Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 77

Cooper stared at the dark shape across the room in horror.

When Cory had first dumped him here, he'd barely been conscious,

reeling from the agony of getting his hand sliced open. His mouth

still tasted like vomit from the experience.

But eventually, the pain subsided—at least to a tolerable degree.

Which was how Cooper found himself sitting alone in a dark room,

his hands bound by some sort of hard plastic; the only source of

light filtered through a window on the opposite wall. And even that

was slight. Outside, the sun had already set, draping the world in

the pre-dark of twilight.

I wonder if Mom's still at work...

Cooper blinked into the darkness. At first, he could make out

nothing beyond vague shapes. He squinted, but his

eyes stubbornly refused to adjust.

His ears, on the other hand, still worked fine. So when he heard the

sound of rustling sheets, he froze.

What the hell?

He stared at the bed—hard. Waiting for something to move.

Waiting for the monster under the bed to come crawling out and

bring his worst childhood nightmares to life.

The room was silent.

Cooper gave a sigh of relief. But that relief quickly evaporated

when he saw a dark shape move on the bed.

His first reaction? Panic. His heart crawled into his throat as he

pressed himself against the wall, shrinking away from the

unknown danger. The most horrific scenes from Resident Evil

played on a loop in his head, and he immediately broke out in a

cold sweat.

Get it together, you imbecile.

He wasn't sure why he heard Calla's voice in his head just then.

He'd always liked to think that if he absolutely had to die young,

he'd at least get to hear his mom's voice. Or maybe it would be

Vincent in his head, cheering him on from the sidelines to take

down the bad guy in an impressive (impossible) feat of strength.

So why he had to hear the voice of his psychotic neighbor...well,

that was beyond him. Cooper personally felt he'd suffered enough

for one lifetime.

The thing on the bed—Cooper did his best not to envision a rotting

corpse—moved again. Only this time, it groaned.

"Okay. I'm out." Cooper scrambled to his feet and whirled around.

He knew the door wouldn't open. The door never opened. But he

gave it a shot anyway, fumbling for the doorknob with his bound

hands.

The knob twisted, but the door didn't so much as budge. He threw

his weight against it, and still—nothing.

More groaning from the bed.

Cooper began banging on the door. He barely noticed his injured

hand throbbing with each jolt. "Hey. Hey! I didn't sign up for this!"

"Wha-gah?"

It's speaking. And it sounds...really familiar?

A different sort of horror gripped Cooper. He slowly turned around,

his back pressed against the door. He tried to swallow past the

fear clogging his throat, but his mouth was too dry.

The room wasn't so dark anymore, not now that his eyes had had

time to adjust. He blinked, and suddenly the dark figure—which

took up nearly the entire bed—began to take form. Messy hair

sticking up at odd angles, near where a pillow might be. An old,

worn pair of limited edition Jordans hanging off the side. And a

letterman jacket he would know anywhere, the white sleeves

glowing in the dark.

"Vincent!"

Cooper didn't think; he rushed the bed, his hands fumbling over his

friend's face, his arms, his back. Scanning for injuries.

"Ow."

"It is you." Satisfied that he wasn't in mortal peril, Cooper began to

shake his shoulders. "Wake up!"

From what little light filtered into the room, he could see the

moment Vincent opened his eyes. Which, luckily, gave him just

enough warning to hit the floor.

He dropped before Vincent could drop him. Vincent swore

as he lurched to his knees and swung, aiming blindly in the

darkness.

"Hey!" Cooper awkwardly waved his bound hands above his head,

trying to flag Vincent down. He probably looked like some sort of

demented earthworm. "Don't hit me. I'm already crippled."

"Coop?" Vincent peered over the edge of the bed. A grin split his

face. "Coop!"

An instant later—with Cooper crouched on the floor and Vincent

hanging over the edge of the bed—the reality of where they were,

and why they were there, hit them.

Vincent's grin faded. Cooper sighed, his hand throbbing.

"That asshole is dead," Vincent whispered, though Cooper couldn't

help but detect a note of fear in his words.

"No, we're dead if we don't figure out how to get out of here."

Cooper stood on shaking legs, blinking into the darkness. "Where's

the light switch?"

He stumbled over to the door, groping the wall. He found the

switch and flicked it on—but nothing happened.

