Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 81

She turned to find the boys staring at her. She saw fear in the lines

of their faces. In the gleam of their eyes.

"They should be afraid," Tracy purred. "You're the most dangerous

thing in this house, Calla Parker."

"Calla."

Vincent shot Cooper a warning look, which the other boy ignored.

Instead he clenched the glass between his hands, drawing more

blood. His eyes pinned her to the spot, wide and beseeching.

In them, she saw his answer—an answer to a question she hadn't

even known to ask.

And then he said the words aloud: "Go. Now ."

"Kill them," Tracy whispered, her voice low and dark and not at all

familiar. "Kill them now."

"What?" Vincent's eyes bounced from Cooper to Calla, bewildered.

He stepped between them and turned to her. "Wait. Cut us free.

Calla—"

But she was already gone.

She slammed the door behind her and shoved the armchair back

into place, just as someone—Vincent, no doubt—threw his weight

against the door. Once. Twice.

Again and again. His voice reverberated through the door. "Calla!

Calla!"

She fell back into the chair, wincing with each blow.

"Are you afraid, Calla Parker?" Tracy whispered. Calla glanced from

one end of the hall to the other, but there was no one. No ballerina

costume. No gleaming black hair.

Something cold brushed her ear. "Are you afraid of what you'll do

to them in the dark?"

Calla jerked to her feet, swearing. "I'll—"

"Took you long enough," a familiar voice drawled, shattering the

illusion in her head. "I was starting to think you'd never come out."

Calla whirled around. A dark figure stood at the end of the hall,

perched at the top of the stairs. One long, pale hand gripped the

bannister. But the face was cast in shadow, giving her only a vague

impression of who stood before her.

She gripped the back of the chair. Her next question came out

cool. Steady. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Since you came up the driveway." Amusement coated his words.

"I thought the knock was a nice touch, by the way."

"I aim to please."

He laughed. "I wondered, you know. How much of it was put on.

How much was for show. I'm glad you haven't lost that sense of

humor."

Vincent's desperate attempts to break through the door had

stopped. Silence filled the hall. Her ears rang.

"So." Calla took several steps forward. Now that she was out of

that room, her head felt clear. At least for the moment. "You

figured it out."

She didn't bother lying. There would be no dancing around the

truth. Not here. Not in this house. Her eyes drifted to the spot on

the floor between them. She tried to envision where Tracy had died

and could not.

Cory edged forward, his face still wreathed in shadows. His hands

trailed along the bannister. "I've known for a while."

Calla contemplated his answer. "How long?"

"Tracy."

She gritted her teeth. The name sent a bolt of pain between her

eyes.

Cold air drifted at her back. She ignored it. "What about her?"

Cory paused. They were less than ten feet apart now. It would be

easy to close that distance. Easy to wrap her hands around his

throat.

Easy for him to do the same.

"I thought we were being honest with each other," he murmured. A

hint of frustration leaked colored his easy demeanor. "Why can't

you be honest with me? Haven't I done enough? Don't I deserve

that much?"

A dagger of pain pierced through her skull, blinding her. She

clutched her head, fighting back tears.

"Cory—" she rasped.

" What else do I have to do ?" he shouted, his voice echoing

throughout the empty house.

Calla's vision went dark. She hit the floor.

But when she opened her eyes, she wasn't on the floor. Strobe

lights flashed, illuminating the hall at random intervals before

plunging the world back into darkness.

She whirled around, looking for Cory. But he was nowhere to be

found. Her fingers flexed around something cold and hard. The

knife felt familiar. It felt good.

But when the hell had she picked up a knife?

A delighted giggle cut through the air and she turned, her eyes

zeroing in on the petite figure in the ballerina costume. Tracy hung

her head over the bannister, one pink slipper swinging between the

rails.

I hate you.

Calla started down the hall.

"Ra-aa-ch-el," Tracy called, oblivious. Her eyes were heavy. She

swayed back and forth against the bannister, unable to hold herself

upright. The smell of vodka pricked Calla's nose.

Tracy's hands slipped, and she pitched forward.

Calla snagged the back of her costume and pulled her back over

the bannister. Tracy stumbled backwards and the two fell,

tumbling to the floor in a heap.

"Ow." Tracy turned. Her face was mere inches from Calla's. She

grinned. "Cal-Pal!"

The smell of alcohol washed over her. She stiffened as Tracy's

arms tightened around her in an enthusiastic hug. She put a hand

between them, trying to push the other girl off. Her palm pressed

against Tracy's collarbone.

Warm.

