Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 5

But how early? And who saw me leave?

"Lucky you did," her mother agreed, grim. "It's a mess. That

Daniels boy—"

"Daniels?" Calla interrupted. "Cooper Daniels?"

"The same." Rosalind rolled her eyes. "They actually brought him

in. To the station . If I were Amelia, I'd have Pendowski's ass for

shutting my kid in some cell."

She didn't question how her mother knew this information. She'd

been right on at least one count. Word got around in a town like

Greenwitch.

Rosalind made another comment or two on how horrible the entire

situation was—and how very sorry she was for Rachel, for Calla—

before announcing that breakfast was ready. Calla barely heard

her. Her thoughts were consumed by memories of Tracy Smith. Of

music and mayhem and flashing lights.

And Cooper Daniels.

She turned to look out of her bedroom window. The sun had just

begun its ascent into the sky; it hung over the field separating her

house from the brick apartment complex next door. She imagined

if she looked hard enough, she would be able to see Cooper

through his bedroom window, sleeping peacefully.

Maybe not so peacefully, all things considered.

Calla lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers, watching the veins

move beneath her fragile skin. She knew how easily a knife could slice through skin. She'd accidentally nicked herself a thousand times in the kitchen. And when the blood

started running, it seemed to run forever.

Calla waited until she was sure her mother was back in the kitchen

before plucking her phone from the nightstand by her bed. And

then she called the only person in the world who might have all the

answers she needed.

"Calla?"

"Hey, Rach." She allowed a respectful pause. If she blew this,

Rachel would give her nothing but the cold shoulder for days, if not

weeks. And Calla didn't have that kind of time. "Mom just told me

the news. D'you wanna talk about it?"

The other end of the line was silent. Calla kept count of the

seconds that passed until Rachel finally broke down in a sob. Calla felt herself relax. Sobbing was good. Sobbing

meant she'd said the right thing.

"It's awful," Rachel finally said. "I can't believe she's gone."

"Neither can I," Calla admitted truthfully.

"She was like my sister." She sniffed loudly. Calla narrowed her

eyes and held the phone away from her ear, as if misery were

something she could catch. When Rachel spoke, her voice came

out as a tinny whine. "Why would anyone do this?"

Calla withheld a sigh. There were a number of reasons why Tracy

could have been killed, and none would comfort her best friend.

Well. She was a horrible b***h, for one.

"Some people are sick in the head," she said instead. "No one can

explain that."

Rachel's voice sounded stronger when she spoke next. Angrier.

"Whoever it is, they're going to rot in hell."

Calla shifted uncomfortably on the bed, her fingers—up until

recently, stained pink with the remnants of blood—twisted in the

sheets. She needed to take control of the conversation before it

got out of hand. "Have you talked to the police?". "I mean...do you remember anything? From last night?"

"Barely." Rachel sounded defeated. "I've got the worst hangover..."

"Same," she lied. "I can't remember anything." She paused,

wondering if she should improvise to try and prod something from

Rachel's memory. She didn't have much experience with grief.

Would a game of twenty questions push her over the edge?

I won't know if I don't try.

Calla proceeded with caution. "Did we...leave the party early?

Before...?"

She trailed off, leaving the door open. Hoping Rachel would step

through with open arms.

She took the bait. Calla refrained from grinning. "Yeah...maybe? I

think you did. I remember you found me downstairs."

"Why did I leave so early?" she murmured. Her confusion was not

a ploy.

Memories of the night before—memories that should have been

front and center—remained out of her reach.

"Something about your mom. You know how she is."

Calla immediately pulled the phone from her ear and went through

her texts. She almost sighed with relief when she saw the

message from Rosalind at 10:34 last night.

Come home ASAP...no sleepovers tonight.

I had an excuse to leave, Calla thought, strangely relieved. On the

other end of the phone, Rachel's tone shifted to something like

embarrassment. "I was so drunk. God. I think Cooper Daniels was

with me. At least at some point. But that's where it gets fuzzy..."

"Cooper Daniels?" Calla returned the phone to her ear, suddenly

invested in the conversation.

That name again. Cooper Daniels. The boy who found the body.

Calla's eyes drifted back over to the window.

"Yeah." Rachel cleared her throat awkwardly. "He, uh, helped me to

my room. I think."

Calla's temper suddenly flared. "What do you mean, helped you?

Did he try anything?"

