Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 72

Calla had no interest in hair.

She'd watched enough true crime documentaries to know all about

the souvenirs that most serial killers took from their victims.

Fingernails. Strips of skin. Blood samples and more.

Perhaps a piece of jewelry, or some other identifying item the

victim had worn up until their untimely death.

And of course, there was the classic keepsake: a lock of hair.

Sometimes entire sections of it, stowed away in a shoebox and

buried in the backyard.

Calla understood it. She really did. Hair was unique. Hair had

texture, and scent, and was so tantalizingly human. What better

way to preserve the last snapshot of someone's life than by

hoarding such an intimate part of who'd they'd been?

But she personally had no interest in it. And not just because the

idea of stuffing a lock of hair in her nightstand did nothing for her.

No, it was more than that.

Because hair would never be enough.

I'm going to find you, she thought, staring over at the torn page on

the coffee table, the familiar red scrawl calling out to her from

across the room. I'm going to find you, and I'm going to make you

mine.

Since finding that page, she'd imagined how she might end the

Greenwitch Killer, each method more gruesome than the last. She

imagined what it would feel like to slice through their skin. To feel

them convulse beneath her fingers. To watch the light leave their

eyes.

She would keep a vial of their blood. She would extract their teeth. Peel the skin from their lips. Break the joints of their fingers, and then sever them, right down to the bone. She'd hang those fingers from a string and loop them over her bedpost.

Who knew? Perhaps she'd keep a lock of hair, after all. Fold it in

the depths of her favorite book and smile when she looked at it

each morning.

I'm going to find you.

"So...I'm dead?"

Vincent's question was met with silence, drawing Calla slowly from the depths of her wild fantasies.

The trio sat in Cooper's apartment, spread out across the living

room like the points of a star. Cooper, perched on the recliner;

Vincent, slumped against the couch cushions in defeat; and Calla

behind the kitchen counter, her hands splayed on the faux marble.

Amelia Daniels had been called in to work the night shift. And, as

Vincent had predicted, she'd left her son almost a dozen

voicemails and even more texts, begging him to call her and stay

inside once he got home.

Calla's phone buzzed for the fifth time in half as many minutes.

Her own mother, telling her to come home, and come home now.

She ignored it.

"Like..." Vincent tried again, his voice startlingly loud in the silence.

"I'm... dead dead? That's it?"

Cooper did what he'd been doing for the past ten minutes: he said

nothing. He just sat there with his head in his hands, his fingers

wound so tightly in his hair that she feared he might rip every

strand from his scalp.

Why was she thinking about hair again?

"No," Calla finally said, finding her voice. She hadn't known what to

say when they'd first found that fateful page, torn straight from

Snow White's fairytale. She'd been buried too deeply in her fury.

But once it became clear Cooper would be no help, she'd been

forced to resurface, to explain—in excruciating detail—what that

red five meant. The killer had circled a single line on the page: kill

her, and bring me back her heart as a token. The words meant no

more to her than they did to either of the boys.

And now they were gathered in the Daniels' living room. Each one

awaiting death, in their own way.

"But..." Vincent stared down at the coffee table, where Calla had

thrown the death note upon entering the apartment. He eyed it warily. "You said..."

"I know what I said," she snapped, the beast raging back to the

surface. "No one here is dying. I don't care what the killer's plans

are."

"It's from a book, Vincent," she'd explained so patiently before,

sitting there in front of Cooper's apartment, the car idling in the

cold air. "They found a page in Jacob Stein's locker. And in Cooper's locker. I wouldn't be surprised if they found a page in Jessica's locker, too."

"What about Rachel?" he'd asked, his voice small. Smaller than

she'd ever heard it before.

Rachel's page. She still hadn't thrown it out, instead tucking the

scrap of paper in her nightstand. It was evidence, she told herself.

Or maybe she just couldn't let it go.

Cooper looked up at the sound of her furious, tense voice. It was

as if he could smell her rage, like a hound dog for psychopaths.

Her perfect mask was slipping, and he knew it. If Vincent were to

look over at her now, what would he see?

She leaned back, her fingers tip-tapping against the counter.

Taking a deep breath, she rolled her shoulders back and cracked

her neck.

"Go get the page, Cooper," she said calmly.

"What?"

She stared at him. Hard.

"Right," he muttered, hauling himself to his feet. He shuffled down

the hall to his room; when he reappeared, he held a piece of paper

between his thumb and pointer finger. Afraid to touch it. And afraid

to destroy it, apparently. It looked as if he'd tried.

He threw the torn page down on the coffee table. Calla walked over

for a closer look. Lying side by side, Cooper's page looked starkly

different from Vincent's. The paper had been crumbled, flattened,

and re-crumbled, until the color had been stained a sort of off-

white, the paper itself textured with wrinkles. Vincent's page still

sported crisp edges, one end torn off.

But the handwriting looked similar. Not that Calla was an expert. Similar was the best she could do.

