Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 34

Cooper closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair—once, twice, three times.

"It's looking more and more like the killer stole the first book from the Smith's

personal library. So where the hell did the second copy come from?"

"He could already have a copy on hand. Or he could have borrowed it from a

more...convenient location."

"The school," Cooper surmised, following her train of thought. "But I already checked

the library. I never found the book." He paused. "Which...I guess I wouldn't have.

Not if the killer had already checked it out."

Calla smiled. "Bingo."

They stared at each other, eyes lit from the high of their discovery.

"I think it's time we brush up on our reading." Cooper grinned, practically giddy. "But

that's not our only lead."

Calla's eyes sharpened, filling with hunger. "What are you saying?"

He leaned forward, ready to burst. "You're not the only one who found something

useful last week."

I can pull my own weight. I'm not helpless, he thought, watching her expression

change to one of fierce triumph.

"Spill," she demanded, tapping her index finger on the tabletop.

It made him nervous. She made him nervous. But the secret he'd been holding

inside for three days, utterly consuming him, made it easier to face her.

"I didn't know why the hell the detective wanted to talk to me," he explained. "Not at

first. He kept going on and on about our outdated tech—"

Calla rapped her knuckles against the table. " Focus, Cooper. Let's skip the prologue

and get straight to chapter one, yes?"

"Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Anyway. That's how it all started. But it got better."

"If you don't tell me what— "

"Patience is a f*****g virtue. Ever heard of that?"

Her eyes narrowed.

Cooper raised his hands, relenting. "Chill. Don't get your murder panties in a wad.

Long story short, the detective mentioned something about 'holes'," he quoted with

his fingers, "in the stories they'd been told about the night of the gala. Things

weren't matching up. So they started asking me about these six people—if I saw

them and when and who they were with."

Calla went still. Very still. "Who were they, Cooper."

So he told her.

"Ryan Kane." He pulled the second photograph from his pocket and laid it on the

table. He ticked the rest of the names off his fingers, one by one. "Jessica Sneider.

Gareth Walker. Mike and Blake Richardson. And Astrid Baker."

"Six names. Six prints," she breathed. And then, faster than he could blink, she

slammed her hands on the table. Cooper jumped back, startled, as she slid out of

her chair and began pacing the kitchen, her hands like iron at her sides.

Ryan. Jessica. Gareth. Mike. Blake. Astrid.

One of them was going to be dead soon. Very soon. And Calla would be the one

with her hands around their throat. He watched her pace.

The thought of Calla's bloody hands had kept Cooper up at night, tossing and

turning in bed, plagued by nightmares. It was the same thought that constantly

found him on the precipice, torn between wanting to tell the entire town about his

neighbor, while simultaneously wanting, needing, to take the secret with him to the

grave. Someone he knew was a cold-blooded killer. Someone he knew wanted him

dead, the sixth victim in some sick game being played out. And while that was

disturbing enough, the one thing that haunted his steps even after he woke wasn't

the face of Ryan or Jessica or Gareth or Mike or Blake or Astrid.

No. It was Calla's face. The caged beast he was unleashing upon one of them.

"The beer bottle."

Her words were unexpected, even more so in the silence that had enveloped the

house after Cooper's declaration. He stared at her, wondering if he'd pushed her too

far. If, somewhere deep in the recesses of her brain, he had broken some important

connection.

She didn't bother looking at him. But she didn't have to. He could feel her fury,

could feel her impatience, even from this distance. With each pass—from the

kitchen sink and back again—she drew closer, making him flinch.

"The murder weapon," she finally explained. She continued to pace, but her steps

were less frenzied, her face relaxing into one of cool concentration. "Do you

remember seeing the broken beer bottle that night, when we found Rachel? It had

blood all over it. The edges were jagged enough to cut."

To cut flesh and veins. Blood and bone.

Cooper only vaguely remembered that night. Horror made his memories fuzzy and

uncomfortable. It seemed to be the opposite for her—a great irony, considering how

unreliable her memory could be, especially when it mattered. He still couldn't

believe she'd entrusted him with the truth. Her memories from the Halloween party

were gone. Kaput.

That she'd managed to tell him such a thing, such a weakness, had stunned him to

his core.

But for this night—the night that she'd lost the only true anchor in her life—her recall

was flawless. Each detail stood out in razor focus as she described the scene for

him.

"It looked like the killer dropped the weapon as soon as the deed was done," she

went on. "Sloppy. Someone had peeled the label off the bottle, too. Maybe trying to

dispose of prints. A failed attempt."

Six names. Six prints, she'd said.

"I found a report in the detective's office." She didn't look at him as she said this.

"They found prints on the bottle. Six separate sets. Not yet identified. But if what

you say is true..."

She paused in the middle of the kitchen. He couldn't even be sure she was

breathing.

But then she did breathe. A great, heaving sigh. "Tell me everything."

He did so as quickly as he could, afraid to incur her wrath. Don't shoot the

messenger. Don't shoot the messenger! "I was confused at first. When they started

asking me about those six." He fumbled and then elaborated at her questioning

glance. "I mean, they were together. Gareth and Astrid. Mike and Jess. Ryan and

Blake had their own dates. I assumed that their group hung out for most of the

night."

She nodded, in agreement with his observation. He could have sang with relief.

Better not push my luck.

He spread his hands. "Apparently that wasn't the case. I could tell by the looks on the detectives' faces that something wasn't adding up. They asked me if I'd seen

Jess at our table, right around when I went to check my phone. She definitely

wasn't there. Questions like that. About if I saw Mike here, or if I saw Blake there.

Obvious things, too. Places and times I would have remembered. I don't know,

Calla. But it sure as hell sounds like those six were telling very different stories about

where they were and what they were doing, which makes no sense."

And it's not just about conflicting testimony, he realized, understanding now why she

had demanded more from him. It's about the murder weapon, too.