Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 86

Her eyes drifted over to the counter. Piles of flowers dominated the

space, spilling over into the sink. A bottle of Germ-X teetered on

the edge, threatening to tumble onto the floor.

Hospital. Why am I at a hospital?

She tried to shift her weight. Wires attached to a white patch on

the inside of her elbow prevented her from doing much and she

grunted, frustrated.

"Hey, take it easy," Vincent murmured, readjusting his ball cap.

"You can't get all worked up, okay?"

He eased down into a chair next to her bedside, as if resuming a

position he'd been holding for some time. Two chairs just like it—

one to his immediate right, the other positioned at the foot of the

bed—sat like silent sentinels.

Empty. But she got the feeling they hadn't been empty for long.

"Wait. Crap." He bolted upright and dug into the pockets of his

sweatpants, frowning with concern. "You're awake."

"Yes?" she croaked, grimacing. Awake. Was she? The thought that

this, too, might be a dream plagued her. She swallowed past the

dryness in her throat and tried again. "And?"

He finally fished out his phone and held it up to his ear, triumphant.

A moment passed and then a grin split his face as whoever was

on the other end of the line picked up. "Hello? Rosalind? She's

awake now."

Mother.

Calla withheld a groan. She gestured for him to hang up, but the

wires tugged against her sore skin. She swore, glaring down at

them.

"Excellent." Vincent beamed, hanging up the phone. He smirked

down at her. "She'll be here in five minutes."

Calla opened her mouth, ready to snap out something smart— I

should have pushed you over that bannister. But then she hesitated,

the reality of who she was speaking to sinking in.

Play the part, Calla. Just like you've been doing your entire life.

She settled back into the bed with a sigh.

"Your mom's really nice," Vincent reassured her, pulling his chair

closer. He reached out and took her hand, but not before he

hesitated. It was slight. Barely noticeable.

Calla smiled, pretending not to notice.

What does he know? she wondered, running through her

admittedly hazy memories of the night before. What does he

suspect?

He smiled back at her. It didn't reach his eyes.

"What happened?" she whispered, laying the groundwork for the

tale she would spin—for Vincent's sake. For her mother's sake. For

the entire town's sake.

Over time, even Calla herself would come to believe the lie. That's

how far she would bury the truth. No lie detector would ever be

able to call her bluff.

She quickly ran through a hundred different scenarios, fumbling

for a concrete plan of action. She could feel Vincent's reluctance,

uncertainly seeping through his pores. If he doubted the events of

that night, Calla would never be able to recover. The whispers, the

rumors, would follow her indefinitely.

Calla could not afford whispers. She could not afford rumors.

Vincent hesitated, his eyes bouncing between her face and her

hands, which had been heavily bandaged. He held them gingerly,

as if afraid he might break her.

Or afraid she might break him.

"What do you remember?" he asked, evading her question with one

of his own.

How do I convince him? she thought, frustrated. How do I convince

them all?

She could go the route of desperation. Desperate times do, after

all, call for desperate measures. But would that be enough to

convince a town of her innocence? She'd done quite a bit of

damage to Cory...

Vincent assessed her, waiting for an answer. He swallowed, his

Adam's apple bobbing.

"I..." Calla sighed, stalling for time. She closed her eyes. "I

remember..."

What do you remember, Calla?

Her eyes fluttered open.

"Calla?"

She flinched, and the monitor analyzing her heart rate spiked.

Rosalind stood just over the threshold to her room. She stared at

her daughter, tears pooling her eyes.

Here we go.

Vincent jumped up and took off his ball cap, clearing his throat.

Calla resisted the urge to roll her eyes as he mumbled something

about grabbing a snack from the vending machine.

Thus abandoned, Calla spent the next fifteen minutes consoling

her mother. For the most part, she stared at the painting across

the room, watching the crests of the waves. Despite the horror

she'd witnessed in the last twenty-four hours, she could not stand

to stare at the hollow light in her mother's eyes, nor the pallor of

her skin.

It reminded her too much of the empty room.

"Rosalind...oh, Calla. It's so good to see you awake."

Amelia Daniels peered around the edge of the door, a hesitant

smile lighting up her beautiful face. She stepped into the room,

showcasing a pair of dark blue scrubs.

"Amelia." Calla's mother stood, squeezing her hand one last time

before grabbing her purse. "Good news? Please tell me it's good

news."

Cooper's mother gave her a warm smile. "It's good news. Can you

step out into the hall with me for a few minutes?"

"Of course." She glanced back. "You'll be alright?"

Calla opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted.

"I'll stay with her."

Cooper hobbled into the room on a pair of crutches, flushed from

the effort. A thick cast encased his right ankle, weighing him down.

