Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 24

"Twirl."

"I don't want to twirl."

" Twirl. "

Calla rolled her eyes and did as commanded, stretching her arms up like a ballerina

for good measure.

Rachel squealed, bouncing on her toes. "You look great. I can't believe I got you in

that dress."

Truth be told, neither could Calla. She'd gone through all the motions these last two

weeks leading up to the winter gala. When Rachel insisted she go with her to get a

mani-pedi, she did. When Rachel begged her to shop for new shoes, she groaned—

but she did. Jewelry. Accessories. Endless hours spent scrolling through inspiration

for hair and makeup. Calla had done all of it.

But dress shopping? That's where she'd drawn the line, no matter how Rachel had

begged and pleaded and complained. She was busy, or so she insisted. Too busy

for dresses.

It wasn't a lie. Calla was busy—busy trying to catch a killer. She'd had little success

in the last two weeks. She'd tracked down as much information as she could on the

Brothers Grimm, trying to find something that would trigger her lost memories. If

she'd been the one to kill Tracy Smith, then it followed that she'd also stolen the

book from Aunt Alice's collection. She'd been the one to leave that first, cryptic

note.

But it was useless. She couldn't remember committing murder . Why would she

remember stealing a book?

She tried to imagine the parlor room—the way it would have looked that night,

awash in strobe lights as her fingertips brushed along a row of leatherbound spines.

And then she imagined pausing on the volume of dark fairytales, her eyes scanning

through the rudimentary artwork within. What about the book had caught her eye?

Had she flipped to a page at random?

What the hell did I do with that book?

If she'd hidden it, she'd hidden it well. She certainly hadn't buried it.

Suffice it to say, Calla had no leads to go on. And without any fresh leads, all she

could do was sit at home and stare at the ceiling, plotting ways to solve her

predicament while Rachel begged her to shop for dresses.

In the end she'd allowed Rachel to pick a dress on her behalf—the gamble of all

gambles. It was the only way to appease Rachel and give Calla peace of mind at the

same time. She had no idea what to expect from Rachel's dress choice, but it was

better than sweating in a dressing room, shimmying into skintight, glittering pieces

of fabric that shed all over her things.

For all intents and purposes, Rachel had done well. More than well, really. Calla

examined her figure in Rachel's mirror, running her hands over her hips. The dress

actually made it look like she had hips.

"You look great," Rachel chimed in, mirroring Calla's thoughts. "My taste?

Impeccable."

The little black dress hugged her figure, but that much she'd been expecting when

she sent Rachel out to do her bidding. What she hadn't expected was the alarmingly

deep V-neck. She'd been apprehensive at first glance, but she didn't have much

choice but to throw it on and make it work. It was either this, or the see-through

number hanging at the back of Rachel's closet.

"Here." From the depths of said closet, Rachel threw out a pair of strappy heels.

"Put these on."

Let's try not to commit murder in these, Calla told herself. The pep talk of the century.

She sat on the edge of the bed to keep her balance while she wrestled with the

straps. "What shoes are you wearing?"

Rachel slid out of the closet and posed against the doorframe. She kicked out her

foot, displaying a pair of bright red, impossibly high heels. "These bad boys have yet

to fail me."

"Have you ever worn those? Even once? In your life?"

"Nope!"

Rachel's room was spacious enough that they could get ready together with ease.

Almost everything was some shade of pink: the walls, the fur rug, the curtains, the

silk bedspread and matching pillows. Her closet, home to various designer brands,

was the same size as Calla's room at home.

"Just try not to break your neck," Calla said, hiding a laugh.

"I make no such promises." Rachel plopped down on the bed beside her, presenting

ten identical tubes filled with amber liquid. "Also. Pocket shots!"

Calla made a show of gagging.

"C'mon," Rachel whined. "It's just one night!"

She sighed. "Fine. Stick half of them in my purse."

Rachel squealed with glee, carefully tucking five tubes into a hidden inner flap.

"You're the best."

Calla made a noise in the back of her throat.

