CHAPTER 57
1168 Words
Calla had no idea what she was doing.
Can I come over in like an hour? Really need to talk.
She contemplated Vincent's text from her favorite spot in bed, aggravation and
curiosity warring within her. The leatherbound book lay in her lap, along with the
knife she'd buried in her sock drawer and the spare key Patricia Smith had entrusted
her with. Her fingers danced along the spine of the book as she swiped out of her
texts and went into her recent calls, scrolling until she found Cooper's number. She
held it up to her ear, her lips flattening into a sour line.
She traced the title of the tom— Grimm's Fairy Tales —as she waited. Cooper
answered on the third ring. "What?"
"Rude."
"Goodbye."
Why is he so exhausting? Calla sighed, her very breath laced with annoyance. Her
hand drifted away from the book, hovering over the knife. "Why is Vincent coming
over to my place in an hour?"
Silence from the other end. And then: "Did he text you?"
"Yes, genius. And I can probably guess why."
Vincent thinks we're dating, he'd whispered to her last night, the two of them elbow-
to-elbow in the theater, surrounded by people they hated.
Cooper groaned. "Look, I already tried telling him—"
"You're useless," she interrupted. "I have a date with Cory Michaels in—" she pulled
the phone away from her face to read the time, "—four hours."
" What ? Why?"
She gripped the knife, the bone-white handle cold and unforgiving. It felt unfamiliar
in her hand. She wasn't sure why she thought it might feel different. "I need to
squeeze more information out of him."
More silence. Then a sigh. "You think he knows anything?"
"I think he could find out if he really wanted to." Calla stared out of her open
window, gazing across the field at Cooper's apartment complex. "I won't ask
anything overly obvious. I'll pull some crap about how I need to move on from
Rachel's death, blah-blah. I need closure, blah-blah—"
"Touching."
"—and see what he can tell me," she continued without skipping a beat. "About the
murder weapon, the suspects, anything." The murder weapon that isn't currently in
my hand, that is. "It's a long shot, but we have to cover all our bases, don't we?"
"I guess," Cooper admitted. "But, y'know..."
"Yes," she said irritably. "I know. Vincent."
"Please, Calla?" he practically begged on the other end of the line. She heard
shuffling, as if he were sitting up in bed. "Just make things right, okay?"
"Why do I have to clean up your mess?" she snapped, frowning. What the hell did
that even mean, make things right? As far as she was concerned, Cooper had
landed them both in this mess. Why did he have to be so...socially inept?
"We can't let him fly off the handle right now," he tried to reason. "We need—"
" We don't need s**t. You just want your friend back."
Her knuckles had gone white from clenching the knife. She eased her grip.
"Tell me you don't like him even a little, and I'll drop it." Cooper sounded smug. "Go ahead. Tell me."
Calla kept quiet, her eyes hooded with thought. She pursed her lips.
"Super. Good luck!" he said quickly, and the line went dead.
"You little b***h," she whispered, ripping the phone away from her ear.
Wasn't Vincent his friend? He should have been the one repairing their strained
friendship, not her. And what did she care if Vincent hated them both?
Tell me you don't like him even a little ...
But she knew it was more complicated than who she did or didn't like —if that was
even what this was. If she kept ignoring Vincent, he would find other avenues to
pursue, if only to make her jealous. And there was too good a chance that one of
those avenues would lead somewhere dangerous. As capable as Vincent may have
been, Calla didn't fancy serving him up on a silver platter for Astrid—or Gareth, or
Jessica, or any of them—to devour.
Then again...Calla could let him wander into the lion's den. It would keep her path to
Cory clear, and erase a potential distraction in her life. But was a clear head worth
risking Vincent's life? Calla wasn't sure. Her skewed moral compass—if she had one
at all—certainly wasn't pointing her in the right direction.
Her eyes drifted back down to the knife.
Book. Knife. Key. Now all I need is a crystal ball.
She tried to tell herself it was only logical to want Vincent safe, and to repair any
damages his friendship with Cooper may have suffered. After all, if anything
happened to him, there was no telling how Cooper would react. Would grief pull him
further into her sinful promise of revenge?
Maybe. Or maybe it would be the reality check he needed to push him far, far away
from her—and into the arms of the Greenwitch County Sheriff's Department.
Calla wasn't willing to take that risk. Which meant Vincent's safety wasn't just
Cooper's problem anymore; it was hers, too.
She sighed and opened her messages. She typed back a quick response to Vincent:
Sure.
He read her message but didn't respond—which probably meant he was already on
his way. Fantastic.
Grumbling, Calla slid off the bed and grabbed the random assortment of items she'd
laid out, cramming the knife back into the sock drawer for lack of a better plan. She
tucked the book in the pocket of a heavy winter coat—an excellent hiding place, all
things considered and
for the sake of her sanity, she triple checked the key's nondescript location in her
nightstand. She would not lose the key a second time.
The thought that the killer might have been here , in her room, rifling through her
drawers, sent a pulse of anger through her veins. But she knew the thought was
ludicrous. The killer had gotten their hands on the key in some other form or
fashion. Calla had been careless, leaving such a small, precious thing in her back
pocket. And when it wasn't in her pocket, it was in her purse, tucked not-so-safely
away in her locker.
She knew well how easily the killer could access a locker. They'd done it before.
Twice.
Incriminating evidence thus hidden, Calla slunk into the bathroom, snatching up her
toothbrush. She ran through the motions of basic hygiene as quickly as she could,
but before she could even consider changing, the doorbell rang.
Calla darted out of the bathroom, hurrying down the hall to answer the door.
"I got it, Mom!" she called, hoping she wouldn't move from her spot in the living
room. She doubted she would—her favorite Tom Cruise movie was playing, and it had barely begun.
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