"Where the hell are we?" The bed creaked as Vincent slid off. He

spun in a circle, analyzing what little he could see of the room.

"Tracy's," Cooper muttered, rapidly flipping the switch. As if the

lights would miraculously work on the sixteenth or seventeenth try.

When they didn't, he sighed. "Of course. Of course he took us to

some scary, big ass, dark ass mansion."

"At least it's not a cabin in the woods."

Cooper shot him a look over his shoulder.

Vincent raised his hands—also bound at the wrists. "Hey. Silver

lining. I'm just trying to speak positivity out into the world."

Silver lining. As if this nightmare had a silver lining.

"You don't happen to have your phone on you by chance, do you?"

Vincent asked, hopeful. He meandered over to the window and

glanced down. "f**k's sake. It drops straight down...no way in hell

are we getting out through there."

"If I had a phone on me, I would be using it," Cooper griped, panic

beginning to set in. Desperate now, he scanned the walls, looking

for something, anything , he could use. His options were limited: a

painting over the bed and, by the door, a set of circular mirrors.

"Pretty sure dickface destroyed it."

Pretty sure. No, he was absolutely sure. He'd watched Cory hang

up on Calla and then proceed to smash his phone into tiny pieces,

all while shoving the point of a knife deeper into his hand.

"Right. So. No phones."

"No phones," Cooper murmured, walking over to the mirrors. The

smallest was the size of his hand; the largest, the width of

Vincent's chest.

"Coop?"

Vincent hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a

whisper. "Do you think...do you think he's hurting her?"

The question caught Cooper off guard. He glanced at Vincent in the

mirror, his brow furrowed. "Who?"

"Calla."

The idea of anyone hurting Calla Parker was so absurd that Cooper

nearly laughed. Knowing how well that would go over, he

kept his mouth shut.

He opened his mouth to tell Vincent that he had nothing to worry

about. Calla would be fine. More than fine. She was probably safe

and sound in her room right now, scrolling through social media

with her usual cold indifference.

But he couldn't say that. Not without saying a whole hell of a lot

more.

She's certainly not coming here to save me, he thought, reaching up

to test the weight of the largest mirror. It lifted from the wall easily.

Ten, maybe fifteen pounds. If only she knew Vincent was

here...she'd already be busting down the door, Cory's severed head

in hand.

But still. Something about Vincent's question gave him pause. He

chewed on his bottom lip, contemplative.

Do you think he's hurting her?

Cory wanted her here. Desperately. That, Cooper believed

wholeheartedly. The question was why.

"I don't think he has her," Cooper finally murmured, the gears in his

head spinning as he stared at his reflection. He wasn't sure if it

was the darkness of the room in general, or if the circles under his

eyes were really that pronounced.

Vincent's silence spoke volumes.

"Wait." Cooper turned around, the mirror forgotten. "Hold on.

Pause. Speaking of who is and isn't here...how did you get here,

dude?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," he muttered.

"Cory...he came by my place. Told me Calla was in trouble. That

Gareth had her, or was trying to hurt her, or something. I can't

believe I fell for that guy," he groaned. "I'm such an i***t. I willingly got into his car."

Cooper had to appreciate Cory's ingenuity. Dangling Calla in front

of Vincent like that—while simultaneously taking advantage of his falling out with Gareth—was cruel. And brilliant.

"But how did he knock you out? And drag your heavy ass all the

way upstairs?" Cooper asked, frowning. He couldn't picture it.

Vincent leaned back against the window, larger than the frame. He

sniffed. "He hit me over the head."

"With what? A bag of bricks?"

"I don't know. " He gingerly touched the back of his head, wincing.

"But it hurts...damn it. I wasn't even thinking about it until now."

"Yeah. Well." Cooper held up his hands, flashing the jagged six

Cory had carved into his skin. "You better hope he doesn't give you

one of these. The guy ambushed me outside my apartment. Next

thing I know I'm in Tracy's house, and he's got this knife —"

"Jesus, Coop." Vincent stormed over and grabbed Cooper's hand,

despite his protests.

"Hey! Be gentle."

"Hush."

"Why did he do it, though?" Vincent asked, cutting off Cooper's

tirade before he could even begin.

Cooper shrugged, exasperated. "Why did he kill three people? How

many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? The

world may never know."