"Thank you." Her mother threw him a grateful smile, and together

the two women departed, closing the door behind them with a final

click.

Cooper stood at the foot of Calla's bed. For a moment, the two

said nothing. They simply stared at one another, each taking the

other in.

Cooper was the first to break the silence: "You look like shit."

Calla's eyes narrowed. She assessed the bandages around his

right hand, the cast on his foot, and the stitches—covered with a

thin bandage—on his left cheek.

"Well," she drawled, pinning him with a look. "I suppose I

would...since I took a bullet for you, ungrateful asshole ."

Cooper cleared his throat, glancing from one side of the room to

the other, seemingly fascinated with the bland decor.

Calla rolled her eyes. And then she sighed. "How bad is it?"

He shot her a quick look. "What?"

"You said I look like s**t. Are we talking a steaming pile, or...?"

"Steaming pile." He fumbled over to her bedside, struggling with

the crutches. Cursing, he flung them onto the floor and hopped the

rest of the way over, falling into one of the chairs. He didn't look at

her when he said, "But a very nice steaming pile."

This time, she didn't hesitate. She didn't have to. "Yep. I definitely

should have flung your ass over the bannister."

They sat in silence for a long moment, each lost in their own

thoughts. Calla stared at him while he stared at the ceiling, his

expression unreadable.

Finally, he asked, "Why?"

Calla's fingers twisted into the bedsheet. "Why what? I have a

concussion, Coop. I don't have the brain capacity to deal with your

riddles right now."

"Why did you do it?"

He was going to die, anyway.

The words he didn't say. The words he didn't have to say.

"Because I made a promise," she ground out. A half truth.

"Since when do you care about keeping your promises," Cooper

muttered, calling her bluff.

Calla gritted her teeth.

And then he said the words: "He was going to die, Calla. I...I

stabbed him in the back, and—"

"And you would have moped about it for the rest of your life," she

snapped back, surprising them both.

Cooper stared at her, bewildered. She sighed, closing her eyes.

The headache was beginning to return, and with a vengeance.

Calla contemplated just lying there. She could stay like this, she

decided. Silent. Still. Her injuries would give her enough leeway to

turn any uncomfortable questions away, at least for a time. But

only for a time.

"I didn't know he was there," she murmured.

Her eyes were still closed, so she couldn't see Cooper's reaction.

But she could hear the confusion in his voice when he asked,

"Who?"

"Vincent." She spit the words out, knowing that if she didn't now,

then she might bottle them inside for the rest of her life. "I didn't

know he was there. At the house. I came there for you."

The silence between them stretched.

When Calla could no longer bear it, she opened her eyes. Cooper

gazed down at her, uncertain.

"I don't understand," he said weakly. "Why come for me? And don't

tell me any bullshit about promises, Calla. I know who you are. I

know how you think. It doesn't make sense—"

"Exactly."

"I...what?" His speech came to a resounding halt. He deflated like a

flat tire, the air leaving him in a rush.

"You know who I am," she explained softly, her eyes sliding to the

door dividing them from the rest of the world. "You know how I

think. You see me." She appraised him with a frown, disturbed at

her own admission. "I don't want to be invisible, Coop."

She looked away, her eyes straying to the flowers sprouting from

the counter. She hadn't noticed until now, but their scent lingered

in the air, a cacophony of smells and colors, clashing together in

horrible harmony.

"We have to talk about what happened," Cooper finally blurted out,

diverting the conversation to safer waters. "You've been out cold

for three days—"

"b***h, what?" Calla whipped her head back around, glaring

daggers at him. "Three days ? Why am I just now hearing this?"

"Because you just now woke up?"

"God," she groaned. "Why are you punishing me?"

What punishment does my murderer deserve?

She pursed her lips, banishing the memory. Tracy was dead. Dead

and gone.

I'll always be with you.

"Calla?" Cooper snapped his fingers in front of her nose and she

swatted at him, pulling the wires in her arm. She grimaced.

"What? Yes, yes. We'll talk about what happened," she muttered,

just as the doorhandle began to twist. " Later. "

"Later," he agreed, a note of warning in his voice. He wasn't going

to let her forget.

Perhaps that's what I should do, she mused, just as Vincent slipped

into the room, grinning at them. He balanced almost a dozen

snacks in his arms, each on the verge of tumbling to the floor. I

should just...forget.

"I come bearing gifts," he proclaimed, sliding into the seat next to Cooper.

When he looked at her, she saw the same hesitance, but also a

warmth. As if whatever suspicions he'd been harboring before

were beginning to slip away, back into the dark corners of his mind

where he would lock them away and forget they ever existed.

It was hard to linger on nightmares when you were surrounded by

the waking world. The sunlight could be deceiving.

She could only hope it would be enough.