point. Her watery eyes were smeared with black liner, her hair pulled

back in what could pass for an elegant bun—were anything about Jessica elegant.

She squeezed Calla's shoulder and prattled about happier days and greener

pastures. Or something to that effect.

Stephanie stepped up behind her, sending Jessica scurrying for the front door. Calla

watched, mildly intrigued, as Stephanie watched her go. Her face flushed.

"I'm so sorry, Calla," Stephanie whispered, embracing her once the awkward

moment had passed. Her curly hair tickled Calla's nose. "I...I'm just..."

The queen of the yearbook committee. The school gossip. The kind, considerate soul

of an otherwise soulless clique at Greenwitch High.

A useful tool—if wielded correctly.

"We're going to be fine," Calla reassured her, vaguely amused at how quickly their

roles had reversed. "And don't worry about Jess, alright? You know I'm always here

for you. If you ever need to talk."

Stephanie's eyes shone. They embraced once more, holding onto each other with

more force than strictly necessary. And then Stephanie disappeared into the crowd,

but not before promising to take Calla up on the offer. They would talk. And they

would talk soon.

Tell me your secrets, Stephanie Brighton.

The parade of apologetic faces did not cease with Stephanie's departure. Mike and

Blake smothered her in an overwhelming embrace from both sides. Ryan mumbled

something cliche about loss and moving on . Even the sheriff's niece, a year older

than she, offered her a hug and murmured her sympathies.

Calla couldn't help but wonder which of those familiar faces had betrayed her. Had

it been Jessica, the jealous friend who'd been promoted as the sole squad captain

after Rachel's death? Or had it been Ryan, the boy who'd left the remorseful note

after Jacob's death—an admonition of guilt, or a show of true grief?

She couldn't say for sure. Not yet.

Calla tensed as Gareth and Astrid approached, the pair of them well matched; she

gave them both a rehearsed smile while wondering if they'd intentionally worn

identical turtlenecks. Gareth swooped in for potentially the world's most

uncomfortable side hug, staring over her head at Rachel's casket. Calla expected a

quiet apology from Astrid, who fought back a fresh wave of tears. So she was

surprised when Astrid instead wrapped her slender arms around Calla and squeezed

—until it hurt.

"Stay away from Vincent," she muttered in her ear, her voice hard and not at all the

soft pur Calla had grown accustomed to over the years. Astrid pulled back, her

bottom lip wobbling—a charade that Calla recognized immediately

She'd been doing the same thing her entire life.

Astrid took Gareth's hand and led him into the throng of people, disappearing

among the milling bodies. Calla barely had time to breathe before Cooper was

there. He sidled up to her and raised his arms, clearly uncomfortable.

Calla brushed away thoughts of Astrid. Concealing an eye roll, she hugged Cooper,

trying to make it as brief as possible. His hands hovered over her back, barely

brushing her dress, as if he didn't savor the thought of touching her.

"Subtle, Daniels," she murmured. "Real subtle."

"Shut up," he whispered back, quickly stepping aside. Vincent stood behind him,

hands shoved in his pockets.

Cooper, realizing an awkward confrontation was about to happen, shuffled away as

discreetly as possible—which meant he wasn't discreet at all. He bumped into

several people in his attempt to escape, until he finally ducked into an empty pew,

face red-hot with embarrassment.

Clearing his throat, Vincent walked up to her and hesitated, pulling one hand from

his pocket as if he might go in for a hug. Instead he raked a hand through his hair,

and color sprang to his cheeks.

"Calla..." he started, searching for the right words.

"Don't," she said stiffly, letting a note of irritation creep into her voice.

He scuffed the toe of his loafers against the worn carpet. Around them, the church

had cleared somewhat. A few clusters of mourners still lingered. At the back of the

church, Jessica, Stephanie, Mike and Blake had gathered in a loose semi-circle.

Astrid and Gareth stood off to the side, their fingers intertwined.

Astrid's eyes were locked on Calla. And, just a few feet away, so were Cory's, the

person Calla had been searching for since school this morning. He stood with his

body at an angle, as if he couldn't decide if he should come over and say something

or just leave and go home.

Let the show begin, Calla thought, pinning Vincent with a look.

"Just don't," she repeated, waving a hand. "Go. I'm sure Gareth's about to leave."

She snorted. "Astrid probably wants to go cry on your shoulder some more later."

She let her words sink in, making it clear she'd seen the little show from the parking

lot earlier. Vincent's flush deepened, the tips of his ears turning red.

"It's not like that," he started, rocking back on his heels, unable to stand still. He

avoided looking her in the eye. "I mean...I don't know what it's like. She was just

upset earlier—"

"You don't owe me an explanation." Calla crossed her arms, shrugging. "We kissed.

Once."

Vincent finally looked at her, flustered. "But it...it was nice. Right?"

