Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 20

"Hello? Are you listening?"

No. Calla glanced over at Rachel, who'd forced her into a car at the c***k of

dawn and dragged her to the

Greenwitch Diner, where they now sat in an overlarge booth side by side. She

stopped fussing with her straw to give Calla a narrow-eyed glare that could

only mean one thing.

She'd been talking about boys. And Calla hadn't heard a single word of it.

" Any way." She continued, bending the tip of the straw, keeping her voice low

out of respect for the other patrons. The atmosphere of the diner felt

somber. Quiet. "I want to ask Cooper to the winter gala."

Calla immediately gave Rachel her full attention. "Cooper Daniels?"

His name sent a spark of fury burning through her chest. His unexpected visit

to her window last night had left her tossing and turning, wondering what his

next move would be.

Wondering if he would finally muster the courage to tell someone about her.

I could kill him, she mused. That would ensure his silence. But it would be messy.

Especially if her best friend wanted to take him to the upcoming dance.

"Why Cooper?" Calla asked, forcing an expression of polite interest.

Rachel sighed as she readjusted the sleeves of her oversized sweater.

"Because he's nice. And helpful. And..." She put a hand to her cheek to hide

a blush. "Cute."

"Cute," Calla repeated, trying to reconcile the Cooper in her head—clumsy,

annoying Cooper Daniels—to the Cooper Rachel remembered from the night

of the Halloween party. "Why are we talking about Cooper, Rach?"

"The dance is only two weeks away," she explained slowly. "It's only logical

to start thinking about who we need to take."

"Rach," Calla tried again, causing her friend to bend her straw with enough

force to break the plastic. "Are we going to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" she snapped, causing an older couple off to their right to stare.

Calla reached over and took the straw from Rachel's meek fingers. "Jacob Stein is dead."

"You think I don't know that?"

"Tracy's dead. We aren't here to talk about some stupid dance or some

stupid boy, Rach."

"Stop." Rachel buried her hands in her hair, fingers digging into her scalp.

"Just stop. I can't think about him, Calla. I can't think about her. Not here."

"Then what are we—"

"I feel like...like I'm drowning," Rachel whispered, turning her head so that

Calla couldn't see the expression in her eyes. "Every day. And every night.

When I'm alone. When I'm at a party, surrounded by half the school. I'm

always drowning. Even on the good days. I just know I can't survive like this."

She paused when the waitress came over to take their drink order. Rachel

said nothing; she stared at the table, her hair a dark curtain blocking her from

the rest of the world. Calla ordered for them both: a latte and an orange

juice. The waitress gave them a cursory glance before she left.

"So yeah," Rachel said, her voice breaking as she turned back to Calla,

though her eyes were dry. "I kind of want to talk about some stupid dance

and some stupid boy. Because if I don't, I'll think about her. And when I think

about her..." She took a deep breath and raked her fingers through her hair,

still stiff with hairspray from the night before. "I dream about her every night.

Except for last night. Do you know what I dreamed about last night, Cal?"

I should really charge by the hour, she thought. She leaned her elbows against

the table, exhausted. "Rach—"

"I dreamed about Jacob," she confirmed. "I didn't even know I cared about

that asshole. I don't. It's because of that damn picture.

Did you know there's a picture?" Rachel pushed her hair back far enough to

pin Calla with a desperate look. It was only then that she noticed the dark

circles weighing down Rachel's eyes. "I don't know if it's some idea of a

joke, but there's a picture. Of Jacob's body."

Calla ran her palm down the side of her face. She didn't even try to interject.

Rachel fumbled for her phone, fishing it out of her purse. "So now there's a

dead body all over social media. And that's not even the problem, which

is...how messed up is that? I don't even care that he died." Rachel stared at a

picture on her screen, bent over it protectively, as if it might disappear at any

moment and leave her alone with her guilt-ridden, morbid thoughts. "It's how he died Cal. It's how she died, too."

It took Rachel almost a full minute to surrender her phone. When she did, she

dumped it into Calla's lap and stood, mumbling something about using the

restroom. Calla let her go without so much as a word.

She'd gotten what she'd wanted, after all. Peace. Quiet.

And a picture.

Calla looked down at Rachel's phone. Jacob Stein's corpse was on full

display, his throat bruised and slashed with a ribbon of red. He'd taken off

his jersey and had been found bare-chested. Blood covered his hands, as if

he'd tried and failed to stop the bleeding moments before his death.

Something small and white at the edge of the photo caught Calla's eye. She

zoomed in, curiosity getting the better of her.

The killer left a note.

Cory had been telling the truth. She couldn't make out the words on that

scrap of paper. But she could make out the number written in bold red ink—

the number two.