Calla's hand slipped higher. Her fingers wrapped around the edges

of Tracy's throat. Testing the skin there.

Soft.

"Ow," Tracy said again, uncertain now. She wriggled, trying to push

away. Her arms shook from the effort.

Calla drove her thumb deeper into the hollow at Tracy's throat. The

other girl tensed.

"Ouch!" she whined. Louder. Sharper.

Calla squeezed her other hand—tightening her grip around the

knife.

"I hate you," she whispered. And then she squeezed.

"Calla!"

She panted into the darkness. Sweat had gathered at the small of

her back. She tried to sit up, but strong hands held her down,

pinning her to the ground.

Cory leaned over her. This close, she could finally make out his

features. The gleam of his blue eyes, half-obscured by blonde hair.

The slight bump in his nose. The sharp planes of his cheekbones.

He ran a thumb over her bottom lip. "What happened? What's

wrong?"

His touch was gentle, his eyes tender. Concerned.

Haven't I done enough? he'd asked her. Distraught. What else do I

have to do?

She swallowed. Her mouth felt incredibly dry. Collapsing twice in

one day couldn't be good for her health. "Cory."

Her voice came out as a croak. He leaned in, bringing himself

closer to her. Had he tilted his head, their noses could have

brushed.

His warm breath washed over her—fresh mint. Why couldn't the

guy smell like a dumpster?

She closed her eyes. If she looked at him for much longer, she

would break. And she was in no condition to do that. "How do you

know I killed her?"

She didn't bother going into the specifics. He would understand.

He did. "I watched."

Her hands twitched. She imagined what it had been like to drive

her fingers into Tracy's skin. So soft . So fragile. And how it had

felt to cut—

"Where?" she whispered.

Cory hesitated, and Calla laughed. It came out as more of a bark.

"You were in that room, weren't you?" She hesitantly reached out,

and her fingertips made contact with the hard coil of his abdomen.

"Where you put Cooper. And Vincent."

She said his name easily, as if he were no more to her than a

mouse might be to a cat. She couldn't. Not if she wanted Vincent

to live.

He has to live.

"It had a good view," Cory offered weakly, half-teasing. "I couldn't

believe it. When you..."

He trailed off as she flattened her palms against his chest. His

heart hammered beneath her fingers. She opened her eyes to find

him staring down at her, a hungry look in his eyes.

"You killed them for me," she whispered. It wasn't a question. The knife she'd stolen dug into the small of her back, digging into her

skin. The pain drove away the remnants of her headache, bringing

her clarity.

"I thought you knew," he admitted. His lips were dangerously close.

"I thought you saw me somehow, watching from the doorway. But

then, when I finally got the chance to talk to you at school...you

confused me. Do you remember? You acted like you didn't know

what had happened. Like it was a game , or something."

A game you wanted to play.

Calla barely remembered that day. And yet something about it

pricked her memory—but for an entirely different reason. It had

been the day she and Vincent had their first real conversation. The

day she'd saved Cooper in the parking lot.

"It was my idea to leave a page from one of those books, you

know," he whispered, his lips brushing hers. "I thought you might

like the added touch. I figured we could...play together. I just

wanted to make you happy. I still do."

He'd stolen the book. He'd thought the gesture would be playful, a

fun new element to an already thrilling chess match . Calla couldn't

quite mask her bewilderment.

The gentle brush of his lips against hers became more insistent.

She forced herself to relax into his kiss, trying to ignore the wild

fantasies running through her head. She imagined tearing his lips

off with her teeth. Shattering his nose with a hammer. Drilling a

hole into his head—

Okay, Jeffrey Dahmer. Focus. Get it together.

Cory kept the kiss brief, but the grin on his face when he pulled

away stretched a mile. Calla ran her hands up and down his chest,

her fingertips brushing his collarbone. So soft. So warm.

"Did it work?" he whispered.

"Hmm?" Calla blinked up at him, her mind elsewhere.

"Did I make you happy?" he murmured, leaning his forehead

against hers. His eyes shone. "It was all for you. These people,

Calla...they're toxic. Jake, threatening you the way he did. And

Jess...I thought you might like her gone. They don't deserve to live

in a world with you in it." He paused. "So I took them out of it. For you. For us."

Calla wrapped her hands around the back of Cory's neck,

pretending to lean into his touch. Her thumbs brushed the soft

spot at the hollow in his throat.

"It was all for me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Cory sighed, content. "All of it."

She looked into his eyes. Her fingers twitched. "Including Rachel?"

He went still. She saw the moment that recognition and fear lit his eyes. He inhaled sharply.

And the beast lunged.