Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 78

Vincent's grip on Cooper's hand tightened.

"Ow, ow! Okay! I was choked into unconsciousness, alright? My

memory's a little fuzzy. We got to the house and Calla called him

and he wanted to get her attention so he—"

"She called? What did she say?"

"He didn't put her on speaker. I don't know! I was too busy being

carved up like a Jack-O-Lantern," he seethed, ripping his hand free

of Vincent's grasp.

Vincent swore and began to pace, storming from one end of the

room to the other.

Ignoring him, Cooper went back to analyzing the largest mirror. He

pulled against the zip tie around his wrists absently, trying to

relieve the pressure—and as he did so, an idea began to form.

In the background, he caught snippets of indistinct muttering:

"...Calla...probably destroyed any evidence...doesn't make

sense...Tracy...Jacob...Rachel...Jess..."

Cooper froze as Vincent rattled off the names of the dead. An

alarm went off in his head.

Why did he kill three people?

Cooper had said three people . Not four.

The sound of Vincent's impatient footsteps disappeared. "Coop.

You said three —"

Panicking, Cooper grabbed the largest mirror, held it over his head,

and promptly shattered it on the wooden floor. They both cringed at

the sound. Shards of broken glass scattered across the floor; one

ricocheted and sliced Cooper's cheek. He flinched.

"What the hell ?" Vincent hissed. But he didn't dare move, his eyes

scanning the glittering landmine below.

"Hurry!" Trying to roll with his spontaneous distraction, Cooper

knelt and carefully picked through the razor sharp shards, trying to

find a piece long enough to use. "We need to get out of here, and

we're not going anywhere with our hands tied."

Cooper's dramatic measure paid off. Vincent dove headfirst into

the search, his eyes scanning the ground for something viable.

Cooper did the same, trying to bite down on the surge of guilt that

threatened to overwhelm him.

He's not going to forget what you said, a little voice whispered

inside his head.

I'll chalk it up to delirium, Cooper reasoned with himself. But his gut

still twisted, uneasy.

"Here!" Vincent had crawled under the bed, and now carefully

extracted himself, wielding a dagger-like shard the length of his

hand.

We have to hurry.

They could both feel it. Their time was running short. Shattering

the mirror, while necessary—both to distract his friend from the

truth, and to give them a means to defend themselves—had also

definitely drawn attention. In a house this quiet, this empty, Cory

would have easily been able to hear it.

Down the hall, a floorboard groaned.

The boys froze. They locked eyes, both wearing equally alarmed

expressions. Heart hammering, Cooper lunged for the nearest

piece of glass and gripped it in his already injured hand.

"What do we do?" Vincent whispered, panicked.

No time to cut themselves free. "Get behind the door!" Cooper

ordered as quietly as possible, trying to sound confident. But the

makeshift dagger he held shook, betraying him.

Vincent sidestepped fallen glass with the grace of an athlete.

Positioned in the corner behind the door, he held up his glass

shard, chest heaving. His eyes darted to Cooper—and widened.

Cooper remained standing in the center of the room. An easy

target.

The sound of shuffling just outside the door propelled his heart

into his throat. He tried to swallow down his fear, tried to still his

shaking hands.

The doorknob twisted.

Cooper gave Vincent a little half-smile. He mouthed the word run.

The door swung open, revealing darkness and a lithe, lean figure.

Cooper lunged and swiped the jagged piece of glass through the

air. It sparkled as it caught the light.

Something hard slammed into his midsection, and he hit the floor.

Hard. Pinpricks of pain dazzled the back of his skull, no doubt

where miniscule pieces of glass had just buried themselves into

his scalp.

"You moron. Are you trying to kill me? Seriously?"

That voice.

Cooper blinked up at the shadowy figure on top of him. His eyes

immediately went to the tendrils of red hair. Muted in the darkness,

but familiar.

He would know that hair anywhere.

"Calla," he croaked.