Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 4

A helpless shrug from Cooper. The sheriff sighed.

"Can't say we have any idea what's happened, either. I've got my

best officers out there combing through the scene. Doubt we'll

find a thing that matters, at least not for a couple of days. And I'm

not holding you that long, Coop. I won't allow it." He paused. "Now

tell me honestly. You kill that girl?"

Cooper sat up straight, stunned. "What?"

"Coop—"

"No," he said fiercely. "Sheriff, it's me . I wouldn't—"

"Then why, Coop." He pressed a finger to his temple. " Why did you

go and get her blood in your hair and on your hands? Your vomit's

all over the floor, for god's sakes! There isn't a single damn inch of

that crime scene that doesn't have Cooper Daniels all over it."

Cooper deflated. He buried his face in his hands—and then

recoiled at the smell of blood. "I...I just..." He swallowed past a

lump in his throat. When he glanced back up at the sheriff, his

vision was blurry. "I had to use the bathroom. That's all it was. I

didn't want to go down to the stupid party and play stupid beer

pong. I should have just stayed with Rachel."

"Rachel?" Sheriff Marks raised an eyebrow and hooked his thumbs

through his belt loops. "As in Rachel Smith? Coop—"

"She was wasted." Cooper stood and began pacing from one end

of the cell to the other, ignoring the open door. "I took her upstairs.

She passed out. I just wanted her to sleep it off."

"What time was this?"

He paused in the middle of the cell and frowned. Hadn't he

checked his cell phone right before heading upstairs? "Ten. Or just

past ten."

"Good." Sheriff Marks kicked the door open the rest of the way.

The iron swung on rusty hinges. "'Cause I didn't much feel like

telling your momma you killed that Smith girl."

"Huh?" Cooper stared at the open door. "But—"

"But what, Coop? Sure, it don't look good. And we got a hell of a

lot of reports to run if we're gonna find out who did this. But if you

were really with that Rachel girl when you said you were...well.

That helps, son." The sheriff smiled wryly. "Now get out of the

damn cell. We got actual criminals we need to hold."

It was a lie. Greenwitch County had an infamously low crime rate—

hence the medieval state of their local jail. But Cooper smiled

nonetheless. And when he stepped out into the hall, it felt as if the

weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. The sheriff

believed him. He actually believed him.

Or at least, he wanted to. And that was enough.

"I do gotta ask, though." Sheriff Marks paused just outside the

door that led back into the bullpen. The prehistoric lights hanging

overhead cast odd shadows against his cheekbones, giving him

the hollow look of a recently reanimated skeleton. "You got any

idea what this is?"

He dug a photo out of the front pocket of his khaki uniform. It was

a folded polaroid. Of what, Cooper couldn't quite tell. Not at first,

anyway.

He grabbed it from the sheriff and stared. And then grimaced.

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "Uh. Looks like a pile of my vomit."

"Yes, Coop." The sheriff rolled his eyes and tapped the upper right

hand corner of the polaroid. "I'm talking about that. The piece of

paper."

Cooper took a closer look. He was right. What looked like a torn

page from a book had been half-buried under the pile of puke. A

dozen or so words on the center of the page had been circled with

a red pen.

She'll sting you one day,

Oh, ever so gently,

so you hardly ever feel it.

'til you fall dead.

"It...I don't know. It's from a book, I guess." Cooper frowned at the

thin lines of text.

"Hmm. Well." The sheriff waved him off when he tried to hand the

polaroid back. "Keep it. We've got digital copies. You'll let me know

if you can think of what the hell that means, won't you?"

Cooper nodded. He shoved the photo in his front pocket. "Yeah, of course."

He wasn't sure what insight he would be able to provide, as

compared to the entire police force of Greenwitch County. But he

wasn't about to argue the point. Not now that he was a free man.

The sheriff nodded and led Cooper out into the bullpen. Half of the

desks were unoccupied; the other half sat a random assortment of

deputies, men and women in slacks, and a handful of familiar

faces that Cooper knew from school.

He and Ryan Kane made eye contact from across the room. The

senior had been secluded to a distant corner; a man Cooper

recognized as Cory Michaels' father sat in a chair across from

him, a notepad in hand.

Nearby, Stephanie Brighton—who ran in Rachel's crowd and

typically had him right by the balls when it came to yearbook

assignments—perched on the edge of a desk, mascara running

down her cheeks. She dabbed at her eyes as a woman in uniform

took a swab of DNA.

He was surprised Jessica Sneider wasn't there to hold Stephanie's

hand. He still couldn't believe he'd managed to snag a kiss from

the co-captain of the cheerleading squad in the fourth grade. Then

again, that had been a simpler time.

Maybe it was for the best that she wasn't there. He hated the way

she always turned her nose up at him, their elementary kiss

banished from her memory like a bad smell.

His eyes stopped on the desk closest to him. Smaller even than

Cooper, he immediately recognized Tom Sahein. His expression

was still stunned, his knuckles white around his Canon EOS 90D.

Cooper wondered how much dirt he'd captured on the student

body that night.