Sure that Rachel would return at any moment, Calla set her phone facedown

on the table, but not before memorizing the details of the photo. She would

commit it to memory. And then, alone in the quiet of her room, she would

revisit the image.

And she would revel in it and wonder.

Who killed Jacob Stein?

"I'm sorry."

Rachel slid back into the booth, her thigh brushing Calla's. She fluffed up her

hair in an attempt to hide her flushed cheeks and damp eyelashes.

Calla took her hand. She had a job to do. A role to play.

A friendship to save.

"It's okay to drown every now and then," she murmured, squeezing Rachel's

hand until the other girl looked at her. "You just have to come up for air

sometimes. Promise me you'll come up for air."

Rachel nodded, her throat bobbing as she swallowed fresh tears. "I promise. I

just...can we talk about stupid dances? Please? So I can breathe again."

A thousand rebuttals danced over the tip of her tongue. Ignoring their hellish

reality felt cowardly. Naive. What good could come of turning your back on

the dead and darkness?

But those were not the words that Rachel needed. And for Rachel, Calla

could—and would—lie.

You lie every day. To everyone. About everything.

Damn Cooper Daniels. Damn him and his damn intuition.

Calla offered a half-hearted smile. "Alright. Stupid dances. And stupid boys."

Rachel's phone buzzed on the table. Both girls made a face, but it was Calla

who said, "If that's a stupid boy..."

Rachel rolled her eyes and denied the call. "It's Mom."

"You sneak out without telling her about our brunch plans again?" Typical.

" No. Aunt Alice is up her ass about some missing book. They want me to

track it down." Rachel rolled her eyes. "I can barely find my toothbrush in the

morning. What the hell am I supposed to do about a book ?"

Calla frowned. The waitress dropped off Calla's orange juice before making a

swift exit. "What book?"

A shrug. "I dunno. Aunt Alice thinks someone at the party stole it. Because,

yes. That is what a highschool kid cares about. Stealing books!"

Calla hid a smile as she took a swig of her drink. "How'd she even notice?"

"She's super anal retentive about her library." Rachel sighed and rubbed her

temples.

Calla did a quick mental walkthrough of the Smith's mansion. She'd been

over every square inch of that place, particularly as a child, lost in a game of

hide-and-seek with the Smith cousins. On the main floor, she'd hidden in the

kitchen pantry or underneath the stiff, luxurious living room furniture. The

gaming room on the second floor had been a personal favorite of Rachel's,

who always managed to squeeze behind the antique machine. And then there

was the third floor—the long stretch of hall, vaguely ominous despite the

mansion's relative youth. As far as Calla knew, Tracy's death had been the

mansion's first murder. There had been no hauntings.

She did remember one room on the third floor—the parlor. Three of the four

walls had been lined with books. Dozens of classics. And even more special editions.

The killer left a note. A scrap piece of notebook paper, maybe.

Or a page torn from a nearby book.

Calla shifted, trying to hide her sudden unease. Rachel continued speaking,

blissfully unaware of the dark turn that Calla's mind had taken. "I love Aunt

Alice, but she's driving me crazy. I have bigger problems on my plate than

literature. Like the winter gala," she said, pointedly steering the conversation

away from droll family drama. "And Cooper Daniels."

"What about Cooper Daniels?"

Jessica and Astrid slid into their booth, Stephanie a few paces behind. The

latter looked uncertain as she took the open seat beside Jessica, who leaned

into Astrid's shoulder—a painfully obvious attempt to put space between

them.

Still bickering, I see. I wonder why. Calla tried not to stare at Stephanie,

instead gazing down into the depths of her orange juice. I wonder if it has

anything to do with your little foray to the station the night of Tracy's murder?

"I want to take him to the dance," Rachel clarified, a note of determination

creeping into her voice. Her words jarred Calla from her thoughts.

Jessica snorted and made a face. She and Astrid both wore cropped hoodies,

their midriffs covered in a layer of goosebumps. "Daniels? Have you lost it,

Rach?"

"He's cute," Stephanie insisted, throwing in her support.

Jessica clenched her jaw, ignoring the comment. She shot Calla a look, blue

eyes bright but cold. Calla wondered, not for the first time, if those blue eyes

were the result of contact lenses; the rumor had been started in the eighth

grade and had never really gone away. "Cal-Gal. Are you hearing this? You

can't tell me you support the Daniels movement."

"Is the gala even happening?" Calla asked, trying to keep the bloodbath to a

minimum—ignoring Jessica's question entirely. She'd normally encourage a

verbal flurry. Relish it, even. But her thoughts were elsewhere, lost in a vortex

of conspiracy theories about the killer stalking their idyllic town.