"No! God." Rachel laughed nervously. "I think I did, actually. But when I woke up there was a trash can by the bed and the door

was locked from the inside."

"Hmm." Calla relaxed back on the bed, placated.

"Yeah. He was kinda sweet. I guess. I don't know." Rachel paused, and her voice became melancholy again. "I can't believe she's gone, Calla."

This again. Calla sighed into the phone. "Me either." A respectful

pause. Then: "Do you remember seeing her? At all?"

"Well, obviously. She met us at the door." Rachel sounded

uncertain. "And we took a few shots together. I have a picture of

us on my phone..."

Calla let Rachel reminisce. It was a few seconds before she spoke

again, and when she did, she sounded weary.

"I saw her go upstairs. I saw her. But I didn't think anything of it. I

didn't—"

"It's okay, Rach." Calla knew she had gotten all she could from

her. At least for now. "We can talk about it later."

Rachel heaved a great, shuddering sigh. "Thanks for calling, Cal.

You're a good friend." Her voice wavered. "You're like a sister too,

you know that?"

Calla said nothing. She could picture Rachel perfectly, sitting on

the edge of her bed as Calla was, a box of tissues on her huge

body pillow. Her nose would be red from crying. Her eyes would be

bloodshot. And her hair—black like Tracy's—would be up in a

messy bun.

"Love you, Rach," Calla murmured. She let the words sink in, but

felt nothing.

It was a lie.

"Love you too, Cal." Rachel meant it. The words rang with sincerity.

Calla hung up the phone.

*****

Cooper stared at the shoebox under his bed.

Leave it be. Better yet, bury it, his conscience whispered.

But Cooper knew better. In this town, secrets never stay buried for

long.

He swiped at the shoebox, grabbing it before he could second

guess himself. Heart pounding, Cooper flipped off the top, but not

before sparing a glance over his shoulder. He could hear his mom

across the hall, singing off-key to an old Michael Jackson tune in

the shower. The busted radio warbled along with her, hanging on

for dear life.

Just a quick peek, he told his conscience, which rolled a

metaphorical eye.

He hadn't thought about the shoebox in months. But the damn

thing had been calling to him ever since he'd woken up, causing

him to pace a hole into his dingy carpet. He'd thought staring

retrospectively out of his bedroom window might soothe his

nerves. Instead, his eyes had strayed to the old oak tree edging the Parkers' backyard.

Cooper sifted through the contents of the shoebox, his fingertips

brushing over an assortment of photographs. His cheeks burned at

the sight.

The subject in each photograph was the same. Fiery red hair. And

those bone-chilling black eyes. Calla Parker haunted his

nightmares, and only by shoving her in a box under his bed could

he banish her from his thoughts—waking and sleeping.

"I know you killed her," he whispered, picking up a photo from

three months back. Their first day of sophomore year. She stood in

the driveway, her face blank as she stared back at him. Searching,

but not seeing. "I know it."

These pictures proved nothing. A photograph couldn't capture her

empty soul.

"You're going to be late, Coop!"

Cooper dropped the picture and scrambled to shove the cursed

box back under his bed. He was just hurrying to his feet when his

mom knocked on the door.

"Coop, babe."

"Coming." He ripped the door open and stood there, one hand on

his backpack and the other running through his hair.

She gave him a skeptical look, a mint green towel wrapped around

her head to hold her mass of wet curls. An equally green mask

covered her face. "School. Now."

"School. Fine," he grumbled as he slouched down the hall.

"Don't give me that look," she called behind him. "Your education

is more important than some half-rate small town gossip!"

Cooper gave a heavy sigh. "Yes, ma'am."

He shoved his free hand in his front pocket, feeling for his keys.

Instead, his fingers brushed the edge of a polaroid—the one Sheriff

Marks had given him the night of Tracy's murder. Cooper's resolve

wavered for a moment.

She'll sting you one day...

Cooper had no idea what those words meant, or what book that

page had been ripped from. But it was a start. And a start was all

he really needed.

Steeling his resolve, Cooper headed out into the cool November

morning, determined to solve the mystery—and with any luck, clear

his good name.

* * * * *

"Amelia couldn't give you the day off?"

"Apparently, my education is too important." Cooper forced the

words out through clenched teeth. He kept his head tucked in his

locker, fearful of what would happen if he showed his face with the hallways so packed full of bodies.