Rachel stood and wobbled from one end of the room to the other, doing her best to

find her balance. She swore each time her ankle threatened to give way. "I'm going

to bust my ass. I can feel it."

"Wear something else," Calla suggested, watching her warily. If she broke an ankle,

Calla would be the one responsible for cleaning up the mess. Not an experience she

would savor.

"I can't. I already showed Jess a picture of these babies." Rachel scowled as she

teetered back to Calla's side. She fell back down on the bed, her hair—not yet

finished—fanning out on the sheets. "She'll give me s**t if I back out."

"Since when do we care what Jessica Sneider thinks?"

Rachel went silent. Calla twisted around, curious.

With a great sigh, Rachel sat up. "We got in a fight."

Calla immediately tensed. Her eyes narrowed.

"Calm down. She was just...being unreasonable, per usual." She shrugged. "I'd

rather avoid her if we can."

Calla analyzed her hands, fluttering her fingers and admiring the veins hovering just

beneath the skin. "Are you going to tell me what the fight was about?"

"Can it wait? It'll put me in a bad mood."

Something about her tone made Calla look up. Rachel averted her eyes, staring

down at her gaudy shoes.

"Fine," Calla agreed. Rachel immediately relaxed. "Do I need to beat her ass? If it'll

cheer you up, I will."

They grinned at each other.

"Thanks." Rachel moved to her vanity, carefully selecting a pair of diamond earrings.

"But...no thanks. Maybe I'll change my mind next week. Don't give up hope."

Calla rolled her eyes and changed the subject, sensing that Rachel had said all she was going to say on the other matter. "So. You and Cooper, huh?"

Her distraction worked. Rachel fought a smile, but she couldn't hide the color in her cheeks. "Yeah. I mean, no. It's not like...nothing's happened."

" Yet ," Calla emphasized, giving her a pointed look in the mirror. She finally adjusted the last strap on her heel and stood, marching over to her best friend. "Do you like him?"

Do you like the boy who sees what I really am?

Rachel patted the spot beside the vanity bench, and Calla sat, turning so Rachel

could fasten the clasp of a long gold necklace.

"I think so." Rachel shrugged. "We haven't talked a lot yet. I don't really know him.

But he's smart, and he's nice...I mean, he's the nicest guy I've ever talked to."

"You deserve that. A nice guy," Calla murmured, touching the necklace. It fell

perfectly, resting in the neckline of her dress. She turned back to look at Rachel,

expression serious. "You deserve to be happy."

Rachel leaned forward to hug her, and they stared at their reflection in the vanity

mirror, surrounded by bright bulbs. Rachel looked stunning, her black hair pulled

back into a glamorous ponytail—a look Calla normally favored. Her own hair fell

down her back, tamed into luxurious curls.

She didn't recognize herself.

She grabbed Rachel's hand. "I mean it, Rach."

"Love you, Cal." Rachel grinned at her reflection. "I'll definitely be happy if I get laid

tonight."

The brief seriousness of the moment popped like an overblown bubble. They both

laughed, and when their phones buzzed to announce the arrival of their dates, they

hurried down the grand staircase and into the foyer. Rachel's house was smaller

than her cousin's, and yet more elaborate in many ways: the crown molding, wooden

beams, marble fireplace, and artistic light fixtures all screamed money.

Calla didn't particularly feel one way or the other about Rachel's inheritance, which

she would claim when she turned eighteen. It was convenient, she supposed. It

meant Calla often got to live lavishly by association, though the extravagant

decorations didn't exactly appeal to her. She preferred a more minimalist approach.

Cooper's Mustang sat in the driveway, which encircled an ostentatious fountain

backlit by a ring of lights. He and Vincent stood poised by the car, matching in khaki

pants and baby blue button ups. Vincent already had his coat over his arm. Cooper

fidgeted with his, prodding the buttons. A nervous gesture, perhaps.

She smirked, remembering how easily she'd coerced him into proposing to help her

with her hunt. A hunt —what a wonderful word to describe her intentions. And now

she had a partner.

No, not a partner. A pawn to be sacrificed.