The killer left a note. A book went missing. And the boy that my best friend

wants to take to the dance suddenly has an interest in literature.

Calla's theory seemed more and more likely the longer that she mulled on it.

She felt tempted to call off brunch, to excuse herself quickly and quietly and

make her escape. But she couldn't leave Rachel. And even if she could, she

had no way to prove that Cooper's interest in the school library had anything

to do with the missing book from the Smith mansion—or that the missing

book had anything to do with the murders. For all she knew, the three were

entirely unrelated.

But Calla had a hunch. And she didn't believe in coincidences.

The waitress dropped by a second time, irritated to find more bodies at the

table. In a rush to fill the table's order, she spilled Rachel's latte on Calla's

lap, who had to remind herself that murder by strangulation would be frowned

upon given the town's current climate.

Once she was gone, Rachel dropped her broken straw into a cup of water.

"It's too late to cancel the dance. They paid for a DJ and everything."

How many people need to die to get this thing cancelled?

"Well. Cooper seems...nice," Astrid offered, adding absolutely nothing of

substance to the conversation. As per usual.

"Whatever. Take who you want." Jessica analyzed her manicure with a critical

eye. "I guess I'll take Mike. He was being such an ass last night, though."

I can't leave Cooper alone with Rachel, Calla thought, staring at her best friend

and wondering just how she was supposed to discourage her from something

she so clearly wanted. Never an easy feat. What if he tells her what he

knows? Or at least what he suspects...

Calla wanted to believe that Rachel would take her side. That she would

laugh in Cooper's face and ignore his outlandish theories. But the death of

her cousin—of the girl who had been more like a sister than a relative—had

clearly unhinged Rachel in some way. Watching her have a miniature

breakdown at the table moments before had proven that.

When it came to Tracy, Rachel was a wild card. Calla couldn't be sure how

she would react if Cooper decided to fill her head with poisonous truths.

She would have to keep an eye on Cooper. Even if it meant getting close to

him.

"Maybe we can double date," Calla offered, interrupting Jessica's mindless

chatter about her latest hookup with Mike. She glanced over at Rachel,

looking for approval. "I can ask Vincent to the dance."

Across from her, Astrid looked up from her phone, hazel eyes sharp and

assessing. Jessica's endless stream of words dried up.

"Wait. This is perfect." Rachel's eyes brightened, her whole demeanor lifting.

But then she frowned. "But what about—"

"Cory," Jessica inserted, giving Calla a once-over. "Weren't you two just on a date?"

Stephanie scoffed. "If he hasn't asked you to the dance yet, it doesn't matter."

"He hasn't." Calla shrugged, unbothered. Cory's reaction was at the bottom

of her laundry list of concerns.

Stephanie clasped her hands together. "So. Theoretically. If you were to ask

Vincent, would that mean...Cory's available?"

"Theoretically?" Calla asked, propping her chin in her hand.

"Theoretically."

She sipped her orange juice. "I'd say yes. Cory's available. Very available."

Stephanie gave her a sly smile and picked up her phone, her fingers flying across the screen.

"Bathroom," Jessica declared, forcing Stephanie out of the booth so that she

could slide into the aisle. Astrid followed her, mumbling something about

starting her period. Their abrupt exit caused the other girls to stare at each

other in bewildered silence.

And then Stephanie grimaced. "Ah. Calla?"

"What now?" Calla asked, more irate than she should have been.

I need a nap.

"It's Vincent," Rachel explained when Stephanie shot her a pleading look, the

kind that screamed help me, please.

Calla gave a long sigh. "What about Vincent? I'd rather not play twenty

questions, so just say it."

Rachel tapped her fingers against the stained ceramic mug of her latte.

"He's...well. He and Astrid..."

She waved her hands in a vague gesture. Calla made a face.

"I'm taking French. Not sign language."

"Astrid and Vincent became a thing over the summer," Stephanie said, leaning

across the table so that the other two girls could hear her. "She's totally

doing it to get back at Gareth. But." Stephanie shrugged.

"I'm guessing she doesn't want me to take him to the dance, then?" Calla

wanted to scream. Could Astrid really call dibs on two guys? At once ?

Rachel crossed her arms. "Whatever. She has a boyfriend. She can get over

it."

"My thoughts exactly," Stephanie agreed. "She's just pissy about it. I'm sure

they're raving in the bathroom about the injustice of it all."

"Perfect." Calla sank down in the booth. "So do I take him, or what?"

Rachel grabbed her arm. "You have to take him, Calla. I need my wingman!"

"They're coming back," Stephanie warned.

Rachel changed the subject without hesitation. "Anyone know what the boys are up to?"