She glanced over at Vincent, absorbing the desolate look in his

eyes, the defeated hunch to his broad shoulders. His bright smile

was gone, replaced by a thin, flat line.

Vincent.

Her phone buzzed. And buzzed again.

"I've got to go," she said suddenly, striding over to the front door.

Cooper went into action. He sprang from his seat and beat her to

the door, practically throwing himself against it. He stared at her

with wild, desperate eyes. "You can't leave now. We've got—"

"I've got a plan," she said brusquely, grabbing his shoulder and

squeezing it hard. Hard enough to let him know that she would

throw his ass on the floor, Vincent or no Vincent.

He stumbled to the side, his Adam's apple bobbing, as if he were

trying to find the words but couldn't say them.

She opened the door and looked back, first at Vincent—who gazed

back at her with a sort of hopeless confusion; he couldn't imagine

how the hell she could possibly help him—and then at Cooper.

Cooper Daniels. The boy who had suspected her for so long. The

one who'd recoiled from her in disgust. The one who'd told her,

again and again, how wrong she was. How unnatural. He didn't

look at her that way now. The look in his eyes was something else

entirely.

I know who you are, those eyes said. And I want you to do what you

do best. I want you to hunt.

I want you to kill.

Calla closed the door and drew up her hood, hurrying across the

parking lot and through the field that separated their houses. The

cold air bit at her face, stinging her eyes. She welcomed the tears

that formed as a result, welcomed the quickening in her chest as

she dug her heels into the dirt, striding through the tall, damp

grass. Moisture clung to her bare thighs, still clad only in her gym

shorts.

She welcomed that, too. Any and all discomfort drove her onward,

fueling her.

I've got a plan, she'd told them.

She paused just beyond the glow of the floodlights illuminating her

yard, her breath fogging in the air. She stared at it blankly,

watching her mother's vague silhouette move across the kitchen

window.

None of this makes sense, she thought, staring at that shadow.

Tracy. Jacob. Rachel. Jessica. Cooper and Vincent. How do they

connect? What ties them all together?

What am I missing?

She still couldn't answer that question.

Did it boil down to a drug dealer with a vendetta? A jealous lover

with an agenda? A murderous plot formulated by a gossip junkie?

There was a rhyme to the murders. A reason. Why else count the

victims so meticulously? Why else forewarn them with a cryptic

little marker to count down the days until their death?

Questions. So many questions, and none of them had answers. But

she was starting to realize maybe she didn't need the answers.

Maybe she just needed a really good bluff.

Pursing her lips, Calla went inside. She was barely over the

threshold of her house, nose pink and shivering in her hoodie,

when Rosalind descended on her. She forced her daughter into a

tight embrace, rocking her one way and then the other.

Her mother's voice was thick when she said, "Where have you

been ?"

"I'm sorry," Calla said automatically. "Cooper's. He drove me. His

mom's pulling a double at work and he didn't want to be alone."

After another moment, her mother finally pulled back, sighing. She

wiped the threat of tears from her eyes and gave Calla a stern

look. "You scared me half to death. Answer your phone, young

lady."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, shivering.

"It's freezing outside. Come on." Her mother dragged her into the

living room, ordering her to sit on the couch and throwing a

blanket over her legs. Calla didn't want the warmth. She wanted the

bitter cold.

She wanted the pain. She needed it to clear her head. She would

need pain, after all, in her final bid to catch the killer.

But her mother had other plans. She warmed up a plate of leftovers

and made a mug of hot cocoa, which Calla despised but drank all

the same, wincing as the sweet decadence went down her throat.

She needed to soothe her mother's frayed nerves if she had any

hope of ever leaving the house again.

"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it," she murmured, plopping

down on the other side of the couch. She'd poured herself a glass

of wine. "Jessica Sneider. God above. I can only imagine what her family's going through," she rambled. "And so help me, I'll march over to Pendowski's tomorrow morning for keeping you kids until dark. With a serial killer on the loose!"

Calla sighed but said nothing. When her mother had a glass of wine in her hands, it was best to let her speak her mind.

Pulling out her phone, Calla began to scroll through her contacts.

And then she pretended to hesitate, looking up. "Do you care if I

call Stephanie? I want to make sure she got home okay."

And that she hasn't fallen asleep yet. I need her if this insane plan is

going to work.

"Go on." Her mother leaned forward and kissed Calla's cheek. "Why

don't you go ahead and go to bed while you're at it? I don't know if

they'll cancel school or not over this. Just don't set your alarm and

I'll come wake you if I need to, okay?"

Calla had no intention of falling asleep. But she agreed

nevertheless, kissing her mother goodnight before shutting herself

in her room. She closed the door gently behind her and then

leaned against it, her expression settling into one of blank

neutrality.

Vincent.

She couldn't close her eyes without seeing his face. But it wasn't

just his face. It was his face without light, without life. A red throat to match his red note.

Enough, Calla. You have work to do.

Her plan. That's right. She had a plan. She had no idea if the half-

baked idea she'd scrambled together in Cooper's living room

would be worth a damn, but she had to try.