And then he wondered if any of that dirt included a murder.

A row of windows ran along the length of the room. The blinds had

been shuttered, blocking out the outside world. Cooper half

expected to hear an angry mob outside, but it was silent as the

grave.

Cooper's gaze landed on a petite blonde at the front of the room,

somewhere between the makeshift lobby and the bullpen. His

world came to a screeching halt.

Amelia Daniels shifted anxiously from foot to foot, her long hair a

disheveled mess. She wasn't wearing makeup and her clothes

were wrinkled, but Cooper thought she was beautiful—which was

pretty lame for a sixteen-year-old kid, but he didn't care. His

mother was a good person, and her life had been too hard.

She scanned the room every few seconds, as if waiting to catch

someone's eye. When she saw Cooper, her eyes began to shine.

Guilt bubbled in his chest. His mother wasn't one to cry, especially

not in public, and the fact that he'd pushed her this far hurt him.

His mom raced across the room and embraced him in a ferocious

hug. He always forgot how strong she was. "Are you okay? Tell the

truth, Cooper."

Her eyes—green, the way his looked if the light caught them right—

blazed, daring him to lie to her.

"I'm fine, Mom." He gently pushed her away.

She pursed her lips. Cooper knew that look. She was about to start

an argument worthy of World War III. And he knew exactly what

she would say.

Fine? Fine, after finding a dead body?

"I'm just tired," he announced, giving her a significant look.

She didn't look convinced. In fact, Cooper thought she wasn't

going to let it go. But then she took his hand—he let her, especially

if it meant she would drop the subject—and turned to Sheriff

Marks. "Thank you, Ted."

"Sure, Amy." Sheriff Marks gave a nervous smile. Smart man. "I'll

call if there are any more...developments."

Cooper read between the lines: I'll call if Cooper's the killer.

His mom nodded stiffly, and then she and Cooper left the station,

clinging on to one another. She let him go only long enough to let

him crawl into the passenger seat before gripping his hand in hers.

He let out a long, slow breath.

She didn't say a word on the drive home. That was one thing he

loved about her—she knew when enough was enough.

And Cooper had definitely had enough for one night.

There was blood under Calla Parker's fingernails. Blood and dirt.

She stared down at the water rushing down the sink,

expressionless. Her skin burned with the intensity with which she

scrubbed her hands. If she scrubbed hard enough, maybe she

would break skin. Then she could pretend the blood was her own.

Yes. She could pretend. But that wouldn't make her reality any less

sinister.

She'd known the moment she ran her hands under the sink that

the blood didn't belong to her. She'd already double-checked her

body for injuries. Even a papercut would have sufficed. But just as

she'd thought, there were none. She didn't have so much as a

bruise.

Her eyes flashed from the bathroom to her purple bedspread, combing the space for any indication of wrong. A ruffled curtain. A

misplaced shoe. Something that would explain the filth on her

hands.

Her clothes from the night before were in a pile at the foot of her bed. She wasn't normally so careless. But discarded clothes were certainly no red flag.

It's probably fake, she mused, attacking her nail beds.

Calla thought back to the night before. She vaguely remembered a

party. Loud music. A lot of booze. Not that she'd touched the stuff

—had she? There were definitely a lot of people. Tracy must have

invited half the school.

The same could be said of any Smith party. She sighed. She hadn't

wanted to go to the damn thing, but Rachel had forced her with

that disgusting pout she always pulled when she wanted to get her

way.

Calla frowned, trying to remember more—who had been there,

what she'd done—but she drew a blank. Her memory felt like a

vast abyss, stretching on into darkness. No matter how hard she

pushed against that abyss, it never gave an inch. If anything, it

only grew wider. Larger.

As if to spite her.

"Calla?"

Rosalind Parker didn't bother knocking. Calla shut off the water

and grabbed a towel just as her mother burst into the room, her

dark eyes wide and worried. She gave her mother a tired smile,

though she wasn't tired at all.

"Did you hear the news?" Rosalind leaned against the doorframe.

She looked exhausted. "About Tracy?"

Calla froze, hands twisted in the towel. "What about Tracy?"

"She's dead," her mother said softly. A moment later, Calla realized

why. She was supposed to be close to Tracy. Or at least, close

enough to care. "Killed. I told you those parties were dangerous."

Calla forced her expression into one of shock. Inside, she

felt...indigestion. What the hell had she eaten last night?

"Dead?" she whispered.

"I'm afraid so." Her mother shook her head. "The police aren't

saying anything, of course. But you know how word gets around."

Horror. Shock. That's what you're supposed to be feeling right now.

Don't forget.

Calla wanted to snatch her clothes from the floor and analyze

every thread of fabric. She wanted to rifle through her drawers.

Through her closet. She wanted to find something that

would give her a clue as to what the hell had happened the night

before.

Her hands burned. She had a creeping suspicion she already knew the answer to the question rattling the bones of Greenwitch

County.

Calla shuffled over to her bed and sat down. She forced out a deep

breath. "Lucky I left early, I guess."