Jessica and Astrid slid back into the booth, pinning Stephanie to the wall this

time. Jessica wrinkled her nose. "With any luck, they're sleeping. I look like a

trash panda. Not trying to socialize today."

"That's unfortunate," Astrid said, hiding a rare smile behind her hands. Her

eyes were fixated on something—or some one —over Calla's shoulder. "Make a

run for it, maybe?"

"Crap," Jessica muttered, sliding down in her seat. "Oh, shoot me."

"What?" Calla turned and made eye contact with the Richardson brothers

standing at the entrance to the diner. Mike—she could tell by the way he

grinned at her—pulled his hand out of the pocket of his fluorescent yellow

hoodie to wave. "Oh. Yeah. Shoot me, too."

"Do we have enough bullets for the table?" Rachel muttered. Calla shot her an

unamused look.

"They're coming this way." Jessica drew her hood over her head and pulled

the drawstrings tight, hiding her face. "Why are they coming this way?"

"Now, now." That sarcastic undertone definitely belonged to Mike. The girls

turned as he approached, Blake in tow. "Don't all get up at once."

"What are you two doing here?" Jessica asked, indignant.

The twins wasted no time in drawing up two chairs, forcing themselves into

their group. Mike shot Jessica a charming grin. "We're here for the gossip.

These old batties know everything."

He turned and waved to Mrs. Gionardi at the cash register. The forty-three

year old raised an overplucked brow and smirked, eyeing Mike appreciatively.

"Maybe if I ask real nice," he whispered, leaning in toward Rachel

conspiratorially, "Mrs. G will give me the tea."

"You wouldn't." Rachel shot him a dubious look.

"Been there." He turned back to the group and braced his elbows on the

table. He gave the girls a wicked grin. "Done that."

As the owner of the diner and wife to the mayor, Lauren Gionardi held the

key to many of the town's secrets. Considering her esteemed husband was

also a dirty, lying cheat who'd slept with half of the high school faculty, Calla

also had zero doubts as to whether she'd sleep with a student for revenge—

especially if that student would roll in the sheets for information on the

town's hottest gossip.

Standing at the register with Mrs. Gionardi was the sheriff, his unkempt

wisps of hair tucked beneath a baseball cap. His fingers were hooked around

his belt loops, his posture that of a man in extreme discomfort. A few

seconds later, Calla realized why.

Amelia Daniels stood just behind him, her arms crossed. She looked upset,

her eyes darting around the diner, looking for a familiar face. Or an escape

route.

The sheriff paid for both of their tickets. Amelia tried to refuse, and when that

failed, she stood there, stiff and silent, as Mrs. Gionardi made small talk with

the sheriff. After a few pleasantries, the two walked out of the diner side by

side, carrying on a low, tense conversation that Calla couldn't begin to

understand.

I guess we both have our secrets, Calla had told Cooper not so long ago. And

we aren't the only ones, either.

Blake rested his head on the table. "If you screw with Mrs. Gionardi and get

us kicked out again, I'm telling Mom."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Stephanie rolled her eyes, lost in her phone—crafting the perfect message to

Cory, no doubt. Calla followed suit and tuned out the twins' antics, allowing

her mind to wander down dark passages, her thoughts drifting from Amelia

to her son.

She still couldn't get the image of Cooper's face out of her head. Standing

there in the dark, backlit by distant streetlights further down the road, he'd

looked almost possessed, gripped by manic determination to confront her.

He'd stared at her as if he could see right through her. As if he'd been able

to see her all along.

You want to tell me why you've been digging holes in your backyard?

Calla's left hand balled into a fist under the table.

It was dangerous, what Cooper Daniels was doing. Watching her.

Documenting her every move. She'd seen that camera of his, dangling from

his neck. Now she could only wonder what that camera had seen—what that

stupid, stupid boy had seen.

It was easier, she thought, watching Jessica laugh a little too loudly at

something that Mike said. Blake scowled at her, rightfully annoyed. It was

easier, back when it was just Tracy. Back when it was Tracy, and me, and

blood on my hands and a knife in my backyard.

Jacob's death had thrown a wrench in her plans. Because now there was a

second killer to contend with—someone besides her moonlighting alter ego.

She couldn't allow a murderer to run around Greenwitch unchecked. It wasn't

a conscience that drove her; it was self-preservation.

What if Cooper Daniels isn't the only one watching you?

Calla shifted, uncomfortable. For all the reasons that Jacob could have been

murdered, using his death as a ploy to expose Calla was by far the worst. It

meant that someone out there knew her secret. Someone dangerous.

Someone who was willing to kill.

Someone just like her.