Her eyes strayed to his chest; he'd undone another button, no doubt to combat the

heat inside the tiny church. She remembered how soft and warm his skin had been

as she slipped her hands beneath his shirt, flattening her body against his. She'd

delighted in running her hands across his abdomen, exploring the planes of his

chest, feeling his heart racing against her fingers.

Imagining how that heart might feel in her hands.

She blinked the memory away. "Does it matter? I'm not getting in the middle of..."

she waved her hand in Astrid's direction, " that again."

He took a step forward, reaching out the hand that had been tangled in her hair just

three days ago. "Calla, wait—"

"I said go," she said, stepping out of his reach.

Vincent hesitated but, after a moment's consideration he retreated, shoving his

hands back in his pockets and walking to the back of the church, shoulders

hunched. Calla watched him go, watched Astrid smirk before returning her attention to Gareth, blinking up at him innocently. Calla could have ripped that smile right off her face but, standing at the front of the church, she refrained.

Calla turned and walked over to the portrait of her and Rachel, pretending to get lost

in it. She wrapped her arms around herself protectively, as if in need of comfort. In

her head, she started to count.

One. Two. Three.

She tried to banish the image of Vincent's disappointed face. If her plan was going

to work, she couldn't think about him. She only hoped her words had been harsh

enough to chase him away. Even if, in reality, she didn't give a damn about his fling

with Astrid. Labels didn't daunt her. If Calla wanted Vincent and all of the delicious

distractions he could provide her, she could find a way to have him—and Astrid

would just have to deal with it.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

But Calla couldn't have Vincent. Not right now. Not when someone else offered her

far more than physical satisfaction and amusing banter. Not when her alliance with

Cooper hung in the balance.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen—

"Calla?"

She turned, feigning surprise. Cory stood behind her, wearing khaki pants and a

black button down that contrasted nicely with his blonde hair. A jacket was draped

over his arm.

"Cory. Hey." She turned, giving him her full attention. She kept her arms crossed.

"I, uh...wanted to see how you were doing." He gestured to the picture of Rachel

and Calla. "I'm so sorry about Rachel."

"I am too," she murmured, looking at the ground.

He took a step closer. "Hey, are you...okay? I mean, I saw you and Townson—"

"Vincent?" She shook her head and laughed, rubbing her forehead. "Wow. I'm stupid,

huh? Shoulda stayed far away from that tool."

"Naw." Cory leaned forward conspiratorially. "I dated Venus in the seventh grade. If

we're comparing dumb decisions...no offense, but I think I win."

Her eyes drifted to the back of the church. Venus stood in a semicircle with Hayley

and Madison, a queen holding court. She soaked up their attention like a vine

straining for the delicious light of the sun—and choking everything else in its path on

the way up.

If Calla never heard her shrill laugh again, it would be too soon.

"If you ever want to talk about...anything." Cory shrugged, offering her a smile.

"Y'know. I'm a good listener."

"And humble, too," she joked half-heartedly. But Cory, the good sport he was,

grinned. It faded quickly when he glanced over at Rachel's coffin.

"Well..." he shuffled his feet, turning to go. "See you after break?"

"Wait." She reached out a hand and then immediately pulled it back, looking at the

ground, trying her best to seem unsure. "I mean, maybe sooner? To talk."

She didn't bother hiding her shiver as a cold gust of wind blew into the church

through the open door.

"I'd like that," Cory murmured. He noticed the goosebumps on her arms and

immediately held out his jacket. "Here. Take it."

She waved a hand. "I can't—"

"You definitely can," he insisted, draping it around her shoulders. She felt warmer

almost immediately and smiled, genuinely pleased. Cory gave her a smile in return.

"Well, now you have to come see me over break. Gotta get that back."

Oh, I will, she thought. Count on it.

She made a point to hesitate before leaning in to give him a hug. She meant for it to

be brief, but Cory had other plans. He wrapped his arms around her eagerly. She

could feel his soft breath against the nape of her neck, tickling her; and then he

pulled away. He offered her one last smile before he left, waving to Mike and Blake

on his way out.

"Sweetheart?"

Calla turned to find her mother standing with Patricia Smith. Both had fresh tears in

their eyes.

I don't know how much longer I can do this, Calla thought as Patricia enveloped her in

a warm hug, squeezing her tight. Too many people have touched me today.

"She loved you so much," Patricia murmured in her ear, voice cracking. She sucked

in a deep, wavering breath. "You'll always be welcome in our home, Calla. We love

you too."

"I miss her," Calla whispered. From over Patricia's head, she had the perfect view of

Rachel's casket, the ground littered with roses and peonies. She imagined how

Rachel might look, her eyes closed and hands folded over her chest, throat sewed

shut, bruises covered with makeup.

The picture of the two of them taunted her. They looked so happy, so full of

laughter, as if they'd never heard anything funnier in the entire world.

Calla would never laugh with Rachel again. Not in this life, and not in the next.

Because if there was a next life, Calla wasn't going to the same place as Rachel.

Not by a long shot.

I miss you, she thought, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at that picture anymore. I'm sorry.