Walking over to her window, Calla took out her phone and scrolled

through her contacts. She hesitated over Cory's number—what

could he possibly have to tell her, with Jessica's death so fresh?—

and then she moved on, dialing the one person she knew she

could count on to spread a secret.

Stephanie answered on the second ring. "Calla? Hey."

"Steph. Listen." She minced no words. She was tired of beating

around the bush, of moving the pieces into place as carefully as

possible. Four people were dead. And two more would follow if

she didn't get her s**t together and make a move.

I've been on the defensive for too long, she thought bitterly. This

hasn't been a hunt. It's been a m******e. And I'm tired of standing by and watching.

"What—"

Calla cut her off. "Just listen, okay? I'm sorry about Jess. I'm...I'm

really sorry, Steph. This is all my fault."

Silence on the other end of the line. And then a bewildered

question: "What...Calla, what are you talking about? None of this is

anyone's—"

"It is," she insisted. "I should have gone to the police sooner,

but...I've just been scared. I couldn't think straight after Rachel

died, y'know?" A deep breath. "I have evidence. For the murders.

And I've been too afraid to tell anyone."

She had nothing on the killer—not unless she wanted to pull the

knife out of her drawer and turn herself in for the murder of Tracy

Smith, which she was only about ninety percent certain she'd

committed. But that was the beauty of a good bluff.

The killer didn't need to know what cards she held in her hand. All

the killer needed to know was that she was at the table, and she

was ready to play.

"Steph?" Calla squeezed her eyes closed, forcing tears. She

lowered her voice. "Are you...how mad are you? I'm so sorry. And

now Jess is gone, and I know I should have said something. Oh

my God, this is all my—"

"Just breathe, okay?" Stephanie ordered, taking control of the

situation while Calla had her fake meltdown. "It's alright. It's going

to be alright. Did you tell your mom? What about Coop or Vincent?"

"No," Calla said tearfully. "No one. I was gonna go to the station

today, but we were kept so late, and I was so scared and I thought

I should tell someone so I called you."

"It's alright," Stephanie repeated, lowering her voice. "Whatever it

is, Cal...we're all scared, okay? It's just a horrible, awful situation,

and people are dead, and you lost Rachel, and Mike and Blake are

fighting, and now Jess is dead...oh, Mike. I called him when I got

home, and he was just...distraught. He wants to come back for the

funeral but his stupid parents took him on some stupid beach trip

—"

"What beach trip?" Calla interrupted her panicked, rambling

speech.

"And—what? Oh." She could practically hear Stephanie deflating on the other end of the line. "Mike and Blake. Their parents pulled

them out of school right before fifth period. They're doing some

forced family vacation to try and get the boys to make up or

something."

"So they weren't here? At school? When Jess...?" Calla asked

again. In the window, she could see the shock written on her face

as the revelation settled in.

"No?" Stephanie offered, uncertain now. "They were with their

parents."

Calla's pool of candidates had just been cut in half. She gripped

the phone with enough force to break the fragile plastic case that

enveloped it. She'd been so hellbent on covering her bases, on

chasing every last lead, that she'd ignored the answer dangling in

front of her. The answer that Cory had offered her on a silver

platter.

She'd been too obsessed with the twins and their drama to see the

forest for the trees. Too distracted by the promise of Tom Sahein's

involvement in all of this, somehow. And those distractions had

cost her precious time. Time she could have spent cornering Ryan

and Astrid and sending them to an early grave.

Cory, you were right. I should have listened. I should have crept into

their rooms while they slept and cut their throats and been done with

this charade.

"I've gotta go," Calla murmured. It didn't take much effort to put a

layer of exhaustion over her words.

"Wait! When are you going to the station?" Stephanie asked in a

rush, her voice cautiously hopeful. A journalist looking for her next

story to break.

"Not tomorrow." Calla's mind raced. She no longer had time for

Stephanie's incessant questions. "I need to get some things

together. I'll go Friday."

Three days. That's how long she would give Ryan and Astrid to

make their next move. Three days until Calla went to the station

with some unknown evidence that would, supposedly, put an end

to their bloody game.

"Goodnight," Calla muttered before hanging up.

If everything went the way she imagined, Stephanie wouldn't be

able to stay quiet for long. Would it take a day for the entire school

to know Calla had evidence against the killer?

She wanted to put Ryan and Astrid in a corner, to force their hand.

It was a risk. A risk for her. A risk for Vincent.

And Cooper, she added as an afterthought.

But there was also a chance that Ryan and Astrid would do exactly

what she wanted: deviate from their path to come after her, or else

risk being caught before their work was done. After all, all of

this had started with a knife. A knife in her hand, and Tracy Smith

dead on the floor. The least she could do was end it in the same

dramatic fashion.

Who am I kidding? This started long before Tracy Smith, she

thought, still gazing at her distorted reflection in the window. Her

hair wrapped around her head like flames, her eyes two dark,

empty pits. Just ask Cooper...

It all started with that damn cat.