He didn't catch her crooked smile; he didn't so much as look her way as she

approached. His attention never wavered from Rachel, who looked stunning in her

strapless minidress.

Vincent grinned at them, breaking the ice. "Hello, ladies."

Hello, Vincent. Calla allowed him to kiss the back of her hand, admiring him despite

herself. He cleaned up well. Very well. Got any skeletons in your closet I need to

know about?

She still couldn't believe how perfectly it had all turned out. Rachel and Cooper.

Calla and Vincent. She'd been surprised, pleasantly so, when he reached out to

extend an invitation. She knew his offer partly stemmed from guilt. But why he felt

guilty over a little white lie—something about an imaginary hookup between the two

of them—Calla couldn't understand.

She didn't care about a rumor. And she certainly didn't care about the fury of Astrid

Baker. She cared about solving a string of murders—and right now, her primary

suspect was the boy she'd have on her arm tonight.

Cooper thought her suspicions were ridiculous. She thought his optimism reeked of

naivety.

The girls crawled into the backseat, squeezing in beside each other. Rachel spent

most of the ride requesting a laundry list of songs. Calla blocked out the noise and

used the car's side mirror to apply more lip gloss. Vincent caught her eye in the

reflection and winked. She winked back and he laughed.

Let the games begin.

* * * * *

If looks could kill, Calla would have fallen dead the instant she walked into

Greenwitch High on Vincent's arm.

From the other side of the gym—across a sea of white and silver balloons drifting

across the floor. Her glare penetrated even at a distance. Gareth, the oblivious buffoon, didn't

notice. He was too busy laughing with a group of other boys, Ryan Kane and Cory

Michaels among them, sneaking sips from a silver flask.

Vincent had the decency to look embarrassed. "Um...sorry about her."

"About who?" Calla blinked up at him, feigning innocence.

He let out a relieved breath. "I owe you. Big time."

"Or we could just have fun tonight and call it even," she offered, following his lead

as he pushed his way through the crowd to the opposite side of the gym, where

Rachel had claimed a table for their things. She and Stephanie were busy taking off

their heels.

He draped his coat over the back of an open seat and grinned down at her. "Deal."

"Here." She handed him her clutch. "Shots are in there."

Vincent made a beeline for the refreshment table, waving her purse in the air as he

went. She couldn't help herself; she laughed, shaking her head, and bent over to

loosen the straps of her heels.

"Please. Can you try to not completely pollute his soul?"

Calla looked up to find Cooper standing next to her, his arms crossed. His sleeves

were unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow, his hair already in a disarray. She noted

the camera around his neck with distaste.

"No promises," she answered sweetly, kicking off her heels and tossing them under

the table.

He frowned at her, but then Rachel was there by his side, looping her arm with his.

She smiled suggestively at the both of them. "Shots, anyone?"

"Way ahead of you." Vincent came up behind Calla and nudged her side, offering her

a cup of something bubbly and brown. "For the lady."

She downed the cup, surprising everyone—herself included. The drink tasted

strongly of cinnamon and burned her throat as it went down.

"Well?" She smacked her lips together. "Aren't we going to dance?"

Rachel cheered and Vincent took her hand, twirling her as they made their way to the

center of the gym. Calla couldn't get a head count, but what looked to be a couple

hundred students milled about, standing in clusters by the tables. The bravest were

beginning to migrate to the unofficial dance floor.

Calla jumped as loud pops filled the air—and then she laughed, realizing what it

was. A group of freshmen had gotten the idea to start popping the decorative

balloons. Ms. Esperanza, one of the three teachers supervising the dance, rushed

forward, scanning the crowd for the perpetrators.

White streamers hung from the ceiling, and Vincent swiped at a particularly low-

hanging target as they half-danced to the center of the floor. Ms. Esperanza, having

given up on the balloon-poppers, saw him and shouted over the music.

He ducked his head. "We've been spotted!"

"Go!" Calla laughed, pushing him forward, past a group of juniors who urged them by and then closed ranks, blocking the rampaging teacher's path.